Delhi to Mumbai - Pao Bhaji to Vada Pao

 

Image only to grab your attention

I live in Delhi/NCR, a place most of us claim to hate but nobody really moves out. We crib all through summer, winter and every other day the sun rises in the east but ultimately accept the city, warts and all. Tedha hai par mera hai.

Change, they say, is the only constant. Son is moving to Mumbai and I will now flirt with Mumbai - a city I have evaded for half a century. All I have seen is the Bandra gym visited by Malaika Arora on Instagram. 

Anyway, I’m now going to disown all the twitter fights between Delhi and Mumbai I’ve so valiantly fought. No more Mumbai winter jokes. Who said Mumbai winter is like having diet coke or green tea instead of the real thing? No, I never said Delhi has AC metro, wide roads and you can buy a fancy car and actually drive it.

I’ve convinced myself that Mumbai will now have a special place in my heart like my triglycerides. Because humidity is nothing but God’s way of helping us lose body weight by sweating.

Once decided, house hunting in Mumbai during monsoon is your worst torment. The fact that you are from Delhi does little to help. Your reputation trumps everything. Brokers expect you to say, ‘BC, Good morning, how are you MC?’ They assume you wear ‘sungoggals’ for a dinner party with ‘Choti Dress Me Bomb Lagdi Mainu’ blaring from your car stereo. Others think you are related to a thug named Khurana from Khosla ka Ghosla.

But wait. 

Shed your swag because a lot has changed over the years.

Today if you go to Mumbai and say, "Janta nahi mera baap kaun hai?" you are likely to get, "Tu bhi pitega aur tera baap bhi pitega."

Like most middle class chipku mothers, I’ve been involved in the search of an elusive Mumbai apartment. To begin with, the demand supply ratio in certain areas is as skewed as Kangana’s equation with a man whose name rhymes with JLo.

Regardless, you save telephone numbers of an assortment of brokers and ask broker A.

Me: Show me something in this area, kuch hai?”

A: Hain na, D 406 hai.

You’ve seen the house twice so you ask broker B.

Me: Do you have anything in this area?

B: Hain na D 406 hai.

Same story with C, D and E.

Finally when the broker takes you to D 406, three different couples are checking the same house at the same time. By the time your wife is scrutinising the kitchen chimney, the broker asks you to leave. Hello, what happened? He was pumping up sunshine five minutes ago and now he’s all cold and distant.

“It’s taken,” he says. “The man in green shirt has paid advance.”

“But they came after us,” you insist. “They haven’t even seen the kitchen.”

“Sir, they paid,” he shrugs. “You took too much time.”

Multiple emotions gush through your mind like a gutter during rains. You return back to Delhi with a moving date but no house in hand.

One Sunday, the broker gives you a call. He wants you to see an apartment on a video call. This time you try not to bicker about missing balconies or absent storage. As a supportive mother, we agree that balconies are a waste. Why pay for pigeon love-making area? Anyway, all we do from our Gurgaon balconies is watch an approaching dust-storm or the neighborhood hottie dry her towel.

“What’s the view like? Is that a slum?” you ask.

“Sir, baju me hai. Baarish me nahi dikhega.”

By now, it makes sense to reconcile that Chicken Kohlapuri is way healthier than Butter Chicken. Not to forget possibilities of resolving your existential crisis on Marine Drive, driving to Lonavala over the weekend, running on the beach like Urmila Matondkar wearing Tiger’s daddy’s baniyan and looking at a real working rickshaw meter!

More often than not, you have one kill joy friend who cannot stop from saying, “Bhai kyo jaa raha hai? For this money, you could have moved in a villa in Gurgaon, no?

Once you have a house, you defend Mumbai like Prithviraj Chauhan defended his land from Mohd Ghauri.

“Big cities have small houses. Have you ever lived in London or Tokyo? Plus Mumbai has genuine friends who support no matter what.”

Silence.

Tedha Hai Par 

AB 

Mera Hai.

 

Morning Special

If you have an early morning train or a flight, there are two things that are unlikely to be on time – your cab and your crap. It’s almost a rule. It doesn’t matter whether you book a Meru, Ola or Uber, like the police in an eighties Bollywood movie, your cab will arrive at the last minute. Given that three Uber’s cancelled last time, you decide to book a local cab this time. 

The fact that you wake up at an unearthly hour much before the pigeons on your AC is a torture in itself. It’s four in the morning. To play safe, you call the cab guy even before you brush your teeth. “Where are you? I have a flight to catch?” As expected, he refuses to pick-up the phone. And just when you give up on him and contemplate calling an Uber, the guy on the other end wings it like a politician. He mumbles, “Madam, reaching in five minutes. I’m on my way”. You know he’s not even out of his bed. Finally, when he finally arrives, he invariably lands at the wrong place. You can shout all you want, “C tower, bhaiyya. Didn’t I tell you C? C for Calcutta?” 

“Madam jee, that ij K. K for Kalkatta. I’m opojite B tower. B four Bombay.” 

You have no time for Sena speak, “BC, it’s is M for Mumbai!” 

When you are feeling as helpless as an honest tax-payer, wondering how Nirav Modi’s cab arrived on time for him to flee, the unapologetic dolt arrives. “Madam, don’t worry. You won’t miss your flight. Main hoon na.” Bless you, because this is the closest you get to Shah Rukh. And after this reassurance, he has the gall to stop at the nearest CNG station. “Only five minutes.” 

Damn. 

While in the cab, you remember the other causality. Your urge to go. There is no denying that we Indians are particular about our ‘time to grace the pot’. No marijuana involved here, this is strictly about getting rid of your solid waste. Most of us have a fixed time. Truth is, our entire day hinges on the time, amount and ease of the process. And yet, no matter how much coffee you gulp, there is no sign of any advancement of troops. Not even an itsy-bitsy spasm. It’s like your girlfriend has ditched you at the altar. 

Why, only yesterday you went twice, so what happened today? You can keep solving the puzzle but there is nothing you can do about it. As your cabbie zooms the Wagon R like SRK, alias Major Ram Prasad Sharma, aiming for Mission Milap with your flight, you dread the thought of using the airport loo. Have you seen the grim faces queued up at an airport loo in the morning? It’s like a war scene - sombre, painful and inevitable. After every gush of the flush, few soldiers emerge winners with a pleased look of Shashi Tharoor. Odder still is the sight of those who failed - they look like a hybrid of Mani Shankar Aiyar and Meenakshi Lekhi. Which is a pity, because their final trial is worse - the aircraft loo. 

But if you failed thrice, even D.Raja - the sole custodian of all prickly feelings looks more pleased than you do. If anything, it’s your meeting that’s down the drain. Because constipated people don’t give a crap. In the absence of any bowel movement, there is no guarantee of right vowel movement. The trip anyway is doomed. There goes the hotel’s complimentary buffet breakfast, your sightseeing and even your meeting. No cheesy lasagna with juicy zucchini or a pancake dripping with honey for you. All you get is papaya and fresh watermelon juice. 

So next time both your cab and your crap arrive on time, count your blessings. Visualize hundreds who wake up early to endure this pain – pacing, stretching, waiting and cursing with anxiety ripping them apart. Thank your stars. Write a gratitude post. Or visit the nearest temple with eleven coconuts. 

This piece first featured here - The Quint

User Manual for Parents with Adult Kids at Home

There comes a stage in life when you look at exasperated, somewhat embarrassed parents of toddlers throwing tantrums with a sense of longing. And amusement too. You reminisce the good old days of your own kids who are now adults. Except, the parents on the other side don’t get it. Continuing to mollify their baby, they give you a cheesy smile, ‘You sicko. Don’t laugh at our misery. Why don’t YOU tame this monkey, huh?’ 

But you’ve come a long way from terrible two’s to turbulent twenty’s. What comes to your mind is your own kid - far away in college. And the eerie silence of your empty nest. 

That is when you solemnly place a hand on your heart. You promise that you will not yell when you spot wet towels on the bed and shoes strewn all over, as if in a war zone. No grumbling over pizza crumbs on the bed and nail clippings on the side-table. No questions asked. Just come back. 

If you are fortunate enough, they return - only to fly out forever. But once your adult kids are back home, you learn to balance the equations all over again. Truth be told, it is time to control yourself, not your child. It’s a good idea to dump your trademark gems - ‘It is for your own good - Do what you want - You will thank me one day - When you are my age you will understand’ in the nearest dustbin. Their efficacy is no more guaranteed. 

For starters, learn to ration your questions. Talk when they want to talk. It’s a tightrope walk between zipping up and speaking your heart out. What to say. How to say. And above all, when to say. Remember how you waited for your parents to be in a good mood when you wanted them to listen? Exactly. 

Nothing scares you like the announcement, ‘I’m taking the car.’ Of course, they will drive. Adults do. You did. But this one sentence can cause tremors worse than a major quake. 

It is past midnight, and you are pacing down the corridor. Waiting. Different voices in your head begin to strum. While dads begin to snore as soon as they hit the sack, your motherly fingers linger on the Whatsapp. Last seen one past midnight. Must be driving. When you hear the door click, your motherly instinct will urge you to pop out of darkness and ask ‘beta khaana khaya?’ 

Calm it. Learn to override the old parent kid relationship. New boundaries are a key to better understanding. 

Whats App is a blessing when you don't wish to intrude

If your kids were in a hostel, they are not used to explanations about their whereabouts. When the timing is right, remind them to send texts as a matter of a family safety rule. There’s a thin line between your maternal fear and genuine safety concern. 

I understand, it is not easy to give up that privilege of popping ‘when, what, where and why’. After all, these gems were the pillars of your parenting. But now you are dealing with adults who are at home for a brief period when they could well be living in New York or Singapore. So even if every cell of your body is screaming, ‘where were you’, your parenting is now about respecting independence. 

Emotional support, yes. Physical support, not as much. Intrusion, never. 

Bear in mind that they survived without you in college. Their nocturnal routine is likely to press your stress buttons. Yet, you can do little about their unearthly hours. What can’t be cured must be endured. This is not to say you can never express your discomfiture. Look for the right time and the right way to convey what is not acceptable. 

Since you are mastering self-control, reign in the urge to pass on the phone to make them talk to relatives. I understand the relevance of family, but for reasons unfathomable, talking to relatives over the phone is as painful as their first period or a deep gnash while shaving. Extend invitations for family functions, but don’t force togetherness. As with most of us, they will interact when they wish and not when you force them to. 

Self-explanatory, right?

Despite all your restraint, three consecutive late evenings and there is the risk of you reverting back to your old obsessive self. "Shakl dekhe hua Zamana ho gaya". 

Reign in the paranoia and count your blessings. Because if your kids were in a different city, the outings could well be five nights in a row and you wouldn’t get a whiff. Moreover, there is always the risk of being too presumptuous and imagining the worst when all they were doing was hanging out with friends or watching a movie. At the risk of sounding preachy, it is best to trust your upbringing. Mostly, young adults are more responsible and mature than you imagine. 

All said, parenting doesn’t get easy, it just gets different. And by the time you’ve mastered it, the rules change. Damn! Must mothers always oscillate between challenges? 

Well, yes. 

Once you accept that you are now an emotional consultant and not a quality manager, it’s a beautiful phase. A great opportunity to bond before they fly out to raise their own families. Above all, tech-support for your phone and laptop is just a knock away. 

Blasphemy

Death by Dance

There are different ways to celebrate a win. Jumping up and down is one of them. As is punching the air. Snake dance is equally effective. What used to be a signature move of a drunken uncle during an Indian wedding became a patent of the Bangladesh cricket team. During the recent T-20 tri-series, the boys in green mastered the ‘naagin dance’ by making it a viral social media trend. 

It all began when Nazmul Islam celebrated a wicket by breaking into an impromptu snake dance. His signature move went over the social media boundary. The bite was so infectious that legendary Sunil Gavaskar began swaying after Dinesh Karthik hit the last ball for a winning six. But there was a catch. While the Indian fans found his euphoric sway cute, the Bangladeshi fans called Gavaskar a baboon. Ouch! 

Truth is, cricket and dance moves go back in time. Remember how West Indies celebrated their T-20 win in 2012 by bursting into celebrations with ‘Gangnam style’. If ‘Gangnam style’ can hook cricketers, why not our home grown ‘snake dance’? 

Dance and celebrations go hand in hand. Once snake dance loses its charm, anything can be next. Bhangra anyone? When the occasion calls for pointless abandon, ‘Balle Balle’ rules, right? 

As for me, nothing intimidates me like dancing in public. It doesn’t matter if it’s a marriage ‘sangeet’ or a cocktail party. All too often, weddings are incidental. It is the choreographed ‘sangeet’ that trumps all ceremonies. Everyone and their bua-ji has perfected their moves. Plus there is an intimidating choreographer more flexible than Tiger Shroff. While you want to be a part of impromptu celebrations, it’s the rehearsed performances that intimidate you. Moreover you belong to the Deol family, with Sunny being your uncle and Sunil Shetty your distant cousin. 

The giggling cousins take over the stage and set the bar so high that nothing you shake can match their performance. You dread the moment when someone will drag you on the floor and nudge you to show what you got. The moves, I mean. Finally someone pulls you centrestage with hundreds of expectant eyes looking at you. While everyone is cheering, you feel like a warrior being thrown in a Roman arena with hungry lions. Aware of your dancing skills, your husband and kids hold their breath. Going with the flow, you attempt something as lovely as Tabu in, ‘Ruk Ruk Ruk, Are Baba Ruk’. 

Dance, as the saying goes, like no one’s watching. But you constantly look over the shoulders to check if your loved ones are embarrassed by your booty shake. 

Finally, the agony ends. Or so you think. Someone made a video of your dance and shares it in the family WA group for posterity. With trepidation you click the play button. 

Oh. Shit. 

The only thing you can draw hope from is watching the legendary Gavaskar doing the snake dance. And feel better. 

Image Courtesy: Hindustan Times, NDTV Sport and Cartoon by Satish Acharya

When Harry met Meghan

Unlike others, it seems, the Brits are destined to have all the fun. While we get to suffer electoral stench, they get to celebrate life with all its royal trappings. Royal marriage. Royal baby. Royal anniversary. Repeat. 

It’s like a modern day fairy tale. 

Recently, the Queen and Prince Philip celebrated their 70th marriage anniversary by releasing souvenirs. And even before the celebrations welcoming Kate and William’s third baby could commence, Prince Harry announced his engagement to American actress, Ms Meghan Markle. 

It all began with romance under starry nights in Botswana. When Prince Harry went down on his knees, Ms Meghan broke into an orgasmic, ‘yes’. And the media was flooded with speculations, expectations and celebrations.

No sir, not the divisive caste and religion stories we suffer back home, but real spicy narratives.

It didn’t take long for pen-wielders to dig Meghan’s lineage, her past and her ex-husband. With certain inevitability, the initial stories revolved around the fact that Meghan was divorced. Those who have been Netflix-ed by ‘The Crown’ know how being a divorcee in a royal family can twist traditional knickers. And yet, once the stiff upper lip had swallowed the divorce pill, it was time to go deep into the woods to dig her past – her half brothers, sisters and pictures of her parents. The Daily Mail went ahead and featured a story about how Meghan was ‘made to stuff her bra’ with foam for the American ‘Deal or No Deal’ show she had anchored. 

Finally, the happy union of playboy soldier turned humanitarian Prince with American biracial divorced actress was cheered by the monarchy. 

Spoof Photographer, Alison Jackson posted these lovely pictures before the actual wedding. 

The first test for the ‘would be’ bride was to have tea with the Queen and befriend her Corgi’s (over 30 Welsh dogs) who took to Ms Meghan straight away. Ms Markle had made her mark. Thereafter, when the newly engaged couple undertook their first official duty together, the tabloids went in a tizzy reporting how the royal couple couldn’t keep their hands off each other. 

But wait. There’s more to the royal wedding than tabloid level gossip. The wedding is said to push the UK economy by 500 million pounds by boosting tourism and strengthening the US-UK relationship. What Trump and Theresa couldn’t do over talks, Meghan and Harry did by slipping a ring.

A day after the engagement was announced, the ‘Meghan Effect’ was expected to sell bags and apparel worth millions modeled by Meghan, the model. What fun to compare ‘Meghan Effect’ with ‘Kate Effect’ that already accounts for about 200 million pounds a year! 

While our bookies are busy speculating about Gujarat elections (yawn), bookies in the UK are betting their odds against the name of Kate and William’s third baby. Interested? Arthur is going for (10/1), Robert (100/1) and Alice (8/1). 

There are other fun activities too. Speculation is rife over the wedding venue, Meghan’s dress designer, and what Prince George, 4 and Princess Charlotte, 2 will wear. Don’t go bananas, but much before the announcement of the D day, The Telegraph reported, ‘This will be the first royal wedding cake made from bananas.’ 

In a fit of idyllic reverie, I am wondering what if Harry met Meghna, an Indian girl? The idea is a bit nutty, but Uff - the possibilities!

Imagine Prince Harry in a sherwani, sitting on a flower bedecked chariot surrounded by dhols of Maharaja Band. Of all the images, Kate in a Ritu Kumar lehnga and Williams in a Sabyasachi kurta dancing to ‘London Thumakda’ is the most riveting snapshot. Given the Indian setting, there would be a customary crisis of a ceremony related misunderstanding. It’s quite possible that a pink turbaned Charles would break into a happy jig with his samdhi to the tune of ‘Le Jayenge, Le Jayenge Dil Wale Dulhaiya Le Jayenge’. Once dinner is served, Kate’s parents would crib about food being too spicy and nothing compared to what they served during William and Kate’s wedding. Later on, Badi Ma Camilla would tu-tut about being given a cheap sari and not a Banarsi. 

The works!

Moreover, Indo-UK ties would boost tourism, people will forget all about pollution and we would be a step closer to Kohinoor. 

Alas, that is not to be. The only Indian connection is that Priyanka Chopra, a good friend of Meghan could be the bridesmaid.

But I’m holding on to the imagery in an attempt to run away from the ‘yawn-worthy’ narrative back home. Sigh, why don’t we have royals whose weddings and births we can celebrate as one country? I want real ones, loved by all, and not the Shezada and the Shezads.

Instagram Image 

Image Courtesy here

Spoof Photography via Alison Jackson in the Daily Mail.

October Fireworks

At a time when the country was bursting firecrackers, we in Delhi/NCR entertained ourselves with political bombs and news sparklers. The ground spinners (chakris), flower pots (anars) and the rockets played themselves, but with a twist. 

For Rahul fans, the month of October brightened with the news that rocket Rahul would be finally launched as Congress President. Unopposed, of course. Time will tell if he can push the boulder up the mountain but as of now he looks like those red popping strips with symmetric dot like protrusions loaded in a toy pistol. Remember them? You kept pulling the trigger, some went off, some didn’t? Phatak. Phuss. Phuss. Phatak. 

Propelled by the news of his coronation and retweets from Kazakhastan, rocket Rahul landed on Gujarat’s political landscape. He rolled his sleeve and called Modi’s GST, Gabbar Singh Tax without explaining why his party passed the Gabbar-esque bill in the house.

A tweet by Shahsi Tharoor

There is no denying that after DeMo bomb and GST damp squib, the BJP fireworks aren’t as spectacular as last year. Meanwhile, when Modi ji was celebrating Diwali with soldiers, his foot soldier lit a snake tablet (remember saanp ki goliyan? They emit the highest amount of PM 2.5) by denouncing the legendary Taj Mahal. Does the publicity seeking hate monger have any answer to the lovely churches of Goa and Kerala built by the Portugese or the Puducherry landscape so lovingly painted by the French? If we were to question the past of every monument, our inclusive culture and heritage will go up in the smoke of our colonial past. 

Looks like the Delhi CM was not in a mood for any festive revelry. No psychopath bombs, no anarchist bangs and no sparks on television. Total black out. Barring a favourable review of the movie the Secret Superstar and a populist stand on metro fare hike. Allegedly, the Delhi govt threatened to revoke the appointment of DMRC chief on fares but the board refused to give in to political pressure. Just so you know, the last metro fares were hiked in 2009. Moreover, there is no political interference in most countries, like in the UK for instance, it’s the Mayor who decides the fares for the London Underground. Subsidizing a world class service for votes can delay expansion and convert Delhi metro into another local train service. Sigh, you can’t blame the CM. Since there are no farm loan waivers in Delhi, aam-admi appeasement is the only ace up his chequered shirt.
Not to be left behind the Fin Min dropped a reform bomb for recapitalization plan of public sector banks. The Kapil The Sibal called it selling of another dream. Time will tell if this one is a big bang reform or another one that failed to explode. Because fireworks are great but where are trillions coming in from?

Meanwhile the set-jaw spokesperson of the BJP, GVL Narsimha Rao lit a sparkler by questioning the general knowledge of film industry. Rao’s comment by no means was directed at Manoj Tiwari who is a direct descendant of Albert Einstein and Madam Curie. While Kirron Kher and Hema Malini kept quiet, a furious Farhan Akhtar exploded, ‘How dare you Sir?’ 

Talking of Bollywood, Bipasha generated some light and more heat by featuring in a condom advertisement. But nothing is newsworthy unless Twitter trolls give you a hard time. Bipasha trolled for starring in a condom ad, read the headline. In a country with second largest population in the world, its funny why condom ads create such dhamaka.

Image from Pintrest

October was also a month that saw the acquittal of the Talwar couple framed in their daughter Arushis murder. It broke my heart to see them emerge from jail as shutterbugs circled them like vultures with their cliched, ‘Aapko kaisa lag raha hai?’

You know what, sometimes the loudest bang happens when we think fireworks are over. Even as I type, news is that Virat and Anushka may tie the knot in December. And Jab Virat Weds Sejal, perhaps this what Virat would say - You blow my Mind.

Image from here

When the lights went off

Bitti Sharma, the leading lady in the movie Bareilly Ki Barfi is an electricity complaint officer in small town, Bareilly. We see her answering every complaint call with a bored, “Asuvidha Ke Liye Khed Hai. Sare Shahar Ki Gayi Hai. Thodi Der Me Aa Jayegi”. 

Do you remember getting a similar indifferent, somewhat condescending reply? That is when the complaint officer decided to pick up the phone. If you persisted, they disconnected the phone before you could complete the sentence. And yet, calling the ‘electricity office’ provided some solace for the power starved soul.

For more than a decade, I have been fortunate enough to live in an apartment with power back up. It’s been so long that those sweaty moments are a blur, appearing occasionally as flashes during minutes between darkness and revving up of the generator. It would be naïve, even stupid of me to say that I miss my tryst with candles, mosquitoes and trickling sweat. 

Then why remember those harrowing times? One of the reasons behind hankering for old times is perhaps the simplicity and innocence of it all. It provides a respite from the obsessive digital life we live. Moreover, nostalgia  is said to soften the rough edges.

Remember the collective ‘Oohhs’ when the power went off and the collective ‘Aahhs’ when the Usha fan stirred and the Bajaj tubelight blinked? And the joy of idling? Doing nothing. At a time when we check Whatsapp mindlessly, those power breaks allowed an on the spot vacation. 

The kids would rush out in the courtyard (angan, most middle class houses had one) and the grumbling adults followed grudgingly. 

Phir Chali Gayi, Bataiye? 

There was nothing to batao. 

Checking if neighbours were also in the same boat was the first on the list. There was solace in numbers. Joy in collective suffering. With cane chairs in place, the courtyard was ready, amply splashed with water in anticipation of a customary power cut. It was time to catch a story from grandma or an anecdote from grandpa. Each story that granny excavated brought joy and giggles. Longer power cuts ended up in candle light dinners and defrosting the refrigerator before going to bed. Which basically meant - ice cream. 

‘Will miss Chitrahaar again’, someone would lament. It is amusing why we missed Chitrahaar for all it had was Salma Agha crooning ‘Dil Ke Arman’, Reena Roy in a black sharara (the dress has come back) singing ‘Sheesha Ho Ya Dil Ho’ or a black dog running after Jackie Shroff in Teri Meherbaniya. 

Those hours of darkness were also a time for the Man Ki Baat contraption - the transistor. It required turning and twisting to catch the signal (like Vodafone). Dad would hunch over for test match commentary by Jasdev Singh and grandpa for news - ‘This is All India Radio. The News read by Melville de Mellow.’

Power cut was a double edged sword. When the ‘home work’ was avoidable, it was a boon but when ‘home work’ was mandatory, it was a curse. My worst torment was to solve Chemistry numericals (damn that Avogadro number) under flickering candle lights and trickling sweat. 

Once it was past dinner time and folks began preening into their HMT watches, someone was asked to walk down the power station to find out the duration of the ordeal. ‘Cable burst. It’s going to be the entire night.’ Resigned to our fate, it was time to take out folding charpoys, mosquito nets, Odomos and doze off in spurts. Sleep. Grumble. Scratch, Sleep Grumble. Scratch. Sleep…..

In the years that passed, we hardened into adulthood, surrendered to smart phones and melted in metro life. Power cuts continued, albeit less frequently. But playing antakshari instead of playing a phone game, watching stars instead of phone pictures or engaging in a game of cards instead of reading tweets is perhaps too silly to be indulged in. The consuming need to stay in touch over the phone has overcome the joy of doing nothing. Moreover, we rarely see stars in Gurgaon apartments; all we see is flickering light of planes through the dust haze. 

In a country where 240 million people live without electricity, I am indeed blessed to have 24/7 power. But with great power, comes a greater electricity bill. With three times the normal electricity charges, the backup bill gives me an electricity shock every month. And yet, it is a lesser price to pay to avoid the agony of, “Asuvidha Ke Liye Khed Hai. Sare Shahar Ki Gayi Hai. Thodi Der Me Aa Jayegi”.

Image from here

The Joy of Flying

I remember Shashi Tharoor each time I board a plane. Not because I love the way he flicks his hair but travelling 'cattle class' stirs exasperating farrago of emotions. 

Once in the plane, you grab your 36B and impatiently wait for ground clearance. I’m talking about the seat number, you pervert. There are ten planes ahead of you and the airline does its best to save fuel by not switching on the air conditioner before takeoff. You can suffocate to death in the fart and sweat soaked seats for all they care. Mind you, this is not some low cost airline but supposedly premium, all service Jet Airways – The Joy of Flying. That’s their tagline. 

If you are on a short flight, anxiety begins to play havoc with your bladder muscles. They go into an involuntary twist. The first thought that comes to mind is to rush to the nearest toilet before it gets drenched in dew drops and begins to smell of roses. As it happens, one bladder inspires other 149 bladders. Unfortunately, there is short window of release between take off and descent. As a result people queue up outside the toilet before the cabin crew distributes juice to ensure a mass bladder burst. 

For some reason, the smiling stewardess who welcomed you with a chirpy ‘good morning’ gets all snappy. I don’t get it. Minutes ago she was pumping sunshine up our bottoms and now she is clouding it with ‘why the hell are you here’ expression. What happened?

One elderly man pisses her off by occupying the toilet for eternity and then brushing past her cart. When he returns to his seat, she is reeling from the after effects of reading Half Girlfriend, “Sir, we have only one non-veg meal left, lena hai to le warna kat le.” 

Almost.

“Sir, we’ve run out of non-veg trays. You can take veg if you want.” 

The old coot gets into an argument over the meal and after much doo-doo, it turns out that the quibble was over 15 grains of black gram accompanied with three cookie sized kulchas. If I offer this to my house-help she will screw her nose, ‘Didi aap kha lo’. 

Meanwhile others who are debating whether to pee or not to pee guzzle enough juice and beer to feel the force. Just when there is a queue of dozen loaded passengers, the seat belt sign is on. 

Crew on their seats, we are about to descend. 

Difficult to say if the stewardess has ‘why can’t you do it at home’ expression or ‘Piss off’ face. She decides to unload her annoyance over all the silent ogling she's faced in her career. ‘No Sir, please return to your seat. Can’t you see the seat belt sign is on?’ 

You can almost feel the joy in her heart. Revenge. Is. Sweet.

Never seen such imploring faces – Pee-lease…uff! 

I’m enjoying all the turbulence, making notes to write a blog post, when one lady decides to break the queue and take the feminist route to the toilet, “I’m menstruating, you can’t stop me.”

Silence.

The lady gets lucky. A dozen livid men return to their seats twisting their legs in awkward ways. Sitting on my window seat, I want to ask the lady, girl to girl, why should a menstruating lady get priority over someone about to wet his pants? Or soil his shorts? 

Eventually you land, hopefully at your destination (unless the pilot takes you to Jaipur or Lucknow due to air congestion over Delhi). You decide to be patient and sit tight before the groundstaff takes ages to fix the aerobridge. Turns out, sitting is a bad idea. Because everyone is standing and 149 booties are at your nose level. Direct transfer. 

We are the last to leave, but I now know why pee-ople itch to get out. Once at the airport, I find a sparkling clean toilet and I’m so happy, I could cry. Happiness, after all, is finding a place to go when you really gotta go. 

That’s the real joy. Not the joy of flying.

Apologies for messing your morning with this un-pee-leasant post.

Death by Buffet

Just when I was about to say cheers to lost weight, a 3N/4D vacation ensured that I found more than I lost - the weight that is. Amazing, rather exasperating, how a short outing can tilt scales in ways you never imagined.

After a long flight, you take a quick shower and saunter into the hotel restaurant to occupy the window seat overlooking the sun-kissed mountains. At a time when you are normally tending the door, waiting for the maid, packing lunch and ordering groceries, this is heaven. Never relaxed so much at breakfast time and you are so happy that you could cry. You soak in the atmosphere and fetch up to take a look at what’s on offer. Most buffet spreads are an assortment of Indian, Mediterranean and Continental delicacies served to challenge your midriff. For reasons unknown, even the oatmeal and sugar free porridge which seem puke-worthy at home invite you with healthy hush – come savor me. The boiled eggs and omelette you find mundane back home begin to croon, ‘Is it me you are looking for’. The stuffed paranthas look at you in all their oily glory and hum softly, 'pick me baby one more time'. The wide arrays of chutneys next to steaming idlis wink at you. The aroma from baked beans and grilled potatoes sautéed with parsely nudges you – try me. The cold cuts beckon, the stir fried veggies whisper, 'Sweetie, we have it all - carotenes, free radicals, fibre, try us no?' The little gateaux’s begin to waltz around your nose even as the creamy fondant plays hide and seek from behind the slim, crisp, hot and curvy jalebis melting you to mush. Yes, jalebis, miles away from home. 

When you are debating difficult choices, the steward approaches, “Should I toast brown bread or multigrain bread for you?” You look so profound and thoughtful as if you are attending the G20 summit and wondering whether to vote in favour of the climate deal or go the Trump way. Back home, your toaster is a breeding ground for cockroaches but toasting, popping and smothering bread with dollops of butter is suddenly comforting. Almost calming. You are tempted to try every brownie, bun and bread with jams and marmalades of every flavour. 

There are other multiple choice dilemmas, ‘Mam watermelon, mixed or orange juice? Sparkling, mineral or regular water? Green, regular or masala tea?’ You are tempted to make the most because eventually you are destined to fall back in the arms of muesli and cold milk. But you summon all the self-control at your disposal and count backwards. 10, 9, 8… 

The steward hovers around your table with an assortment of maple syrup coated pancakes and juiciest falafel in town, here try some, we’ve used herbs from our garden and you won’t get this anywhere. 

There is laughter in the air, the beautiful couple next to you is relishing their scrambled eggs, their kids are jumping like dolphins and everyone’s so excited that you surrender. 

Given that breakfasts are included in your room rent, you decide to land a delicious kick on the hotel’s rear by recovering every penny.

After all, what is one day of cheating? 

The following day is worse. You head out for a long drive, you are not sure if you’ll stop for lunch so you stuff enough to last for dinner. Eventually, you have lunch, snacks, beer, dinner. The last day is the worst. You are about to check-out, you haven’t vasoolo-ed the room rent and the next vacation is a tiny blip on the radar. So you say, what the heck, I will shed the darn kilos again. Then the three day buffet breakfast takes three months to leave your midriff, if at all. But that’s what life is – diet, work, save, travel, repeat. Even if it means death by buffet.

The Filmy Factor

If you haven’t watched many movies during your growing-up years, whatever little you saw remains special, right? I’m sure this happens to you. There you are watching an old movie and suddenly - wham, you are transported back in time. Like food and scents, movies make sure something or the other jangles your memory cells. It could be anything. Like a movie on your sixteenth birthday. A movie after board exams is equally memorable. As is a movie with mushy ‘corner seat’ memories. 

As I rewind my cinematic reel, my first literal ROFL moment was while watching Jaane Bhi Do Yaron on our Beltek television. The story of two bumbling journalists from Beauty Photo Studio remains a memorable black comedy. The recent flyover collapse in Kolkatta was a reminder that when it comes to builder-babu nexus, little has changed. Who can forget the scene where a tipsy Om Puri drags the casket of a dead D’Mello, or when Om Puri mumbles in his Punjabi laced Hindi, “Oye Draupadi Teri Akele Ki Nahin Hain, Hum Sab Shareholders Hain”. Unlike the quintessential ‘dishoom dishoom’ culmination, JBDY climax was a classic Mahabharata and Ramayana cocktail with a dash of Akbar. Served with great comic book flair, “This is too much. Ye Akbar Kahan Se Aa Gaya?” was epic.

Then there was Masoom. Our parents probably heard, ‘Lakdi Ki Kaathi’ song and imagined that Masoom was perfect kiddy watch. Moreover, the little girl who played Naseer and Shabana’s youngest daughter was a family friend from Kanpur. Clueless about the infidelity angle, I hated Shabana for refusing to accept Jugal Hansraj. His blue eyes, a tapestry of torment and pools of grief made me miserable. When thick streaks began rolling down during ‘Tujhse Naraaj Nahi, Hairan Hoon Zindagi’ dad took me out for an ice cream. Downright silly, but for some reason I haven’t forgiven Shabana till date. Such was the Masoom impact that Shabana’s wronged wife act in Arth did nothing to salvage her image for a long time.

Silsila (1981) remains memorable for my first mother-daughter tiff. It was my birthday and instead of allowing me to celebrate with friends, mother insisted we watch a movie. Those days, my mother was a big fan of Rekha, while my righteous teen angst saw Rekha as a home breaker. In an interview to Stardust Rekha had said that she saw Jaya shed tears from the projection room during a love scene between Rekha and Amitabh during a trial show. Both Filmfare and Stardust were abuzz about how Yash Chopra had managed coup in bringing the two women together in the epic confrontation scene. It was also Bollywood's first foray into Netherlands and tulip gardens.

Growing up in a small town, there was a lot of talk in school about Dimple and Anil Kapoor making out in a stable in Jaanbaaz. When the VCR guy sneakily delivered the Jaanbaaz cassette, the print was poor and visuals sketchy. During the much hyped ‘Jaanejaana’ song, all I saw was Anil Kapoor winking at his pet horse, the horse grinning back and Dimple exposing her tantalizing long legs in a huge pile of hay stack. A step ahead from two flowers, the scene was pretty chaste, though sensuous given the times. Dimple brings me to Saagar where I sat happily sandwiched between school friends waiting for Dimple to drop that towel. Disappointment again, for we saw nothing except a glorious sunset.

Given that there was no getting away from tight home reigns, Qayamat Se Qyamat Tak remains etched for most of us in school and college. ‘Papa Kehte Hain’ was a rage – it had become a metaphor for our age and emotions. This was also a time when Udit Narayan and Alka Yagnik had created magic with their fresh vocals. While on our annual summer trip to Mussoorie, ‘Ghazab Ka Hai Din’ playing on the car stereo made me see the hills in a new light. So in Mussoorie, I unconsciously veered in Juhi’s Rashmi mode – two plaits, coy looks and chirpy talk. Needless to add that the boys on the Mall Road appeared in Aamir’s Raj mode – Akele Hain To Kya Gham Hai.

Then there was Mr India, which I remember for reasons other than Sridevi’s sky blue sari minus an underskirt. Those days, balcony in single screen theatres was expected to have decent crowd and the seats weren’t numbered. And yet, a group of boys were throwing peanuts over our heads. When a match stick landed in my lap, a big fight ensued. Dad called the manager, the screening was halted and louts evicted.

Moving one, there were others like Arth, Mirch Masaala, Bazaar, Golmaal and Khoobsoorat, but I don’t remember them for anything other than their cinematic appeal. As memories come flooding, one post won’t do justice to all the drama associated with films. Losing house keys during Amar Akbar Anthony, running to the loo (upset tummy) during Sharaabi and buying tickets in black for Karz remain memorable. Remember ‘paanch ka dus, dus ka tees’ touts promising corner seats? 

In today’s age of multiplex, we will perhaps remember movies for different reasons. It could be a bomb scare when the entire hall was evacuated. Not finding parking, getting stuck in the mother of all jams and missing the movie could be equally memorable. Ditto for being harassed by a traffic cop after movies. 

Bottoms Up

Imagine Mumbai without Vada Pav and Berry Pulav. Chennai without steaming idlis and filter coffee. Or Delhi without butter chicken and Old Monk. We know what happened to Lucknow without Tunday Kebabs, right? Likewise, Gurgaon is all about fresh beer. Beer is so integral to Gurgaon that we would rather be called Beergram instead of Gurugram. Don’t believe me? Hop on, and I will tell you about our ‘beer necessities’.

For starters, we in Gurgaon survive dust storms, civic apathy, extreme weather and traffic jams just by being Beer Happy. With pubs in every nook and corner, fresh breweries are our very own Aggarwal Sweet House. Our Mavalli Tiffin Room (MTR). Our Sarvanna Bhawan. But with fancy names like the UpTown, Striker, Manhattan, Vapour, Open Tap, Prankster, Walking Street…...the list is endless.

With beer flowing in our veins, we are Budweiser than others. Because we know our beer more than Gordon Ramsay knows his food. Which is why, the way to our heart is to engage us over the charms of chilled beer. Just so you know, we in Beergaon, don’t believe in soups. Chilled beer is soup for our corporate souls.

Don’t judge us. We wish each other a ‘Happy Beerthday’ and a ‘Berry Happy Mother’s Day’, simply by visiting the nearest brewery. Most pubs are an ode to originality with loud music, dim lights, giant screens and framed pictures that proclaim ‘Life and Beer are same – Chill for best results’. You visit one and you will have a feeling of ‘Deja Brew’. If you are a visitor on a Friday evening, don’t have ‘high hops’ because despite 5436 breweries in town, you won’t find a table. In case you manage to grab a bar stool, it’s time to ask the attendant, “What’s up brew?” Then you burst into cheers when he presents you with an array of tasters ranging from Apple Cider, Fresh German, Peach Ginger, Melomel or Belgian Wit. You taste them with such seriousness as if you are about to vote for a permanent security council seat at the UN, which is a lot of crap because after one pitcher, you don’t really know which one you are drinking. Then you place your order to show off your bladder capability – a glass, a mug, a pitcher or the entire beer tower. Care for some fun? Ask the guy with gallons of beer in his prized beer tower to drink 8 glasses of water instead. Capture his expression. Priceless.

So, it was all berry good until the highest court of the land played party pooper. The new law about keeping liquor vends away from highways made it ‘un-beerable’ for Beergram. Just when we thought we were at a ‘pint of no return’, excise officers, traffic police, NHAI and PWD got busy with ‘Jugaad’ to ensure that Gurgaon is up and bubbly again. With such supremely honest departments working in tandem, I’m sure Gurgaon will finally raise the ‘bar’. 

The verdict is to be pronounced any day. And soon we will indulge in our ‘unstopub-able’ past-time. Hello? After slogging for long hours and surviving ‘beer pressure’ as corporate donkeys, is it any surprise that we look forward to our happy hours? Common people, with temperature flirting with 45 degrees, you can’t grudge us our daily beer. Remem-beer, that's how we are. ‘Lager’ than life. Hopefully, life will be ‘Brewtiful’ again.

 Beergram can barely fight back its cheers.