Every breath you take

(Op-ed in the Hindustan Times, Mumbai edition, Friday the 13th. A benediction on the Hale Queen Rose and the Token!)

India’s patron saint? Kafka. Or maybe Arthur Dent.

I’d go with Dent. Or perhaps Murphy with his Law.

Every day, working for the government (please do NOT point out the oxymoron, it’s been done) seems a sane option. My employers have framed rules governing my service. They’ve set up independent adjudicating bodies to decide disputes within that framework. Outside my professional commitments, they pretty much let me do my own thing. Blogging? Who cares? (What’s a blog anyway?) Getting published in the press? There’s even a rule that says, pretty much, “we don’t give a big rat’s ass”. Partying five nights a week? They don’t own my booty once it’s out the office door, I can shake it where I like. They’ll even pay me a pension if I stick around for another couple of years. (They don’t pay me much, but then one can’t have everything)

Now if I played cricket for India – correction, if I played cricket for the BCCI, where would I be? No fixed salary, I’d be paid on a project basis. No assured income, my livelihood is linked to my performance. If I’m not good enough to be selected for the Bangladesh tour, I don’t get paid for those two months. Mind you, it wouldn’t be enough to be good at what I do. I’d have to make sure that there’s nobody better than me. So the performance parameters aren’t fixed, they’re floating.

So far, it makes some kind of sense. The Board is paying for the best, they’re recruiting/deploying on a case-to-case, best-available basis. Like insurance salesmen getting the annual bonus, sport is about competition.

Move on now. Who decides what is good enough? The selectors. Are they qualified to judge me? Have they been through the same grind? Well, the Board is getting there. Vengsarkar’s credentials can’t be questioned, Venkatapathy “Muscles” Raju has played enough international cricket. But Sanjay Jagdale? Bhupinder Singh Sr.? And Ranjib gerswoggling Biswal? Check out their records, please. In first-class cricket, these last three have between them 5602 runs and 398 wickets in 155 matches. Their international record is 6 runs and 3 wickets (Bhupinder Paaji) in 2 matches in Sharjah in April 1994. To put that in perspective, Irfan Pathan, who is not good enough to be in the current side, has 1841 runs and 206 wickets from 98 international matches alone; his first-class tally would mean a further 1812 runs and 209 wickets from another 64 matches. A jury of my peers? Give me a break!

So the Board has woken up and decided to appoint professional selectors on the basis of qualifications, pay them and send them round India to scout talent. Like pro sport in the USA. Good show. Except that the Board itself is not the most professional or transparent body around. The selectors could end up toeing the party line. For the time being, we’ll give them the benefit of the doubt.

But limiting the number of sponsorships? Come off it! Where does the Board make its money? Television. Where do the sponsors show off their contracted players? Television. So what is the Board saying, in effect? That THEY can make money from television but their indentured slaves cannot. Is that fair? I think not.

Do the players tell the Board to improve playing conditions? Presumably not. They’re labour, not management, and they don’t have an effective union to put pressure on the top brass. Does the public make a big fuss about stadia with no shade, no drinking water, no loos and broken seats? Hardly. At best, they stay away from the matches and watch them on television instead.

What does the public want to see? Not cricket per se, but India winning at cricket. What pays for their entertainment? The ads. What drives the ads? India winning. It’s a symbiotic relationship. The players are big boys and realize that their market value depends on winning. So why should the players be deprived of their cut of the take? Search me. If a player does not perform, his sponsorships will dry up. Therefore, for his own good, he has to perform. What business is it of the Board’s whether he has three sponsorships or thirty? Is it because the Board has not developed enough bench strength to find another set of players if the present bunch does not perform? Ha!

The average player has an effective international career of about 5 years. Sachin’s 18 years at the top level so far, or Kapil Dev’s (not THIS guy’s) 16-year career, are aberrations. What happens to a player after he’s dropped for the last time? If he’s lucky, he gets a benefit match. How much he takes away from that match is a matter of luck and conjecture. The Board’s accounts are still in a mess and they don’t like to be held accountable. Thereafter, if the player is reasonably articulate – or like Srikkanth or Sidhu, suffers from terminal logorrhaea – he gets another lease as a motormouth on television. (See? Television again) The Board does not give him a pension. The Board does not have a rehab scheme for the player to pick up other skills.

So why should the Board come in the way of players making some money while they still can? If Dhoni or Kaif or Rahul want to put away a nest egg, is it right for the Board to stand in their way?

The players should be judged on performance. Perhaps even on fitness levels. Not on whether they make money because they look good in ads (or not – “Palmolive ­da jawaab nahin­­” became a national catch-phrase, but what about Rapidex English-speaking courses?) You know, this entire issue seems to be fuelled more by envy than by rationality – “do you know how much Yuvraj makes from those ads?!”. Doesn’t make sense to me. It’s a juvenile and short-sighted attitude. It could even be counter-productive – the lure of sponsorships could drive players to perform, taking away the contracts certainly doesn’t add to their motivation.

The Board makes money from television, leverages the demand in the market. Sometimes it even uses government arm-twisting to make extra money, as in the recent row over the telecast rights. Now it wants to limit the players’ entry to the same market. I think it’s not fair. It goes against the principles of the free market. Who’s going to stand up to them? Not the players, but perhaps the sponsors will. In one sense, they are the paymasters. More power to them, I say (though Shah Rukh Khan may not agree). What do YOU say?

I'm in love

Or, rather, 'ien louwe'.

This lady has long been the object of my adoration. Now her talents have made me smile even as I prepare to be tarred and feathered by the end of the week.

Ah, Leol-leh, leighd uv mei laive, loire uv mei foins!

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To lighten the gloom

In the middle of a Working Weekend, my spirits are lightened by a URL - http://www.tropicalglen.com/ sent to me by a Kind Person (Who thus Proves that Some Bosses can Be Nice and thus Gives Me Hope).

How many of you knew that BJ Thomas and Leo Sayer were actually on the charts apart from the One Song Each that We All Know About? Well, OK, stop showing off, I didn’t.

Besides, it’s nice to go back through the years and haul out people like Gordon Lightfoot and James Taylor. Not to mention the “Oh-was-THAT-the-year-they-did-Hotel-California” kind of murmur.

But no Eric Clapton ANY year? Have to go back and look for Those Numbers, folks. See you after the 31^st. “If I be alive, and your mind hold, and your Dinner worth the eating”. (Act I, Scene II, if I recall aright, and God bless Mr. Vijayan Bala for drumming the possibilities of blank verse into our thick heads.)

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Painful

Life is bleak and much is wrong with my world. Here is one attempt to look at both sides of a nasty reality. The comments are a little more one-sided, though.

And thanks to the Griff, I now know more about another lasting shame. Are we going to ignore it for another two decades?

Life is very long.

O you who turn the wheel and look to windward / Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you ...

I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs / Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest ...

O Lord Thou pluckest burning ...

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Alap esskooj maadi ..

Some people like the rain.

Some are ambivalent ...

Hnothon par se sarak gaya hawa ka libaas

bheeg gayee yaadein, bheegi aankhein.

Kahin utree naa namee aur thodi door tak.
In baarishon ke mausam mein
bas dil hee sookha rah gaya.

Not (I hasten to add) that it rained in Calcutta last night.

**** ****

Perfick. Quite perfick.

A morning stroll past the paddock, down the tree-lined avenue with dead leaves and dewy grass underfoot. Three polash trees in bloom, posing in a row at the edge of the 16^th green, like dark Santhal girls in their red-bordered ­saris and red bangles. Afterwards, a time-warp - buttered toast and marmalade in the 19^th Hole. And The Statesman. I’d no idea people still read that paper! But somehow it fits in with the shaded peace and the tang of the marmalade. And the breeze from the fans, that first day of spring when it’s just a little chilly with the fan on but just a little too stuffy to leave it off. The kind of morning when I feel about 12 years old again and a Sunday is a vast expanse of Possibilities.

If only they still had morning shows at Metro or New Empire and I could go watch Mel Fahrer and Stewart Granger in Scaramouche.

A series of very minor Nice Things. Like Lay Down, Sally coming to life as I start the car. Or putting it in neutral at the top of the Gariahat flyover and coasting all the way to the traffic lights at Ballygunge Phnari. The perfect cup of coffee with the morning papers, sitting on the balcony and feeling the day stir to life with bird-song and the scent of green things.

Caught up with T* for breakfast. Udipi Home on Jatin Das Road. A small glow sign outside thanks APJ Abdul Kalam and Viren Shah for the opportunity to serve them breakfast AND lunch at Raj Bhavan on 21^st January 2003. A blackboard proclaims the prices and announces the availability of pickles and savouries. And beds for a hundred rupees a night. Inside, a verandah has been converted into a dining room. The place oozes atmosphere. Stupid me – I’ve passed this place a few thousand times but never ventured in before. The food is outstanding. – dosai with amazing chutneys, onion vadas, followed by strong sweet ‘dancing coffee’. The TF or Tripti (Contentment) Factor is very high, tending towards 1. Bliss.

The whole morning is very Pop Larkin. Perfick. What have I done to deserve this?

It strikes me when I log on. This Simple Desultory Philippic is two years old today. How appropriate. Food. Calcutta. A little nostalgia. Leisure. A few moments of peace, even. Which (alas!) is all that this space seems to be good for. No issues of great import, not enough energy for strong opinions. A sort of Emsworthian potter down the Yew Avenue of life, with the occasional pause to contemplate the floppiness (or otherwise) of hollyhocks, or a detour to give the Empress a comradely scratch along the spine. Faff of the first water, all of it.

And yet, and yet … Thanks to my meanderings here, I’ve got to know Interesting People. I rate ‘Interesting’ far above ‘Nice’, but as a bonus, they’ve been Nice too. Well, mostly. (Stern look at certain Obstreperous Children with No Respect for the Elderly – you know who you are!) I’ve spent huge amounts of time reading their (your?) blogs and following their lives and opinions, but it’s all been worth it. The satisfaction of some give and take in the comments section, the unique pleasure of meeting a fellow blogger for the first time in some unexpected corner of the world. Sadly, no revenue from ads (even though readership is well into double figures by now, thank you very much), not even a nomination for an Indibloggie (cue discreet wiping of single tear) but, after nearly two years, offers to Pander to the Public for Pelf. (I love pelf!).

So, all in all, it’s been rather nice. Very nice, in fact. Oh what the hell - as of now, it’s perfick. Quite perfick. Before I get entirely maudlin - thanks, all of you.

**** ****

Jaast-e

(Well, actually reminded by this pic posting)


Port Blair, some weeks ago

The standard "island paradise" shots. Been there, done that. Except that these were from the verandah of my room, over my morning coffee.
















Do they paint the ocean floor for that effect? Naah, not in the Andamans.



















Below - Ross Island, which used to be the Brits' home-away-from-home.


The Andaman & Nicobar chain is made up of 572 islands, atolls and reefs . And sometimes just clumps of rocks. This one is called Snake Island.










Then there's the dark side. The Cellular Jail.






















And there's the utterly unspeakable.





WHY?! O ye Gods and little fishes!




A couple of random "nice shots" (do NOT contradict me here!) to sign off with.

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Shame

The Blank Noise Project is not always moving. Sometimes it's just ... bleah.

Then I read something like this and it feels a little dirty to be a man.

In my defence, I've never groped, assaulted, accosted or solicited^[1] a woman.
OK, that's mainly because nobody's ever asked me to, but surely it should count for something.

Or wait - am I missing the point here?

Whatever.

^[1] - I can't truthfully say I've never harassed a woman. Mainly by being myself. But that has never been gender-specific. Men of my acquaintance have complained of it too. Though the men have been less violent in their complaints.

**** ****

Midnight shakes the memory

12:43 a.m.
Dole Poornima.
And a sudden chill wind.


Blair Witch Project, anybody?

**** ****

Sadly shameless and petulant again. And pointless.

Those of you who've recently read my other blog (yes, this is a shameless plug) will have guessed that I'm intimidated by erudite intellectuals such as this gentleman. So I was much reassured when I met Vivek online and he said that this video is a close parallel. As the Great One has taught us to say, fun comes. Muchly. [1].

Related thought - say what you will about the USA, they have Letterman, Leno, Conan, Colbert. What do we have? Raju Srivastava and Cyrus Broacha. And (perhaps in unintended fashion) K-K-K-KBC.

But we do have a thriving industry in sex-publishing. Check out the ToI-late Paper supplements. Any day of the week and twice on Saturdays. After such knowledge, what forgiveness?

Saturday morning leavened by a set of puns from a Dignified Friend. The pick of the bunch being -
"Banning the bra was a big flop"
"A man needs a mistress just to break the monogamy"
"Without geometry, life is pointless"
and rather more profoundly,
"Electricity comes from electrons. Does morality comes from morons?"

And a question - why do the Floggy Ladies suggest that my blog should be shut down? I am mystified. And further intimidated. Not least by the possibility of Bole, iskey saath kya Sallu kiya jaaye? (I know, very ouch, but whattodo, Saturday and all that.)


[1] Just in case you thought I could only do links, this proves I can do footnotes too. Relevance is an optional extra.

**** ****

Thoughts, cloudy

Breakfast looking out over the rain-stippled pool. A sudden explosion of parakeets. One merges with the crown of a neem tree. Two perch on the stone façade of the next building, clinging half-way up the man-made cliff.

Mid-morning. Looking out over Nehru Park. The weather’s achingly beautiful. A soft rain. Just right for coffee and a smoke by the window while “Bobby sings the blues”. But I lack the time for either.

On a glistening road while the tyres whisper to themselves. Rain in my breath, and on the sidewalks marigold beds gleam through the grey air.

The sun seeps out. Slow sleepy afternoon with the hint of a breeze in the ticking leaves, small distant noises that highlight the silence, a smell of dust and drying rain, the murmur of voices in the next room. Fighting sleep. And memories.

**** ****

But kingfishers are BLUE!

Thoughts on the uniform of a Certain Airline -

"What red pants are, as a rule, is unforgiving. You might as well stick a large sign on your behind saying 'Look at this butt!!'"

Quite.

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Nasty old man at airport

Very cool – the gent behind me in the check-in line. Shaven head (but two-day stubble) and choti, anorak over mundu. So comfortable with who he is. Platinum-plated watch discreetly hidden, peeking out only when he lifts his cell-phone to his ear. And speaks confidently but not stridently about “two lines being enough in the Supreme Court”.

Uncool – comb-overs. And Rayban Aviators worn in determined fashion inside a neon-lit terminal.

Also uncool – buckles on shoes, even if the rest of her outfit is neat.

Sad truth – you may pick the shortest check-in line, even factor in trolleys with checked baggage, but there will always be SOMEbody ahead of you whose ticket has Complications. That take (on an average) 23’ 15” to sort out before he can be checked in. While the other queues move, shorten, dwindle in the distance.

Sadder realization – a pretty lady may ASK to sit next to you. And the guy on the other side may be a little scruffy. But when a certain effluvium impinges upon your conscious and you gaze accusingly upon Scruffy Man, you may realize with some regret that it is the Lady who Stinks even if she Has Nice Hands and a Bright Smile.

Uncool – a quilted zip-up jacket worn over a formal shirt and tie. Or, conversely, a tie worn without any jacket; it makes the wearer look like a medical representative. Very 70s.

Very uncool – mincing up to the head of the boarding queue on clicking heels, then looking very surprised when directed to the BACK of the line. You know that look that tries to convey “Oh? There’s a QUEUE? How quaint, but I’m REALLY not used to standing in line”? Well, it looks stupid when she has to go the back of the line anyway. Very stupid. Ha!

Coincidence for the day - I noted the name on No.2, Palam Marg as we drove past. A modest cottage (can't be more than 12,000 sq. ft. on a quarter of an acre) with two other names on the gate. Now Karan Thapar is right in front of me, along with two other men who look vaguely familiar and therefore Must Be Celebrities. At least when in his company.

Uncool to the point of loathsome – man with a belly like a 5-month pregnancy, B-cup man-boobs, shirt open to the third button to reveal three gold chains, several amulets and lucky red cords and graying chest hair. And those shoes that look like wicker-work. (Karthik, you are NOT reading this!)

Unpleasant memory – spending the night at Delhi airport last week. The incoming flight was diverted to Lucknow because of … fog? Technical snag? No. Traffic congestion. The damn airport just can’t handle the load. And I have to fly from this place about twice a month. Brilliant.

So pleasant it’s cool – a flight that takes off on time.

**** ****

Le'Empereur, he has no clothes

At one time, Moscow’s Hotel Rossiya (one of Stalin’s Bigger-is-Better babies) was the world’s largest. More than 5000 rooms in tasteful prison-block layout. Slap on a faux Mughal-era façade and you have the Ashok in Delhi. One of the landmarks from my childhood because it’s across the road from Nehru Park and not too far from Nirula’s. It has (only) 550 rooms, but that was enough to make it India’s largest hotel. Not any more, with the two monsters that have come up in Mumbai. Infosys are expanding from 500 to 800 rooms this year and the Calcutta Shonar Bangla will soon have 600 plus.

Even so, I had to walk about half a mile from reception to my room. I’d asked for a room facing the park. After that walk, I wasn’t even sure whether they meant Nehru Park or Pragati Maidan. But it wasn’t so bad. Clean, an array of little coloured bottles in the bathroom. I love those even though I can’t filch them any more (after a diktat from the Better Half. Can’t store rubbish. Rubbish? I WILL use them some day. Yes, even the shampoos! Cross my heart!)

Most appliances work. Except the direct-dial buttons on the phone, so I have to get room service and housekeeping through the operator. And the coffee-maker boils over, so I have to place a towel under it. (Should I ask housekeeping for a daily stipend?) Not a major problem, especially since I’m lucky to get a room at all, this time of the year in Delhi. Service is a little slow but eager and friendly. I don’t mind a scruffy uniform if a smile goes with it.

The food is surprisingly good. A scrumptious breakfast spread and a huge ham steak from room service. I turned in around midnight, one Contented Bear.

Came the dawn

Or rather, an assault on my door. The Gestapo? Had I overslept horribly? The clock said 01:05. One in the morning?! A fire? The police?

Bleary-eyed, I opened the door before it was broken down. A wild-eyed grandpa with a bristling moustache handed me an envelope. “Left for you, sir”. And vanished before I could hitch up my drooping jaw.

Which left me with a headache and a temper. What kind of evil, what misbegotten sadist wakes up a hotel guest at ONE IN THE MORNING to deliver mail?!

Ze wurruld, she is full of morons.

**** ****

The Realisation of Inadequacy

Every day I come across a dozen things I’d like to put on my blog. If I had my laptop and the time, I’d do another India Uncut (albeit far less erudite and far more flippant) and post 346.29 times a day. But I don’t and I don’t. (On second thoughts, perhaps not far more flippant than Amit. Of late, he's been stooping to conquer.)

There’s another problem. I’m too damn self-conscious. My posts have to conform to my personal standards of Writing. It won’t do for them to be grammatically and syntactically correct, they have to read well, hold the attention of the imaginary reader. Well, not so imaginary after all – thank you to the two dozen of you who drop by at least once a week (though I do wish you’d leave a comment each time. Maybe even two. Feels good, you know what I mean?)

So as I was saying, after I find something to write about, I get stuck trying to write something Clever and Interesting. Then I give up. (I’m very good at Giving Up) Which is why this blog gets about 2 posts a week during a good stretch.

Bothers me, it does. All these clever folks who are so prolific. About politics, the environment, relationships. (Relationships. Now there’s a word that strikes terror into the hearts of most men. Even, I suspect, the ones who wax creative about relationships.)

Books, films, music. And such music! From Andy Summers to Raga Hamsadhwani and Rachmaninoff. All I know is between the ‘60s and the ‘80s. The books, too. There are people out there who have read every book short-listed for the Booker. Do I even know the authors’ names? Me, I’ve just discovered Artemis Fowl (and am reading Durrell’s – Gerald, not Lawrence either – Corfu Trilogy rather than The Inheritance of Loss. Whattodo, we are like this only.) The last film I (re)watched was Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Don’t mention that to Jai and Falstaff, the poor dears might need medical attention.

So anyway, these are erudite polymaths with refined taste. Which inspires their writing. What inspires me? Food.

So the Sad Old Bong [1] is a Sad Loser. I’m low-brow. Creatively constipated. And just too damn lazy. I might as well live with it.

[1] Sorry, sometimes I get a bit carried away with this link thingy. And the awful temptation of footnotes.

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The devil in the Prado

(four Sundays in the past already)

Velazquez’s views of the garden of the Medicis; Rafael’s “Cardinal”; El Greco’s “The Fable”, which looks more like a Toulose Lautrec; “The Embarkation of St. Peter for Rome”, a lovely Lorraine that confused me because it was labelled ‘Loreno’.

Above all, that star of acid rock from the 15^th century, the graphic-art precursor of Pink Floyd and Frank Zappa and “Tarantula”. His room is labelled Bosco by the contrary Spaniards. Just so we overlook him. The Goo-roo, fortunately, knew there was some of the man’s work in the Prado somewhere, so we tracked him down in the basement level, far behind the door labelled Medieval Art.

Hieronymus Bosch.

“The Garden of the Earthly Delights”, a triptych where the upper portion of the central panel would be perfect for the cover of a particularly outré Floyd album – this from a man painting in the 1400s! And the Table of the Seven Deadly Sins, a design of simplicity and fevered imagination. Some of it made me queasy when I looked closely; no wonder the medieval Church panicked and burnt most of Bosch’s work. I’d never really looked at Bosch before. Now, when I want to check out every detail, I don’t have a Net connection. Gah!

The Spaniards seem obsessed with secrecy, with keeping their treasures to themselves as far as possible. The Musee d’Orsay (which must be my favourite art museum) allows photography as long as one doesn’t use a flash. The Prado didn’t even let me take a picture of the long gallery from the lobby (which I wanted to because there is a distinct resemblance to the main concourse of the d’Orsay, the two photos would have looked good together in my study). And of course there was the tragedy of the flamenco, where they wouldn’t let me take photos …

Perhaps I should play a Bosco on them

**** ****

If food could be the muse of love ...

Chicken a la Kiev is not yet counted among the Seven Deadly Sins, but it’s good enough to rate a place there. The basic premise – en envelope of chicken breast enclosing a bomb of frozen butter, then fried till the butter melts inside – is simple. And very tempting. I had this faint suspicion that it was a Raj innovation, but TGGG reveals that it is known Stateside. (Google also reveals that Joan W. Teller of Duke University has conducted research on “The Treatment of Foreign Terms in Chicago Restaurant Menus”. Glory be.)

At Mocambo (not the Stevie Ray Vaughan album but the eatery on Calcutta's Free School Street) they’ve taken it a step further. They have Chicken Pavlograd. Which is the same butter bomb, only upgraded with cheese and mushrooms and herbs. My mouth waters at the memory.

Downer. We were at Mocambo last night and for the first time in 25 years, they didn’t have the Pavlograd on offer. By the time we inquired, however, we had already polished off –

· Chilli chicken Mocambo style. Little cubes of chicken dusted with cornflour and lightly fried, in a soya-based sauce with chopped chillis and spring onions. This is a far cry from the standard “Indian Chinese” style of chilli chicken. And it’s served with fine crisp potato shavings, the only instance I have encountered of Bangali jhuri bhaja on a non-Bangali menu. (This is actually the Better Half’s discovery, she being the Mocambo regular while I am an occasional pilgrim. The advantages of having an effective CEO for the family!)

· Devilled crab. Creamy, faintly herb-infused, served in the shell to be scooped out with a spoon and eaten with an expression of reverence. We liked it so much we ordered another round, peppered devilled crab this time, but that tried a little too hard. Too much red pepper and tomato puree. Verdict – stick to the standard devilled crab.

· Fish Meuniere, cocktail style. Bhetki fillets cut into finger-food size, breaded, fried and served in a coating of tartare sauce. Wonderful.

· Peshawari kababs. Good but not exceptional, certainly not good enough to elicit the usual reaction of a goofy smile and a murmured “Ah, Mocambo!”

By this time we were (surprisingly?) rather full. Consequently, the lack of Pavlograd was merely a minor tragedy rather than a disaster. We took a little time to order the entrée. And swore solemn oaths that everybody would share their serving with everybody else (there were four of us). K* decided that she had no inner space for the main course, so three dishes should suffice. The consensus was –

· Chicken Milanaise. Slivers of chicken and ham, mushrooms, served in a creamy cheese sauce with pasta. In view of my low-carb efforts, we asked them to ramp up the cheese and ham and cut out the pasta. They obliged. Words do not suffice, my friends. I am not worthy. Mmmmm!

· Chicken Stroganoff. Limited by my low-carb regimen, I could not check out the buttered rice. A forkful of the chicken, however, was sufficient to prove the excellence.

· Lobster Thermidor. Now lobster is practically unknown in this country. We make do with large prawns. But within that limitation, these were large, healthy, well-fed prawns, prawns that not only ingested in full their daily quotas of calories but also dutifully toned their bodies beautiful in some crustacean gym, resulting in flesh that was pleasantly firm and well-toned without being “too too solid”, soft without being flaky, flavoursome … well anyway, they were very good prawns. Baked just right. In a lovely smooth sauce.

A revelation here. As per agreement, we were sharing the food when the Better Half pointed out that S* was gazing upon K* (HIS B. Half) with a quite unique expression. An admixture of longing and adoration that we have not seen in the decade and a bit that they’ve been together. Devotion. Passion, even. The BH was about to compare this attitude with my (perceived) indifference, when realization dawned upon her and she burst out laughing. S*’ adoration was not directed towards his wife. He was looking intently at the forkful of Lobster Thermidor that she was raising to her mouth.

One of the wonderful things about Mocambo (apart from the Shakespearean continuity – in Calcutta’s culinary scene, it is the “one fixed spot in a changing world” in terms of the décor and even the staff, we have grown old together) is that even the veggies on the side are superb. Until you’ve eaten there you cannot believe that carrot croquettes can be worth waiting for. And the potatoes are in a class by themselves. Some day I should ask how they get them that way. Damn the carb-free diet!

The signature dish – with my apologies to those who know the place better than I do – is the Fish a la Diana. Grilled prawns wrapped in bhetki fillets and poached in a light béchamel sauce. Quite divine. Excuse me while I wipe the drool off my face.

We, or rather the other three, rounded off the nocturnal excesses with a Baked Alaska. The menu states that “Order must be placed in advance”. The steward was about to mention this when the BH (with the confidence of a person who has paid enough bills at Mocambo to fund a minor Himalayan expedition) pointed out that since we hadn’t yet eaten it, surely we were ordering in advance? The steward, usually taciturn, laughed helplessly. The Baked Alaska arrived shortly thereafter. Not as good as the fabled Sky Room product, but good nevertheless. (All RIGHT, I cheated on my diet. I had a tiny taste. So shoot me!)

As we ambled outside, I mooted a proposal to nominate the chef for a Padma Shri. The House was unanimous in its support (PJ ALERT!!! “Mocambo khush kiya!”) until it was pointed out that this might mean a quite unacceptable run upon his services. Like Munnabhai and Circuit reacting to the suggestion of a dry day, we looked at each other and simultaneously shook our heads. “Nooo-o-o!”

I hope the others forgive me for this post.

**** ****

Non sequitur - hopefully the first in a long series

Stuck in office at 9 in the evening. If this had been Madrid ...

Techno turbulence. With the "seven minute deferred live" telecast, Cricinfo is now AHEAD of the telecast. In the best possible way. I see Windies 85/3 on the telly, turn to the PC and see them 89/5. Whoopee! (And sodomise impartiality, I'm not getting paid mega-bucks as a TV commentator, I can afford to have my prejudices)

And now back to work.

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Passion play

Flamenco is to salsa as orgasm is to foreplay.

Café Patas, some time after midnight on a Saturday. The Goo-roo led me in past late diners and happy tipplers, down a long room to a counter in the wall. Bought our tickets. And waited for the door to open. Obviously Madrid time is fairly close to Indian Standard. We didn’t get inside for another 15 minutes and the midnight performance didn’t start till well after 12:30.

Chairs and tables on two sides of what we in India call a “dais” (usually pronounced ‘day-ess’), a curtained enclosure behind it, some chairs along the wall. The room was large and dimly lit. Some of the audience obviously appreciated the low lighting and took full advantage of it. Some others, more obviously, just didn’t give a damn. A performance before the performance, in a manner of speaking. Another door from the ticket enclosure had a backwoods bar – a plank to put the bottles on – and a trio of Latinas swayed around the room with interesting glassfuls. The Goo-roo, punctilious as ever, asked my choice and was a little disappointed when I stuck to water.

Frankly, at that point in time, with my eyelids gummy from lack of sleep, my head spinning from fatigue and wine, all I wanted was to get it over with and find a nice warm bed. What little flamenco I had seen on television was graceful but stylised, rather stiff. Huevos y Bacon and Pepe came to mind. Perhaps twenty minutes or so, then I’d prod the Goo-roo into a homeward cab. Meanwhile, the guitarist appeared, doffed his hat, struck a few chords, loosened his fingers on the strings. Nice.

The curtains parted again and a large lady in black emerged to sit beside the guitarist. Then a larger lady, also in black. I blinked. Finally a rather handsome couple stepped up on the stage. He was obviously Latin, lean-hipped, square-jawed, with long wavy hair flowing below his shoulders. She looked a little like Martina Hingis, but the eyes were far more fiery.

The first large lady suddenly set up a wail. The guitarist sprang in with a glissando and a sudden percussion effect. The performance had started.

And I was lost.

THIS was flamenco? The energy, the sheer energy of it all! This was intravenous speed! It had about as much relation to the staid posturing I’d had in mind as a panther has to a cream-fed tabby. The heels tapped and raced, drummed up a storm on the boards. The man’s hair flew. His jacket twirled, his arms framed air, his fingers snapped like castanets. Then she joined in. Sedate at first, so icy I almost saw the fan and the mantilla. The guitar snarled, cajoled, implored. The voices soared. He went into another impassioned series. And she caught fire. Gradually. Her fingers, her feet, her eyes. Oh yes, her eyes!

It was almost too intimate. There was none of the flirtation of salsa, no to-ing and fro-ing. Just a whole-hearted immersion in the spirit of the dance. Passion stripped so bare I felt I should look away. Physical enough to raise the sweat, yet so graceful that any moment frozen in the camera might capture the rhythm and the mood. Pirouettes so fluid I almost saw the camera-blur following the arms, finishes crisp as if cut with a knife. Fatigue or not, I was awake again.

They took a break after an hour or so. I went outside to clear my head with cold air and a cigarillo. The crowd was eclectic. A couple of mamaquitas, a terribly young dandy impeccable from shoeshine to knotted scarf, the think-tank of a mobike gang complete with their babes in alarmingly low-rise jeans and fur-trimmed knee-boots. From the expressions and gesticulations, we were united in our appreciation of the experience.

The next hour was even better. Carmen had a couple of long solos. Her rhythm was faultless, her expression sublime and tortured by turns as if she were molten in desire for a man she loathed. Raoul (or was he Carlos?) came back on for some passes that impressed with their physicality, but Carmen owned the evening. He was good, but too young and raw, even with her smiling support and the “Oles” from the audience. He was body, she added soul.

Towards the end, the largest lady in black bombazine joined her protégés. Suddenly, with a step and an upflung arm, she shed her years and her flesh. It was as if a hippopotamus had been transformed into a dolphin. She strutted, she twirled. The audience roared, Ole’d, swept up in the victory of art over time. An encore, another. And a final heart-stopping cameo from Carmen before the guitarist took his bow.

Outside, we buttoned up and stepped out. A fair way home, made longer because we couldn’t take the alleys – the Goo-roo’s phobia of muggers. No matter. I stepped lighter in memory of what I had just experienced.

Salsa? You can keep salsa.

Flamenco is to salsa as orgasm is to foreplay.

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In the dark before the dawn

One Wednesday morning, 7 a.m.

There’s something I particularly love about this butter-yellow lamplight in the dark before the dawn. 7 o’ clock in a hotel room with the sounds of distant traffic near the Hauptbannhof and a cup of coffee seducing me with little swirls of steam. It’s going to be a cold day. The skies cleared last night and I can almost feel the wind through the glass, flags snapping, trees swaying while the moon side-steps the last scudding clouds. Overcoat day ahead.

Yesterday evening was very “Homeward Bound”. Dog-tired from a day in the Messe – miles between the halls, up and down stairs, fair office, designer’s office, participants’ demands – I found myself at the train station just after six. A bitter wind in the early dark and no idea how to get back to my hotel, not even clear which direction I should travel. A sharp-eyed Frau helped me out there, but she said I should travel two stations and not one. I played my hunch, got off at the first station and was immensely reassured to find myself outside the deli where I’d scoffed a sandwich in the morning.

I like shopping for food. Whole-wheat bread studded with nuts and seeds, butter, a “Mediterranean” cheese, some pate. Chocolate milk, soda and a tiny nip of “Chantre Weinbrand”, whatever that is – it smells like brandy but I really don’t give a damn, I want it as a sleeping pill. A leisurely meal in my room while MY music plays. Much better than another series of cabs and an over-priced array of under-cooked food.

It’s a little over half a mile from the train station to the hotel. My hat twitches in the wind as I cross the bridge over the rail tracks. The hat – Sunday night in Madrid a drunk teenager stopped his car, asked me for a light and said “Cool hat … it looks Australian but you look Asian … Indian?” So what was just a droopy roof has been promoted to bush-ranger headgear. At least it keeps my bald pate covered, I’d be sneezing all day otherwise.

I can’t recall being so alone in an urban landscape. There are cars, but I encounter only three pedestrians and a cyclist between station and hotel. Out to my left the new Frankfurt skyline poses in lit-up finery. Pshaw. Just another jagged horizon trying to ape Manhattan. Closer by, lighted windows signal homes, warmth, conversation. There should be stories here. Football games, sibling squabbles, a mother with her hands on her hips, a burly visitor who plies the husband with one too many beers. Comfortable stories, where the nastiest thing to happen is a missed excursion.

A story about a solitary man walking back to a hotel room down a lonely road, past vacant lots and a looming waterworks, is far more likely to end in pain and murder. Or a particularly nasty apparition.

I’ve just been shooed off a tram where I was the only rider. I find myself in a deserted back alley, walking between rows of parked cars with the wind whipping up my coat. A shiver creeps between my collar and my hat brim. The pools of lamplight are safe havens amid the shadows. I walk faster. At the corner, I take my direction from the waterworks, eerie in its dimly lit vastness and its silence, and turn right.

The road stretches past a rusting factory, a railway underpass gleaming with recent rain, a weed-grown track behind a sagging gate. I turn up my collar, pull down my hat and, keenly aware of the dollars in my hip pocket, try to look confident. Apart from the cars surging past there is not a soul in sight. This is an alien landscape. I fear I’m lost.

Then, just past a crossing, I see the big garage I passed in the morning. Like the shaded parts of a trick picture, the landscape falls into place. The Gothic wasteland morphs into curtained windows, lawns, the lights of an old peoples’ home. Just a couple of hundred metres to the hotel door.

My budget hotel suddenly seems very welcoming. With warmth and light and food on the table, even a hotel room can be a home for a night or two. And the bed is very comfortable.

Clear day outside my window now. A few pink clouds and jet contrails. Lights in the sky, airliners queued for the busiest airport in southern Europe. The sun will be out soon. I need some breakfast. Later.

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Disoriented

Remembering Madrid, slogging in Frankfurt, planning for Lisbon, longing for Cal while Billy J sings about Havana … in the split second between waking and wakefulness, “Where am I” morphs into “Who am I”.

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Madrid monologue

The Goo-roo is one of the most generous and hospitable men I have ever met. A sweetheart, as She Who Must Not be Named would say. Peace be upon her flocks too, and blessings upon her store, for introducing me to the Goo-roo over the Net. My stolen weekend in London was about to vanish and I was planning Madrid instead (quite unaware how bitter cold it can get even in this Iberian city). She (WMNBN, take that as read) promptly rubbed out all plans for a London blog-meet and imperiously wafted the Goo-roo and me together in cyber-space. We chatted. We messaged. We phoned. We liked. Madrid was on.

Not without hitches, though. As I checked in at Calcutta, I realized that my visa didn’t kick in until the day after I was scheduled to land in Europe. Would I be stopped at the barrier? Packed off on the next flight to nowhere? The worry could have ruined the pleasure of an upgrade, except that a Lufthansa upgrade isn’t much of an upgrade anyway. For the first time in my life, I grew wistful about British Airways. At least they have full reclining beds in the fancy classes. Lufthansa gave me a ‘calf-rest’. And Attitude, from large Teutonic Valkyries with Popeye forearms. I had to screw up my courage to ask for a second drink – they seemed so ready to smack me along the head and bundle me into the hold if I stepped out of line. After two glasses of bubbly and two vodka Camparis, I no longer gave a damn, but I could only sleep for three hours.

How does one while away 6 hours of a 9-hr. flight when Somnus goes AWOL? I marched up and down the aisle. I did surreptitious stretches in the space between the galley and the loo. Counted rows. A benediction upon Shahani, Queen of all her tribe, who took pity upon me and plied me with coffee and conversation, from the skies above Ashgabat till we began the long glide down into Frankfurt.

As it turned out, I needn’t have worried about the mistimed visa. Frankfurt immigration evidently couldn’t give a damn. And I never met immigration at Madrid.

The plain in Spain as espied from the plane. Those stippled patches are olive plantations.

Disembarking at Barajas, I followed an endless succession of signs that pointed to “Salle des equipajes” (an approximation, Senors et Senoras, a mere approximation) only to find myself miles away, possibly near the French border. As unshaven bandidos snapped their bandanas at the Banderas (sorry, that just came), I was informed that I was in the SpanAir luggage hall. In a different terminal! The long trudge back had its compensations. First I found the Goo-roo lounging (in an attitude at once alert yet morose, quite a feat) outside the Arrivals gate, then I found myself beside my suitcase and outside the barrier. Without ever passing through immigration. Voila! I was free!

So it came about that at midnight on a Saturday I found myself outside Café Patas and also outside a boatload of tapas, the latter conjured up by Gustavo who runs the “Juana la Loca”(1). Gustavo is Uruguayan. He wreaks his revenge upon the descendants of the colonists by alluring them with his viands and then pauperizing them with his demands. Myth has it that if he served meals instead of just tapas, two Michelin stars would be his for the asking.

The tapas bar was truly a revelation. (Vegetarians, please avert your eyes.) A 25-yr.-old white wine (good, but I’d reely druther hev a Pimms, thenk yew sow metch). Fish in a delicate butter sauce. Squid. Crusty bread with herb butter. Fried cod with a piquant dip. Oxtail that flaked apart when touched with a fork. Afterwards, an exquisite Tokaji – Tokay to you and me – that even a Philistine like me could appreciate, especially with a cigarillo that sneered at the Cuban genre. And just before we stepped out into the cold, a bill that would have housed and fed a family for a week. My insides curled into a ball and whimpered at the sight; the Goo-roo, cool investment banker that he is, took the tab and even left Gustavo a bribe for future delectation. (Such is wealth, but it does not always come with such spontaneous generosity.)

By this time I was light-headed from wine and fatigue, I had gone almost 48 hours with about 3 hours of sleep. There is, however, no performance at the Café Patas on Sunday evenings. Since I was to fly out on Monday, it was Saturday night or not at all if I wanted to catch some flamenco. So we walked a circuitous route through bright avenues – the Goo-roo is paranoid about getting mugged, also about expiry dates on food, but more of that later – until we reached the mouth of a little cobbled alley lined with brooding houses and curlicued balconies, like moustached Senoritas who suspected we wanted to ravish their infantas. Two doors from the mouth of the alley a small crowd smoked intently outside a brightly lit doorway. The Fundacion de Flamenco y Conservatorio de Café Patas.

More of which later, because I also need to work.

(1) The Goo-roo tells me that Juana of Castile was the last of her line. The Spanish equivalent of naming a Mughlai eatery "Bahadur Shah Zafar".

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Agony, abated

I had a steak for lunch today. With a huge boiled potato smothered in sour cream (don't the Teutons like butter?) and an unpretentious Pinot Grigio. Which was all right, except that as I cut into the steak I suddenly realized that it had about the same colour and texture as my face.

Agony, really. I’ve been up at 14,000 feet where the vast outdoors are one’s privy (don’t ask). I’ve been in Mussoorie and out in the boondocks when it was snowing. Then WHY does it happen that when it’s warmer in Frankfurt than in Delhi, my face gets all chapped and raw and spotty so that it hurts to even blink? Rank injustice.

Luckily our exhibit designer knows about these things and suggested “water-proof Vaseline”. (My Gaydar is not very reliable, but I think he is - no, I do NOT mean he is reliable - so I didn’t ask any further questions about Vaseline). As the young Macaulay^[1] once said, “The agony has somewhat abated.”

And now for the standard two degrees of separation story. Fellow blogger (Bong, of course, though now in Edinburgh) appears online. Learns I am in Frankfurt. Refers me to a couple in Frankfurt who are friends of her’s. Who turn out to be the daughter and son-in-law of my colleague and neighbour. Bangali chaaliye jaao!!

[1] Thomas Babington, 1st Baron Macaulay, 1800-1859. I loathe him for ruining Bangali enterprise through his avowed (and successful) intention of “creating a nation of Baboos” and for his dismissal of Oriental learning. On the other hand, he did draft the Indian Penal Code, which I consider great craftsmanship. Anyway, the story goes that when he was about three-and-a-bit, he was taken to visit some relatives. Where he spilt some hot coffee on his velveteen breeches. After the fuss had died down, he was asked whether it still hurt, to which he gravely replied “The agony is somewhat abated”. Zounds!

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Sailing to Byzantium

Some time early last Saturday ...


Flying westward ahead of the dawn, a losing race. After three hours of Campari-induced sleep (I was good, Ma, I only had two. Oh OK, AND some bubbly), I wake to a darkened passenger cabin. And the glow of the moon through the porthole. I lean over and peer out.

Magic. Below us is a landscape of whipped cream swirls and chocolate streaks, a maelstrom formation of snow-shouldered mountains that run together, flatten, roll, a vast frozen carouse of the ice-giants. All the way to the horizon, even from 38,000 feet. Under a crystal moon, light seems to hang in the air, drawing strength from the ice below, a dance of cold and whiteness.

I don’t need to pull out the little screen that tracks the plane across the world. Only one region in the world can look like this. The Pamir Knot. The roof of the world. Magnifique.

I take in the picture in great lungfuls. What luck to wake up at this moment. And yet there is a smidgin of guilt because I’m seeing this the easy way, from an airliner floating far above. Sven Hedin comes to mind, and Younghusband crossing the Hindu Kush. Somewhere down there and away to the left under the belly of the craft, surely, is the pass where young Francis had to tie strips of cloth over his shoes to cross an ice-field.

But hey, why should I feel guilty? He chose his own road. The intrepid explorer. Onward to glory and all that. Besides, he was just 24 at the time. Me, I’m old and past it. Hedonism over Hedinism every time for me. Young lady, if you will NOT serve breakfast just yet, could I please have another Campari? Squeeze of lime, dash of soda, two ice. Thanks.

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Blog thoughts, returning

I stopped posting on my blog in late September. I was changing jobs and that involved tying up a lot of loose ends, so I really didn’t have the time to write decent or at least entertaining posts. Now I’ve been in the new job for nearly three months, settled in all right, travelling a fair bit – I have both the material to write about and time in which to write about it. So I should go back on my blog, shouldn’t I?

But I’ve been thinking about my blogging. It started out as a search for affirmation. I hadn’t written for a long time and I needed to know whether I could write worth a damn. Now I know there are 30, maybe 40 people out there who like the way I write. Some of you are even kind enough to say so. And some of you are scathing, but funny. Of course it’s all about the comments. There’s this sense of community. People we know, cyber-presences we even like, without the need to be polite or to get dressed when you interact. People who are around without ever actually getting into each other’s space. Perfick, as Pop Larkin might say. Quite perfick.

Thanks for dropping by, folks. Getting to know you has been good.

What next?

I’d love to be a writer. A person who makes a living by writing. I’d love to write stuff that’s clever, put together words that can stir the reader, make him think, laugh, react. And at the end of it, earn his admiration. A good writer. A story-teller, a thinker.

That means work. Research. Thinking. Planning. Plotting. Writing. Reviewing. Re-writing. And the business side – finding an agent, a publisher, all that jazz. It’s a long process, it doesn’t happen overnight (unless you’re Siddhanth Dhanwant Shanghvi and get a good press for the most utter mush.)

Because after all, I want to be a successful writer. Of course, being read is itself a kind of success. But do I have the stomach to spend a year or two writing a book, getting it published, then watching it sell 1322 copies in three years? It would kill me. Because I’ve had things easy in life, I don’t know whether I have it in me to buckle down and go through the grind. There’s no fire in my gut, I don’t really want anything badly enough.

That’s the rub. To produce something good, something of value, you have to want it badly enough to give part of your life to it. If not your whole life. And I’m having too good a time in my life the way it is. Do I want to change my life? Do I want it badly enough? Only one way to find out, of course. Go out on a limb so that I have to write if I am to survive.

Difficult. My day job pays the bills, keeps me in a nice flat in a nice part of town, sends me to interesting places. Do I dare give that up on the off-chance that enough people will like my book to pay for it, pay me to write more? Nope. I do not dare. “Time to turn back and descend the stair / with a bald spot in the middle of his hair”.

Besides, I don’t even know what I’d write about. What moves me?

More than anything else, I like humour. The most under-rated genre of creation. Oh, it can pay well. Dave Barry probably makes far more money than, say, Julian Barnes. But we still have the entire “burbling pixie” syndrome. The Master was just about as good as it gets, but was he ever considered a writer? People have a sneaking guilt about laughing too much. Just because the world is mostly a pretty terrible place and human beings are quite vile, we feel that we should go all sombre and long-faced and stop laughing. Silly, because the only way to deal with a crazy world is to laugh at it. “Nothing is real / and nothing to get hung about”.

I love my city, but do I know enough to write about it? I don’t think so. Not enough about the geography, let alone the history. Going everywhere in a chauffeured car, I don’t feel the city. This is the right time of year to try that out, February onwards we’ll be back to sweat and B.O. It’s an idea. But who will overcome sloth to implement it?

Travel …. I just read two Pico Iyer interviews (thanks to the Griff) and Mr. Iyer says he plans his travel, does a lot of reading about it before he starts. He also says he takes copious notes and then “leaves them on the other side of the room” while he writes, now that sounds a lot like me. I had a week in Hong Kong last month, what have I written about it? Zilch. Nix. The same vast inertia.

So basically, I need to get off my ass and write. If I want to gain readership, I should write about Ibiza. Or Jessica Simpson. Or Greg Chappell. Just start writing. ANYthing.. Then keep adding to it whenever. The end result – if it ever ends – will appear to be cobbled together, but then I can only become a writer by writing. And by reading, as the Bouncer pointed out once.

So I guess that’s what I shall do. Set aside an hour every day to write. Anything. And perhaps in 2008, there will be more of me to read than there is on my blog.

Insh’allah.

Meantime, there’s always the Simple Desultory Philippic.

Have a good one in 2007, blog-folks.

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