It has been worrying me right through the broadcast of the Mumbai 26/11 incident and further when I read the keen effort behind the meaningful work like Mark Tully or some old reportage of Marquez. As an ardent fan of right representation of information I feel cheated when I can intelligently put the truth together and when I see a seemingly detailed yet superficial illustration of things that matter, in the media.
It gets worse when it gets sensational and stupid. Picture Barkha Dutt walking up to bedsheets hanging from a window in that cursed hotel talking about how people used that as a lifeline, mindlessly repeating the same thing. Where is the homework? Reportage is like my daughters fighting over who is first. Analysis is about supplying verbiage and making people cry. Presentation is intrusive, voyeuristic and worse, narcissistic (Arnab from Times Now should be seated in front of a two-way mirror).
We need a media entity that is observant, non-intrusive, analytical and acts as a catalyst to reach solutions. I think social media has a power to be just that. See this http://ushahidi.com/
(On a completely bitchy note, the high pitched yapping pup din of all of the Prannoy protégés are appalling - Rajdeep, Arnab and Barkha)
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Can we?
Last week was traumatic for every Indian on this planet as we were going through disbelief, anger, incomprehension, concern for all of us who remain and recovery. We cursed and blamed everything in sight over all this - religions, countries, politicians, bureaucrats, luxury hotels, fishermen, news anchors and more.
I believe that this calls for an attitudinal change that erases the grey spaces in rules. How can I drive without a license in India? How can I evade tax? How can I enter a secure zone when a dumb PVC tube metal detector beeps and the policeman is reading hindi pulp? Our comfortable mid ground in everything is the easily penetrable no man's land. Our security too stays on this mid ground.
If we can come to consensus that as citizens we will not break or flex a rule, will assist others to stay on the acceptable side and will create a wee bit of order in this enjoyable chaos of India, we probably will notice an anomaly earlier. When will we hold our elbows tight and stand in a queue?
But can we? Can I?
I believe that this calls for an attitudinal change that erases the grey spaces in rules. How can I drive without a license in India? How can I evade tax? How can I enter a secure zone when a dumb PVC tube metal detector beeps and the policeman is reading hindi pulp? Our comfortable mid ground in everything is the easily penetrable no man's land. Our security too stays on this mid ground.
If we can come to consensus that as citizens we will not break or flex a rule, will assist others to stay on the acceptable side and will create a wee bit of order in this enjoyable chaos of India, we probably will notice an anomaly earlier. When will we hold our elbows tight and stand in a queue?
But can we? Can I?
Monday, September 01, 2008
A Director's Profile
I was given this task of writing Indrajit Nattoji's profile to be published wherever necessary. Being a long-standing friend helped me write this piece and have fun doing it. Watch his movie when it is out and tell me if all this is true. His profile follows:
Indrajit Nattoji is a movie maker with an exotic combination of narrative panache and irreverent humour. He has always been comfortable in placing the mundane or the real against a complex perspective of human experiences that creates his brand of jocular art. Indrajit also has the ability to blend organic storytelling with the precise craft of cinema.
He began his career as a documentary filmmaker, which again is a fabulous excuse to get an all-paid trip around the country with a camera of your choice. This taught him relevant skills in deconstructing a real situation into intelligent modes of presentation. He also recognised the hidden irony in fleeting instances of the world.
He would have remained in that illusory realm of roaming about playing mouth organ with his bare hands if not for love. He fell head over heels for the Ford Mustang and consummating needed money.
He traded his ideals for moolah and tighter narratives when he started a production company in New Delhi called Watermark.
On recognising the mutual match in the genre of storytelling Channel V hired him as a Senior Producer and he moved to Mumbai to work with them for three years. These three years sharpened his wit, added style to his imagery and strengthened his managerial skills. Then he decided to start his own gig called Blink Pictures - a production house that jaywalked the roads of advertising commercials to glory. He rose to fame brushing shoulders (even if he had to stand on a step ladder) with celebrities like Hrithik Roshan and John Abraham as he directed them for endorsed products.
By now, he was a fully evolved film maker who was invited to flaunt his knowledge on 'Popular Street Culture and Advertising' in public by Promax BDA Los Angeles Conference. He did that well too. More international and Indian accolades followed.
Indrajit decided to move on to the greater plains of feature length movies with style and witticism. He recently decided to get married, push weights at the gym and make his first feature film all at the same time. Soon he will be introduced as a man with wit on top, washer-board abs in the middle, a smiling wife by his side and a few hits behind him.
Now, they say, there is a Ford Mustang somewhere heartbroken and pining.
Indrajit Nattoji is a Communication Graduate from National Institute of Design, Ahmedabad, Gujarat, India, with a specialization in Film and Graphic Design.
Visit http://www.blinkpictures.tv
Indrajit Nattoji is a movie maker with an exotic combination of narrative panache and irreverent humour. He has always been comfortable in placing the mundane or the real against a complex perspective of human experiences that creates his brand of jocular art. Indrajit also has the ability to blend organic storytelling with the precise craft of cinema.
He began his career as a documentary filmmaker, which again is a fabulous excuse to get an all-paid trip around the country with a camera of your choice. This taught him relevant skills in deconstructing a real situation into intelligent modes of presentation. He also recognised the hidden irony in fleeting instances of the world.
He would have remained in that illusory realm of roaming about playing mouth organ with his bare hands if not for love. He fell head over heels for the Ford Mustang and consummating needed money.
He traded his ideals for moolah and tighter narratives when he started a production company in New Delhi called Watermark.
On recognising the mutual match in the genre of storytelling Channel V hired him as a Senior Producer and he moved to Mumbai to work with them for three years. These three years sharpened his wit, added style to his imagery and strengthened his managerial skills. Then he decided to start his own gig called Blink Pictures - a production house that jaywalked the roads of advertising commercials to glory. He rose to fame brushing shoulders (even if he had to stand on a step ladder) with celebrities like Hrithik Roshan and John Abraham as he directed them for endorsed products.
By now, he was a fully evolved film maker who was invited to flaunt his knowledge on 'Popular Street Culture and Advertising' in public by Promax BDA Los Angeles Conference. He did that well too. More international and Indian accolades followed.
Indrajit decided to move on to the greater plains of feature length movies with style and witticism. He recently decided to get married, push weights at the gym and make his first feature film all at the same time. Soon he will be introduced as a man with wit on top, washer-board abs in the middle, a smiling wife by his side and a few hits behind him.
Now, they say, there is a Ford Mustang somewhere heartbroken and pining.
Indrajit Nattoji is a Communication Graduate from National Institute of Design, Ahmedabad, Gujarat, India, with a specialization in Film and Graphic Design.
Visit http://www.blinkpictures.tv
Friday, August 01, 2008
Going Vernacular
I spent three days in Hyderabad doing a progress check and start developing the district tabloid for Sakshi, the newspaper that we designed along with Dr Mario Garcia of Garcia Media, Tampa, FL. Mario has published a new post on his blog that talks in detail about Sakshi, the newspaper (with a neat credit to Apparatus). Thank you Mario.
Follow this link to read it.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Too wide a spread for forty
I am officially over the hill. I am forty. I have started squinting at small text, watch what I eat, pass time intensely listening for aberrations within my body, talk about it with others, workout as if life depends on it (does it?), examine my belly whenever time permits and try to upgrade to business with no specific purpose. Overall I have become more self obsessed with a veneer of maturity. I am growing old. This post is not to lament about my age and related inconveniences. It is about one breakfast on a rainy Wednesday.
Marriott in Hyderabad, used to be Viceroy earlier, perches over the Hussain Sagar lake. If you can manage to coax the guy at the lobby to give you a lake facing room you have a fabulous view too. Let us cut to the breakfast.
I have not seen such a wide spread in any other boarder. There were house baked goodies - Danish, Croissants, Prune cakes (bowel movement catalyst for the ET reader), cream doughnuts and more. There was South Indian - Pooris, Idlis, Vadas with Bhaji, Sambar and Chutney of astonishing texture and taste. There were parathas and eggs to order. There was another section with no specific nomen clature that had baked beans, potato wedges, grilled mushrooms, baked eggs, breakfast pizzas, bacon, sausages, and grilled chicken with veggies. You walk further to fruits and drinks. There was a well appointed coffee counter with a bored barista who could whip out espresso shots to lactose intelorance nightmare coffee. I was in an intimidating food wonderland.
Yet I stayed sane and limited my breakfast to six whites omelette, grilled veggies, one croissant, one idli and an espresso shot chased with still water.
As I said earlier, I am way mature for a wide spread.
Marriott in Hyderabad, used to be Viceroy earlier, perches over the Hussain Sagar lake. If you can manage to coax the guy at the lobby to give you a lake facing room you have a fabulous view too. Let us cut to the breakfast.
I have not seen such a wide spread in any other boarder. There were house baked goodies - Danish, Croissants, Prune cakes (bowel movement catalyst for the ET reader), cream doughnuts and more. There was South Indian - Pooris, Idlis, Vadas with Bhaji, Sambar and Chutney of astonishing texture and taste. There were parathas and eggs to order. There was another section with no specific nomen clature that had baked beans, potato wedges, grilled mushrooms, baked eggs, breakfast pizzas, bacon, sausages, and grilled chicken with veggies. You walk further to fruits and drinks. There was a well appointed coffee counter with a bored barista who could whip out espresso shots to lactose intelorance nightmare coffee. I was in an intimidating food wonderland.
Yet I stayed sane and limited my breakfast to six whites omelette, grilled veggies, one croissant, one idli and an espresso shot chased with still water.
As I said earlier, I am way mature for a wide spread.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
The Jalota Jungle
Picture this. You walk out of the elevator into a low-lit slatted wooden ramp with rope nets on either side. The ceiling is covered with plastic foliage - stiff, oily and shining. The floor is mottled with halogen shadows of the leaves. You can hear high treble noises of the jungle through some tinny speakers that you cannot see. You walk further to be greeted by a suited maitre’d of this restaurant on a roof in Banjara Hills. This is Serengeti – a bizarre world of awadhi cuisine served in a tacky copy of Amazon jungle named after an African plain.
The waiters are all dressed like desi Dr Livingstone with pith solar hats and starched khaki gear. They resemble malnourished native helpers standing along with sahibs in faded old retro photos of the Raj.
There are also strange animatronic and partially truncated menagerie to add to this chaos. If you are eating smoothly minced fried Galouti kababs at the second level you will observe a life size shiny giraffe moving his head jerkily towards you. The Galouti dropped from my mouth and you better hold on to yours. The giraffe stands at the level below with his head poking through the foliage to the level you are on exercising his right to watch you eat every once in a while. Do not tell me that I did not warn you.
There are more animal accessories like a mutant python with an extra large head (or was it an anaconda?) languorously wrapped on fiberglass branch above the bar stools that are illustrations of animal rumps. We should stay on the bar stools a little longer. I once saw a large man sit on the bar stool that was a zebra hip down (if the zebra was standing on his hind legs) from the back. In that darkness with thin spots of halogen it was very authentic. I was sure that it was a striped centaur ordering a Bacardi Breezer at the bar, in a plastic jungle, on the roof of a hotel in Banjara Hills. Very authentic!
The awadhi food, though very rich, is not so bad. The music is always ghazals with a preference to Anup Jalota. Bon Appetit!
The waiters are all dressed like desi Dr Livingstone with pith solar hats and starched khaki gear. They resemble malnourished native helpers standing along with sahibs in faded old retro photos of the Raj.
There are also strange animatronic and partially truncated menagerie to add to this chaos. If you are eating smoothly minced fried Galouti kababs at the second level you will observe a life size shiny giraffe moving his head jerkily towards you. The Galouti dropped from my mouth and you better hold on to yours. The giraffe stands at the level below with his head poking through the foliage to the level you are on exercising his right to watch you eat every once in a while. Do not tell me that I did not warn you.
There are more animal accessories like a mutant python with an extra large head (or was it an anaconda?) languorously wrapped on fiberglass branch above the bar stools that are illustrations of animal rumps. We should stay on the bar stools a little longer. I once saw a large man sit on the bar stool that was a zebra hip down (if the zebra was standing on his hind legs) from the back. In that darkness with thin spots of halogen it was very authentic. I was sure that it was a striped centaur ordering a Bacardi Breezer at the bar, in a plastic jungle, on the roof of a hotel in Banjara Hills. Very authentic!
The awadhi food, though very rich, is not so bad. The music is always ghazals with a preference to Anup Jalota. Bon Appetit!
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Pearls of fine dining
Often I have noticed that an out of gamut question like ‘who designed this place?’ to a waiter in Bangalore will intimidate him/her to blurt out a sequence of guttural noises as if I asked him the square root of an eighteen digit number in Swahili. Having said this I should add that the fine dining restaurants in Hyderabad are well designed. They are typically designed by architects with an eye for the appropriate (in Bangalore they are probably designed by butchers or venture capitalists). The waiters are informed, hospitable and have a few things to say about your choice of food too. A remarkable change from the quizzical daze back at home.
I have nothing to do after seven in the evening when I travel. So what do I do? I find better places to eat dinners.
I am in Hyderabad on a long running project and that is exactly what I have been doing. So here I am propounding on a relational study of fine dining between hometown and this new winding swish avatar of the twin cities.
Lebanese was the unanimous choice last night and we landed up in the swank place on Road #2 Banjara Hills in a mall – Zafraan Laguna was the name. The mezze platter was immaculately presented with deep marinated meats three delectable dips of eggplant, chick peas, sour cream and Tabouleh – fine cut parsley mixed with onions, cinnamon, lemon zest and olive oil. The chicken was crispy outside and soft flavored inside. The last I have eaten a similar meal was at Fadi’s Mediterranean Grill in a Dallas suburb. We also got ourselves a grilled river sole, Lebanese style. This did not disappoint us either. Without much ado the fish was cajoled to fill our soul. The adjective here is succulent.
Today we were assaulted by chopped green peppers, comparable to the formidable habanero, hidden in our working lunch sandwiches. I had to call the fire brigade.
This does not deter us from our search for the perfect dinner. We were not too hungry and opted for Malaysian soup and starters – Amana on Road #12 (what’s with these numbers?). The waiter knew that traditional Malaysian carpenters designed the place. Though located in an upmarket wannabe mall, the restaurant from the inside is put together like a renovated heritage home – as spacious as a colonial bungalow. Double height ceiling with a look-down mezzanine, a dark wood bar tucked under it and large fake windows mounted on the walls to complete the mis en scene.
The saltwater jumbo prawn satay was a work of art. The peanut sauce was well textured and perfect. I supplemented this with a crab soup with coriander and egg whites threaded in. The most optimal, satisfying and yet easy-on-you dinner I have had in the near past.
At that point I realized that the Nawabs have moved on with their traditional haleem and biryani for a new set of fine gourmet diners in this city of pearls.
There was also an exception. I will not pollute this post with a rant. Watch this space.
I have nothing to do after seven in the evening when I travel. So what do I do? I find better places to eat dinners.
I am in Hyderabad on a long running project and that is exactly what I have been doing. So here I am propounding on a relational study of fine dining between hometown and this new winding swish avatar of the twin cities.
Lebanese was the unanimous choice last night and we landed up in the swank place on Road #2 Banjara Hills in a mall – Zafraan Laguna was the name. The mezze platter was immaculately presented with deep marinated meats three delectable dips of eggplant, chick peas, sour cream and Tabouleh – fine cut parsley mixed with onions, cinnamon, lemon zest and olive oil. The chicken was crispy outside and soft flavored inside. The last I have eaten a similar meal was at Fadi’s Mediterranean Grill in a Dallas suburb. We also got ourselves a grilled river sole, Lebanese style. This did not disappoint us either. Without much ado the fish was cajoled to fill our soul. The adjective here is succulent.
Today we were assaulted by chopped green peppers, comparable to the formidable habanero, hidden in our working lunch sandwiches. I had to call the fire brigade.
This does not deter us from our search for the perfect dinner. We were not too hungry and opted for Malaysian soup and starters – Amana on Road #12 (what’s with these numbers?). The waiter knew that traditional Malaysian carpenters designed the place. Though located in an upmarket wannabe mall, the restaurant from the inside is put together like a renovated heritage home – as spacious as a colonial bungalow. Double height ceiling with a look-down mezzanine, a dark wood bar tucked under it and large fake windows mounted on the walls to complete the mis en scene.
The saltwater jumbo prawn satay was a work of art. The peanut sauce was well textured and perfect. I supplemented this with a crab soup with coriander and egg whites threaded in. The most optimal, satisfying and yet easy-on-you dinner I have had in the near past.
At that point I realized that the Nawabs have moved on with their traditional haleem and biryani for a new set of fine gourmet diners in this city of pearls.
There was also an exception. I will not pollute this post with a rant. Watch this space.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
A Stupid Prayer
The figs in the yard are ripe and forever falling,
the moon has waxed many times and now it is waning,
the cigarettes are stale with a stench of an ogre’s tale
And I can hear my blog feebly calling.
Time is torn and is twisted around the clock,
a thinking head is shut shop lock, barrel and stock,
my mind is mostly idle or it bolts without a bridle,
Oh Lord deliver me from this proverbial block.
the moon has waxed many times and now it is waning,
the cigarettes are stale with a stench of an ogre’s tale
And I can hear my blog feebly calling.
Time is torn and is twisted around the clock,
a thinking head is shut shop lock, barrel and stock,
my mind is mostly idle or it bolts without a bridle,
Oh Lord deliver me from this proverbial block.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
On killing fish…
Indian cooks have this bad habit of overcooking seafood. They kill the fish. Kill it till the flavor is lost and the fish looses identity. I like my seafood coaxed into the pan, gently cooked and identifiably served – pretty and palatable.
I like Japanese food. But I am not a great fan of sushi and it has nothing to do with the food. Once long back as I was traipsing out of a tube station in London a Korean kid in a sushi brand t-shirt offered me a free (promotional) sushi from a blister pack and I took it. Yes I know. I should have thought twice about raw salmon on the roadside. That mouth size packet of the fashionable global delicacy slammed me to my bed in an attic in North London and kept me there for two days. It was a foul case of food poisoning. So no raw fish for me, thank you.
However I took to lightly cooked seafood from other Southeast Asian cuisine – Korean, Vietnamese and Thai. There are two Indian instances where I know my seafood order.
The masala-fried prawns in a local restaurant in Panjim called Anushka are to die for. Anushka is a restaurant in the car park of a house right after Miramar beach. This is a place where locals land up for Kingfisher stubbies and seafood munchies after a hard day at work. (How does one work hard in Goa?) The family that owns Anushka is from Salcette and Salcette cooking is imaginative – a bold mix of spices, vinegar and jaggery. The prawns in Recheado masala are large enough to hold by their unshelled tail and crunch into the juicy meat with vinegar packing the punch and jaggery soothing you all at once. The prawns are cooked right always. They are crunchy and not rubbery.
There is friend of mine in Mumbai who loves her seafood. We love going to a Gomantak (Goan non-christian) cuisine restaurant called Gazalee (means conversation in Konkini). Of course, we end up eating a significant part of the ocean food chain. But we never miss the steamed white Pomfret. Elsewhere, I am not a great fan of white Pomfret as a fish. It is a fish designed for the uninitiated. I prefer black. However, the steamed Pomfret here cannot be disregarded. This is filleted fish with a spicy paste of coriander leaves, mint leaves, green chillies and coconut generously applied across the de-boned split. Without much ado the fish is steamed. I guess it is very difficult to overcook when steaming (unless the chef has passed out or is watching a 70s candy floss love comedy on the tube).
When it comes to the table the fish is intact in little bit of soupy sauce all ready with a squeeze of lemon on top. The fork (always) flakes the fish into pristine white bites of heaven.
Next time you cook fish, coax it and cook light. Enjoy!
I like Japanese food. But I am not a great fan of sushi and it has nothing to do with the food. Once long back as I was traipsing out of a tube station in London a Korean kid in a sushi brand t-shirt offered me a free (promotional) sushi from a blister pack and I took it. Yes I know. I should have thought twice about raw salmon on the roadside. That mouth size packet of the fashionable global delicacy slammed me to my bed in an attic in North London and kept me there for two days. It was a foul case of food poisoning. So no raw fish for me, thank you.
However I took to lightly cooked seafood from other Southeast Asian cuisine – Korean, Vietnamese and Thai. There are two Indian instances where I know my seafood order.
The masala-fried prawns in a local restaurant in Panjim called Anushka are to die for. Anushka is a restaurant in the car park of a house right after Miramar beach. This is a place where locals land up for Kingfisher stubbies and seafood munchies after a hard day at work. (How does one work hard in Goa?) The family that owns Anushka is from Salcette and Salcette cooking is imaginative – a bold mix of spices, vinegar and jaggery. The prawns in Recheado masala are large enough to hold by their unshelled tail and crunch into the juicy meat with vinegar packing the punch and jaggery soothing you all at once. The prawns are cooked right always. They are crunchy and not rubbery.
There is friend of mine in Mumbai who loves her seafood. We love going to a Gomantak (Goan non-christian) cuisine restaurant called Gazalee (means conversation in Konkini). Of course, we end up eating a significant part of the ocean food chain. But we never miss the steamed white Pomfret. Elsewhere, I am not a great fan of white Pomfret as a fish. It is a fish designed for the uninitiated. I prefer black. However, the steamed Pomfret here cannot be disregarded. This is filleted fish with a spicy paste of coriander leaves, mint leaves, green chillies and coconut generously applied across the de-boned split. Without much ado the fish is steamed. I guess it is very difficult to overcook when steaming (unless the chef has passed out or is watching a 70s candy floss love comedy on the tube).
When it comes to the table the fish is intact in little bit of soupy sauce all ready with a squeeze of lemon on top. The fork (always) flakes the fish into pristine white bites of heaven.
Next time you cook fish, coax it and cook light. Enjoy!
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Indian Chinese – The invasion of a hybrid cuisine
Long back when I went to visit my brother in Dallas he took me to a restaurant called Bombay Chinese – Bangladeshis serving horrendous food. Till then I did not believe that there was cuisine that the non-residents yearned for called Indian Chinese. This is what we Indians living in India know as Chinese food – the peppery, fiery, double schezwan style cooking with powdered coriander and sometimes garam masala. Indian Chinese is the cheaper version of the Chinese cuisine available at mid range hotels in downtown India.
Gobi Manchurian, as the name suggests, is an epitome and a cherub offspring of such a cultural culinary merger. I know places in hinterland Karnataka where Gobi Manchurian is a form of entertainment than a food. Ask a guy from Mysore what he does in the evenings, he will proudly proclaim ‘I go to Ashoka Road and eat Gobi Manchurian’. For an Indian this cuisine is as easy as understanding ‘cauliflower pakodas in sauce’.
The geographical variations of Indian Chinese are astounding with additions of ajwain and mustard oil in the north, vegetarian fervor with sweet and chaat masala in the west, more sweet and poppy seeds in the east and coriander powder garnished with hair oil in the south. The penetration of this cuisine is deep and wide – weaker only to the behemoth Punjabi cuisine (that is another story). I know restaurants in Belgaum and Chingelput where the menu is generously sprinkled with haka, hunan and schezwan along with traditional local food. The best (?) such dish that I have come across in schezwan chilli idlis. Let me explain this here.
You dice a few idlis and throw them into a kadai (the Indian wok) along with generous portions of schezwan chilli sauce (yes, the one in conical bottle with fake Chinese fonts all over it), sautéed red chillies, a lot of tomato ketchup (preferably Kissan), sesame seeds and curry leaves. Let the edges of the idly crisp a little and it can be served on a square piece of plaintain leaf over a stainless steel plate along with a small cup of chutney. The locals think that this is departure and the visitors think that it is a local variant. It is a win-win.
Later when I was starved of spicy food I went to a vague Chinese restaurant in Charlotte and discovered the American version of Chinese – it was $8 buffet. All the dishes where cooked in fat, were heavy, bland, reeked of old fish, barbecue sauce and excess monosodium glutamate. I understand desis and their yearning now!
Gobi Manchurian, as the name suggests, is an epitome and a cherub offspring of such a cultural culinary merger. I know places in hinterland Karnataka where Gobi Manchurian is a form of entertainment than a food. Ask a guy from Mysore what he does in the evenings, he will proudly proclaim ‘I go to Ashoka Road and eat Gobi Manchurian’. For an Indian this cuisine is as easy as understanding ‘cauliflower pakodas in sauce’.
The geographical variations of Indian Chinese are astounding with additions of ajwain and mustard oil in the north, vegetarian fervor with sweet and chaat masala in the west, more sweet and poppy seeds in the east and coriander powder garnished with hair oil in the south. The penetration of this cuisine is deep and wide – weaker only to the behemoth Punjabi cuisine (that is another story). I know restaurants in Belgaum and Chingelput where the menu is generously sprinkled with haka, hunan and schezwan along with traditional local food. The best (?) such dish that I have come across in schezwan chilli idlis. Let me explain this here.
You dice a few idlis and throw them into a kadai (the Indian wok) along with generous portions of schezwan chilli sauce (yes, the one in conical bottle with fake Chinese fonts all over it), sautéed red chillies, a lot of tomato ketchup (preferably Kissan), sesame seeds and curry leaves. Let the edges of the idly crisp a little and it can be served on a square piece of plaintain leaf over a stainless steel plate along with a small cup of chutney. The locals think that this is departure and the visitors think that it is a local variant. It is a win-win.
Later when I was starved of spicy food I went to a vague Chinese restaurant in Charlotte and discovered the American version of Chinese – it was $8 buffet. All the dishes where cooked in fat, were heavy, bland, reeked of old fish, barbecue sauce and excess monosodium glutamate. I understand desis and their yearning now!
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Freeing Willy
When you are out in cold weather for long there is a challenge that needs to be addressed. This is probably a design problem that is not solved yet.
When sleety wind stiffens your face the tips of your ears feel numb. They feel as if you can break them off like crackers to feed a carnivorous Polly. Given this circumstances you have to wear a lot of layers. I wore long johns, thermal vest that extended over the crotch, t-shirt, jeans, sweater, fleece and a windcheater. Now when you feel cold you also need to ‘drain your lizard’ as often as you can. And when it is cold your manhood is challenged and your willy shrinks.
Picture this. You run to the men’s room, find the urinal and frantically rummage through the layers to locate the diminishing appendage and ease yourself. This challenges motor coordination, accuracy, estimation of trajectory, performance in moments of stress and every possible skill that you have honed over the years to do a simple everyday task. Pee.
When sleety wind stiffens your face the tips of your ears feel numb. They feel as if you can break them off like crackers to feed a carnivorous Polly. Given this circumstances you have to wear a lot of layers. I wore long johns, thermal vest that extended over the crotch, t-shirt, jeans, sweater, fleece and a windcheater. Now when you feel cold you also need to ‘drain your lizard’ as often as you can. And when it is cold your manhood is challenged and your willy shrinks.
Picture this. You run to the men’s room, find the urinal and frantically rummage through the layers to locate the diminishing appendage and ease yourself. This challenges motor coordination, accuracy, estimation of trajectory, performance in moments of stress and every possible skill that you have honed over the years to do a simple everyday task. Pee.
Mid West Mid Life
The room windows open out to the wrong side of downtown – open with a big sky. Small mounds of snow on terraces, a faraway belfry and the comfort of the room with outside temperature at 12 degrees below zero on the Celsius scale.
I was way too tired to keep awake in the United Airlines from Chicago to Minneapolis. I slept from Bangalore to Frankfurt and was unable to sleep on the spanking new A340-400 from Frankfurt to Chicago. I was pacing up and down, watched movies, read a book and was wondering about the dope that designed the toilets in that plane. (All the toilets are one flight of stairs down accessible through a narrow passage making it difficult for old people and parents with children to reach. What was Airbus thinking?)
Later I woke up for the landing at Minneapolis, had no mood to take the train and bought a shuttle ticket to the Hilton. The lobby was a typical Midwest overdone horror house of mirrors and the cat-threw-up marble. The rooms were good and I pass out. Woke up very early to see the brilliant view.
Breakfast at French Meadows – an organic breakfast bar little away from the downtown that serves Granola, yoghurt, organic farm eggs and good coffee. Pleased. I finished my morning meeting and met Brad at noon. Brad had been talking about this place called Bullwinkles and they serve the best Coney Island Hotdogs on this planet. And the place was a legacy, an institution that made people come back after years. A Coney Island Hotdog is a long sausage in warm fresh hot dog bun with Chili, hot sauce and onions. I loved it and washed it down with Bass Ale. We went straight into a meeting in a conference room at Pete’s office. This involved intense discussions. We were done late that evening and were due at Runyons.
Runyons is an old bar with dark woodwork, tall ceilings and walls full of framed pictures of the patrons wearing Runyons t-shirt all over the world. There were a few at the Taj, Agra. More Bass Ale and nuclear wings. We were supposed to meet Brad’s friend Jarvis there. Our parking time ran out. We went out to put some more coins into the parking meter and on our way back Jarvis is standing on the other side of the road. He locked his keys in the car with headlights on and the engine running. A small chaotic introduction, planning and Brad decides to wait at the car. Jarvis and I head out to his house to get the spare keys. Jarvis is a middle-aged friend of Brad who runs an energy management company in Minneapolis. In that short ride we talked about the similarities between Judaism and Hinduism. I already liked the man. Post reclaiming his car Jarvis takes us to The Yacht Club that is deep inland and has no indication of any water body around it. This is a seriously local bar with middle-aged regulars. A basic happy place with talkative dumpy bartender, lone neon sign on a white wall, a pinball machine at the far end, a pool table, wire mesh shutters on doors and plenty of bar stories. Very American and very warm.
One such story involved sumo wrestlers being invited to the bar by a regular and the whole place was filled with people wanting to see them perform. There was another guy called Big Frank – a massive native American who used to sit at a corner. Somebody decided that Big Frank would fight a sumo. There was an uncomfortable silence and somebody ordered a round for everybody. This made the air lighter and the tense mood slackened. Then there was party.
As I left Jarvis gave me a dollar bill and asked me to give that very bill to somebody who needs it back in India. I will carry that with me.
This was a good sample of a typical mid west local bar. I will remember this for long.
I was way too tired to keep awake in the United Airlines from Chicago to Minneapolis. I slept from Bangalore to Frankfurt and was unable to sleep on the spanking new A340-400 from Frankfurt to Chicago. I was pacing up and down, watched movies, read a book and was wondering about the dope that designed the toilets in that plane. (All the toilets are one flight of stairs down accessible through a narrow passage making it difficult for old people and parents with children to reach. What was Airbus thinking?)
Later I woke up for the landing at Minneapolis, had no mood to take the train and bought a shuttle ticket to the Hilton. The lobby was a typical Midwest overdone horror house of mirrors and the cat-threw-up marble. The rooms were good and I pass out. Woke up very early to see the brilliant view.
Breakfast at French Meadows – an organic breakfast bar little away from the downtown that serves Granola, yoghurt, organic farm eggs and good coffee. Pleased. I finished my morning meeting and met Brad at noon. Brad had been talking about this place called Bullwinkles and they serve the best Coney Island Hotdogs on this planet. And the place was a legacy, an institution that made people come back after years. A Coney Island Hotdog is a long sausage in warm fresh hot dog bun with Chili, hot sauce and onions. I loved it and washed it down with Bass Ale. We went straight into a meeting in a conference room at Pete’s office. This involved intense discussions. We were done late that evening and were due at Runyons.
Runyons is an old bar with dark woodwork, tall ceilings and walls full of framed pictures of the patrons wearing Runyons t-shirt all over the world. There were a few at the Taj, Agra. More Bass Ale and nuclear wings. We were supposed to meet Brad’s friend Jarvis there. Our parking time ran out. We went out to put some more coins into the parking meter and on our way back Jarvis is standing on the other side of the road. He locked his keys in the car with headlights on and the engine running. A small chaotic introduction, planning and Brad decides to wait at the car. Jarvis and I head out to his house to get the spare keys. Jarvis is a middle-aged friend of Brad who runs an energy management company in Minneapolis. In that short ride we talked about the similarities between Judaism and Hinduism. I already liked the man. Post reclaiming his car Jarvis takes us to The Yacht Club that is deep inland and has no indication of any water body around it. This is a seriously local bar with middle-aged regulars. A basic happy place with talkative dumpy bartender, lone neon sign on a white wall, a pinball machine at the far end, a pool table, wire mesh shutters on doors and plenty of bar stories. Very American and very warm.
One such story involved sumo wrestlers being invited to the bar by a regular and the whole place was filled with people wanting to see them perform. There was another guy called Big Frank – a massive native American who used to sit at a corner. Somebody decided that Big Frank would fight a sumo. There was an uncomfortable silence and somebody ordered a round for everybody. This made the air lighter and the tense mood slackened. Then there was party.
As I left Jarvis gave me a dollar bill and asked me to give that very bill to somebody who needs it back in India. I will carry that with me.
This was a good sample of a typical mid west local bar. I will remember this for long.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
His & Hers – Part 2 - Surviving Malayalees
Read part one before you read this. Click here.
As an introverted brahmin boy with a poor complexion I lived in a room on the terrace of a three-storied building in small town Madurai – a surreal place with percussive music and rampant human emotions. My father was then a businessman selling laboratory appliances and chemicals to colleges around hinterland Tamilnadu. He had his shop on the first floor. My family lived on the second – my parents and my kid brother. My room was on the third floor on the terrace. My window overlooked the very tall ornate west tower of the temple, way higher than I was, against a streaked tumbling sky with flocks of birds.
If you climb right down to the ground floor, there was our garage with aluminium shutters that covered the twin door Herald parked amongst a lot of my father’s business stock. We were at the entrance of a small lane on the main road that led to the temple. Our lane was packed with buildings that housed people, a lot of tailor shops for some odd reason and a small eatery called Iyengar café (“Don’t eat there ever. Smoke comes from your rear”). The house right opposite ours was a small aqua green decrepit caving terracotta tiled structure with a flat wall and a shut window. Nobody lived there ever. This is where the late night drunkards, having lost their vigor to incessant dancing to temple drums, urinate in their merry stupor. The management of Imperial Cinema – a green colonial building near the north tower – thought this is the right audience to advertise their late night porn. They pasted posters for their Malayalam movies on the flaking aqua wall. These were bright duotone posters typically with a flat green or blue and black on low cost seeping rag paper. The picture was always of some kohl eyed, heavily bosomed quartertone girl with a ‘come hither’ look that pumped the inebriated libido of the drunk with an inclination. The text was in Malayalam and a raunchy misinterpretation, I learnt later, in Tamil. The poster boys who cycled down that lane during the hot afternoons of siesta mounted the suspense by pasting a small strip that said ‘Imperial - Now showing – noon and late night’ over her cleavage and related anatomical areas of attraction.
This was my initiation to Malayalees and effective graphic design. And for a long time after I thought Malayalees made movies with voluptuous women showing their wares.
The next enlightenment that shone upon me was when our aged maid took her daughter to a Malayalee witch doctor to cure her of goiter through black magic involving a cut up fowl, some ink, a lemon soaked in blood and eleven rupees in one rupee coins. I thought what an exciting tribe making blue films and practicing black magic.
Over the next decade between my initiations and vocational education I encountered quite a few Malayalees. My grandfather’s driver was Pillai - a lean old man smelling of rotten fruit and coconut on Monday mornings, the odor of hooch and hair oil. His young friend was my grandfather’s aide – Velayudhan who was always sent to the bank. My grandfather also had a partner whose family spoke a dialect of Tamil that sounded close to Malayalam – they were Brahmins from Palghat. This went on till I went to a design school up north and was culturally neutered to a label that read ‘young adult urban Indian’. This was late eighties.
In India, the late eighties brought about a huge change. Early that decade the color televisions happened and further the cable networks dumped hours of glorious imbecilic content onto unsuspecting middle class living rooms through sets adorned with a tasseled plastic cover and flowers. The intellectuals were challenged with the seeping mediocrity. They were all either Bengalis or Malayalees. The design school had a fair share of them with the majority of other ethnicities opting for engineering or medicine as a career. I was bad at math, fainted at the sight of any red fluid and was good at forging signature on my report cards. I had to join a creative school. So there I was, by default, fitting with the fellow south Indians – Malayalees.
There was an unwritten rule about looking a Malayalee intellectual. They wore colorless colors – khakis, browns and greys – coordinated to blend with the background. They sported facial hair with pride. I am not talking about tufts of fungus that shaded your lip or jaw – that is what I had. I am talking about magnificent growth that put the likes of Marx and WG Grace to utter shame. It made Malayalees look mature and almost prophetic. My friends also looked worried and always carried yellowing books that questioned life, existence or any welfare state. Camus and Sartre, Baudelaire and Beckett, Kafka and Dostoevsky – drearier the better – was all staple. If I had to belong I had to read similar. I brandished my Lorca and hid my Ludlum.
I had to learn Malayalam. The general discourses, arguments, disagreements and banter were all in Malayalam. It was not difficult to learn. Malayalam, as they spoke, was a lot of phonetics and mumbling that approximately emoted the thought. Altogether for me it was lot of guttural noises loosely strung together with intense silences in between. It was like watching parallel cinema involving people looking out of windows talking two syllables at a time. I picked up fast and moved in. It was an ecosystem where the interpretation of common life, as we know now, was written differently. There was always a running popularity list of top five art movements, literary styles, books, philosophical concepts, ways to kill oneself and cinema. You keep up. You learn.
All Malayalees were not intellectuals. There were also the notorious men and women who were Malayalees from elsewhere, not Kerala. Or if they are from Kerala they had traveled enough to be culturally neutered. But there was an indigenous pervasive madness that squealed on their roots. A case in point was a curiously likeable gentleman who happened to be my roommate for a semester. He was a self-proclaimed prince and wore a sparkling diamond stud. He moved in with a menagerie of a pet rat snake (non venomous) and an eagle chick he stole from its nest. He had worn a motorcycle helmet to defend him from the angry mother eagle, scaled a tall tree and picked the chick in a wicket-keeping glove in the campus. The snake he had bought for thirty rupees from a shepherd on a dry riverbed. I have seen him and his girlfriend on moonlit nights wearing socks on their hands to pick gullible toads for the snake’s supper. The snake was not particularly hospitable. I have entered the room to find the reptile coiled on my bed ready to spring on me. The eagle chick crapped all over and squawked us awake through many nights. I survived till the warden personally supervised the removal of these creatures. A classmate of ours happened to see the snake in the shower stall and had an asthma attack. He went to the warden and painted a diabolical picture of poisonous creatures that were enthusiastically nestling in our room. The snake went to the riverbed and the eagle vanished. There are stories about my roommate hunting one of the campus peacocks and cooking it over a spit for a protein depleted pack of students. These Malayalees are unusual.
One more such Malayalee was a young girl who had lived all over the country. She was as mad as a hatter and I fell in love with her. We courted for over a decade and got married in Chennai. It was a pre-negotiated ceremony between the twelve-minute Nair wedding and the two days Tamil Brahmin one. A half-day that was short and sweet for the Tamils and delightfully long for the Malayalees.
I probably moved way too close to my subject. But the next few years were revealing.
This is becoming an epic. There is more to come.
As an introverted brahmin boy with a poor complexion I lived in a room on the terrace of a three-storied building in small town Madurai – a surreal place with percussive music and rampant human emotions. My father was then a businessman selling laboratory appliances and chemicals to colleges around hinterland Tamilnadu. He had his shop on the first floor. My family lived on the second – my parents and my kid brother. My room was on the third floor on the terrace. My window overlooked the very tall ornate west tower of the temple, way higher than I was, against a streaked tumbling sky with flocks of birds.
If you climb right down to the ground floor, there was our garage with aluminium shutters that covered the twin door Herald parked amongst a lot of my father’s business stock. We were at the entrance of a small lane on the main road that led to the temple. Our lane was packed with buildings that housed people, a lot of tailor shops for some odd reason and a small eatery called Iyengar café (“Don’t eat there ever. Smoke comes from your rear”). The house right opposite ours was a small aqua green decrepit caving terracotta tiled structure with a flat wall and a shut window. Nobody lived there ever. This is where the late night drunkards, having lost their vigor to incessant dancing to temple drums, urinate in their merry stupor. The management of Imperial Cinema – a green colonial building near the north tower – thought this is the right audience to advertise their late night porn. They pasted posters for their Malayalam movies on the flaking aqua wall. These were bright duotone posters typically with a flat green or blue and black on low cost seeping rag paper. The picture was always of some kohl eyed, heavily bosomed quartertone girl with a ‘come hither’ look that pumped the inebriated libido of the drunk with an inclination. The text was in Malayalam and a raunchy misinterpretation, I learnt later, in Tamil. The poster boys who cycled down that lane during the hot afternoons of siesta mounted the suspense by pasting a small strip that said ‘Imperial - Now showing – noon and late night’ over her cleavage and related anatomical areas of attraction.
This was my initiation to Malayalees and effective graphic design. And for a long time after I thought Malayalees made movies with voluptuous women showing their wares.
The next enlightenment that shone upon me was when our aged maid took her daughter to a Malayalee witch doctor to cure her of goiter through black magic involving a cut up fowl, some ink, a lemon soaked in blood and eleven rupees in one rupee coins. I thought what an exciting tribe making blue films and practicing black magic.
Over the next decade between my initiations and vocational education I encountered quite a few Malayalees. My grandfather’s driver was Pillai - a lean old man smelling of rotten fruit and coconut on Monday mornings, the odor of hooch and hair oil. His young friend was my grandfather’s aide – Velayudhan who was always sent to the bank. My grandfather also had a partner whose family spoke a dialect of Tamil that sounded close to Malayalam – they were Brahmins from Palghat. This went on till I went to a design school up north and was culturally neutered to a label that read ‘young adult urban Indian’. This was late eighties.
In India, the late eighties brought about a huge change. Early that decade the color televisions happened and further the cable networks dumped hours of glorious imbecilic content onto unsuspecting middle class living rooms through sets adorned with a tasseled plastic cover and flowers. The intellectuals were challenged with the seeping mediocrity. They were all either Bengalis or Malayalees. The design school had a fair share of them with the majority of other ethnicities opting for engineering or medicine as a career. I was bad at math, fainted at the sight of any red fluid and was good at forging signature on my report cards. I had to join a creative school. So there I was, by default, fitting with the fellow south Indians – Malayalees.
There was an unwritten rule about looking a Malayalee intellectual. They wore colorless colors – khakis, browns and greys – coordinated to blend with the background. They sported facial hair with pride. I am not talking about tufts of fungus that shaded your lip or jaw – that is what I had. I am talking about magnificent growth that put the likes of Marx and WG Grace to utter shame. It made Malayalees look mature and almost prophetic. My friends also looked worried and always carried yellowing books that questioned life, existence or any welfare state. Camus and Sartre, Baudelaire and Beckett, Kafka and Dostoevsky – drearier the better – was all staple. If I had to belong I had to read similar. I brandished my Lorca and hid my Ludlum.
I had to learn Malayalam. The general discourses, arguments, disagreements and banter were all in Malayalam. It was not difficult to learn. Malayalam, as they spoke, was a lot of phonetics and mumbling that approximately emoted the thought. Altogether for me it was lot of guttural noises loosely strung together with intense silences in between. It was like watching parallel cinema involving people looking out of windows talking two syllables at a time. I picked up fast and moved in. It was an ecosystem where the interpretation of common life, as we know now, was written differently. There was always a running popularity list of top five art movements, literary styles, books, philosophical concepts, ways to kill oneself and cinema. You keep up. You learn.
All Malayalees were not intellectuals. There were also the notorious men and women who were Malayalees from elsewhere, not Kerala. Or if they are from Kerala they had traveled enough to be culturally neutered. But there was an indigenous pervasive madness that squealed on their roots. A case in point was a curiously likeable gentleman who happened to be my roommate for a semester. He was a self-proclaimed prince and wore a sparkling diamond stud. He moved in with a menagerie of a pet rat snake (non venomous) and an eagle chick he stole from its nest. He had worn a motorcycle helmet to defend him from the angry mother eagle, scaled a tall tree and picked the chick in a wicket-keeping glove in the campus. The snake he had bought for thirty rupees from a shepherd on a dry riverbed. I have seen him and his girlfriend on moonlit nights wearing socks on their hands to pick gullible toads for the snake’s supper. The snake was not particularly hospitable. I have entered the room to find the reptile coiled on my bed ready to spring on me. The eagle chick crapped all over and squawked us awake through many nights. I survived till the warden personally supervised the removal of these creatures. A classmate of ours happened to see the snake in the shower stall and had an asthma attack. He went to the warden and painted a diabolical picture of poisonous creatures that were enthusiastically nestling in our room. The snake went to the riverbed and the eagle vanished. There are stories about my roommate hunting one of the campus peacocks and cooking it over a spit for a protein depleted pack of students. These Malayalees are unusual.
One more such Malayalee was a young girl who had lived all over the country. She was as mad as a hatter and I fell in love with her. We courted for over a decade and got married in Chennai. It was a pre-negotiated ceremony between the twelve-minute Nair wedding and the two days Tamil Brahmin one. A half-day that was short and sweet for the Tamils and delightfully long for the Malayalees.
I probably moved way too close to my subject. But the next few years were revealing.
This is becoming an epic. There is more to come.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Life is precious
When I saw Medha and Jags being dragged into the deep, helpless and tired it was a rude reminder that fragility is the very core of existence. Because, dear reader, life is like those stupid mint gums with jelly in the middle. It feels like it will endure the cruel intent of the molars of external forces. But effortlessly cave in, be chewed and spat out on sand to be discarded as an inessential atom of a future landfill.
On our outbound at Cherai before we visited Jose’s wedding we landed late, drank a few beers to numb the journey and retired early. Some of us woke up early to see the sunrise over the backwaters and headed to the beach. Medha and Jags were in those few. The sea was hard with the waves breaking like a stand-alone woofer playing drum and bass in a small car. I always hated getting into the sea. I keep complaining that I feel like a pickle in brine. So I was walking along the beach line not far from the swimmers.
M and J are probably the best swimmers that we have in the team. They are the ones who look and behave confidently in the water. They rode or ducked with delight, the way one should, making it all look easy. As they moved deeper, Medha later said, they suddenly could not feel the land beneath their legs. They swam lightly and realized they were being dragged in. We at the beach could see them losing control and of course the humor. They swam harder towards us and seemed to go farther. I was sure that I had lost them. One of us ran towards some fishermen to call for help. A passerby jumped in and helped them ashore. The sea had ravaged and returned them.
As they curled on the sand and brought up all the seawater that they had ingested I was consumed with a feeling of innate responsibility and relief. I felt grateful that the sea restored their existence back on land.
They rested, dried, washed and were back as before.
Medha and Jags, if you are reading this post, a note I want to share. Our lives are a network of weak threads. Weak threads of emotions, relationships and decisive moments that feel significant then. These webs of life could be effaced with ease. They are delicate and precious. Look at this as a shot to create one anew. Depart from the usual and try a new thought, an action or a connection.
Ride and duck with this earned mettle.
On our outbound at Cherai before we visited Jose’s wedding we landed late, drank a few beers to numb the journey and retired early. Some of us woke up early to see the sunrise over the backwaters and headed to the beach. Medha and Jags were in those few. The sea was hard with the waves breaking like a stand-alone woofer playing drum and bass in a small car. I always hated getting into the sea. I keep complaining that I feel like a pickle in brine. So I was walking along the beach line not far from the swimmers.M and J are probably the best swimmers that we have in the team. They are the ones who look and behave confidently in the water. They rode or ducked with delight, the way one should, making it all look easy. As they moved deeper, Medha later said, they suddenly could not feel the land beneath their legs. They swam lightly and realized they were being dragged in. We at the beach could see them losing control and of course the humor. They swam harder towards us and seemed to go farther. I was sure that I had lost them. One of us ran towards some fishermen to call for help. A passerby jumped in and helped them ashore. The sea had ravaged and returned them.
As they curled on the sand and brought up all the seawater that they had ingested I was consumed with a feeling of innate responsibility and relief. I felt grateful that the sea restored their existence back on land.
They rested, dried, washed and were back as before.
Medha and Jags, if you are reading this post, a note I want to share. Our lives are a network of weak threads. Weak threads of emotions, relationships and decisive moments that feel significant then. These webs of life could be effaced with ease. They are delicate and precious. Look at this as a shot to create one anew. Depart from the usual and try a new thought, an action or a connection.
Ride and duck with this earned mettle.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
Leaving London
Water scalded me as I was deciphering the shower system (looks like those things Schwarzenegger blasts to bile and steel in movies) in the hotel after they made me wait for over four hours to give me a room.
I flew with a flu, through Delhi, was jetlagged, hungry, scalded and further got a mail from Brad that he is stranded on the tarmac in DC. His plane never took off as there was a tornado scare in Denver and he went back home. Three days in London with four meetings, creative workshops. I just landed and I was already beat. This was not bound to be a good trip.
I used to live in London for a while six years back. I used to work for a multinational interaction design and dotcom rainmaker, under a racist Director Creative Delivery with loveable warm English and Australian graphic designers. I remember wet and cold days living in a comfortable attic of a very fancy house in the northern suburb of Hampstead, walking through Jaguars in cold mornings to the tube station, reach Bank station with Armani clad Japanese land sharks and tall well kempt Englishmen all in black. Weekends used to be for making off-peak tube passes for cheap, a visit to a Korean laundrette, cold Hefeweizen draught and ultra-long walks in central London. I loved being there.
I am back here staying on Regent Street at Langham Place, overlooking the rather severe spire of All Souls Church and a vast part of the city. I had this urge to aimlessly walk. Walking on the shopping streets for lunch on a summer day is like a tropical carnival with well-endowed summer birds in lingerie and plumage. The streets have a fever of personalized fashion, creative freedom and the general sunshine for your mind. Belgian confectioners’ caramelized air, middle eastern women in tight fitting trousers and nothing much else, lanky locals in fancy spectacles, suits and thin leather portfolio cases, ambling big 
flowery ladies with flitting shaggy dogs, shaded Bangaladeshis in brown trousers and striped shirts, Indian kids with spiked hair and hip-hop pimp roll, huge Keira staring from the bus sides, advertisements for a Kerala Restaurant, African bike messengers with sling bags and trunked radio and I was way hungry. I landed at this small Italian bistro called Strada with a pavement band serving Peroni Nastro Azzuro wth fantastic fare including wood fired gourmet pizzas. I had a beans and pasta soup with a salami pizza washed down with Peroni. I had to hit the tube soon.Londoners love excessive information. The steel alien staring at me in the bathroom had a graduated scale, 20 30 40 50 60, written around a knob that turns if you press a sinister red button on its side. I turned it all the way around. While I was
screaming as I was rendered impotent, I reckoned that it was the celcius scale. In the same vein I saw plenty of Asian tourist staring at the Tubemap in crowded stations. The key for the map took a huge estate of your mind space and along with inane information on minding the gaps between the train and the platform; spreading along the platform and not crowding at the entrance etcetera left you tired to plot your route. However, if you have the time and penchant for excess information, which I did, you will love the tube. The time I landed in London was a busy one – summer sale was on, World Cup on telly and so was Wimbledon. The trains were running full all the time. The tube is filled with characters that can pale a PG Wodehouse. Finished my meetings, met friends, downed some Grolsch (lovely bottle, bad beer) and headed for supper.A huge soup pot of Kare Lomen at Wagamama with Ramen noodles, shrimp paste and grilled prawns in it was supper. Sitting next to a bunch of cackling teenage schoolgirls from America was not particularly appetizing. But Wag stood good. The sunset was at 10pm.
The dawn was at 4am. Long days. At five I was getting scorched in my bed. We had a meeting that morning and afternoon was free before I catch a flight back that night. At noon I was heading to the Design Museum on Butler’s Wharf near the Tower Bridge. Nothing interesting. I decided to walk the Thames to Tate Modern. This was the most exciting thing I had done for sometime. I found alleyways through glass and concrete, found hidden markets with vendors making spice rice, and heard England vs. Ecuador from quaint pubs with adobe walls, drank lemonade at an old prison and reached tired at Tate. 
Took a break, drank Lucozade, crossed the Millennium Bridge, visited St Pauls and burrowed into the Tube again. Resurfaced at Paddington to claim my left luggage and head to Heathrow.
Tate Modern was a thermo electric power station called Riverbank that was converted into this astounding temple as a homage to modern art and its patrons. On a sunny afternoon. The play of light on the main platform leaves you speechless. The carefully lit glazed elevator chutes and the backdrop of sheer brick walls, steel structures and space creates an ambience of a place of worship.Talking about places of worship, St Paul is getting renovated. Londoners as always thought up of something smart to do while it is being repaired. The facade has been meticulously rendered as a pen and ink illustration on huge pieces of sheet screens that cover the front of the church. The eventual effect is authentic and interesting. Click on the photograph to see the facade better.
The structure till the circular cupola on top is a drawing. If you walk closer you can also notice that it is a precisely done cross hatch pattern that has been blown up. Interestingly the entire print has been grey-ed down to sepia to make it less stark.
As always I was running to the airport. London was and is the most charming place on earth. Feels like home!
Please excuse the quality of these pictures. They have all been shot on my Sony Ericsson K750i mobile phone 2.0 megapixel camera. I did not carry my other cameras and the quality suffers. I will make up for this mishap soon!
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
His & Hers – A comparative analysis of idiosyncratic neighbors. Part 1
I fell in love with a malayalee. When I was younger, probably less wise and way too brash I fell for a lass from a strip of land tucked between the sea and self importance.
I am a Tamil Brahmin - Tambram for short. I was an epitome of the motor mouth clan of white dhoti clad counsels for everybody’s general well-being may it be Sivaraman from the next street or the President of the United States. I remember my uncles, when they sat around chewing betel leaves and tobacco cured in rose water in the ceremony of rites for a dead grand aunt, always had a piece of advice for the captain of the Indian team, Governor of Tripura, Boutros Boutros Ghali, local legislator and the cook in the smoke kitchen. My clan was curiously deviant in there ways. They debauched in the early part of the night with popular Scotch, rum or viscous strong beer that guaranteed far reaches of inebria within a short span of time. Later they held their breath, walked to their leaves of dinner and their waiting wives. Tucked in a substantial amount of rice, lentils, flavored with heart stopping quantities of clarified butter and rounded off with double fat buffalo yoghurt and passed out.
Early morning was an alter-world. The house resonated with the nasal din of a humble turntable with an elderly lady doyen of carnatic music singing a popular rendition of the Lord’s thousand names. The uncle in question looked shaved (Swish blade), scrubbed and squeaky clean. He was clad in a wet dhoti and offered his daily prayers for over an hour. We kids were woken up to the smell of jasmine, pungently sweet joss sticks, asafetida from the kitchen and the names of the lord in the two hundreds. My uncle was closure to salvation. He had cleansed himself of the demon he was the previous night. He was ready to tackle the day and offer free suggestions to World leaders and passersby. This was planned redemption through extended exposure to moisture. He eventually contracted a disease that cursed him with swollen scrotums that were as big as melons. The doctor reasoned; the groin region was subjected to prolonged wetness.
My family’s lineage is apparently from sage Atri – one of the seven sages who eventually became a star in the constellation Orion or Great Bear. Later the lineage was subjected to temple work and farming in the paddy fields of the Cauvery delta in Thanjavur district – the granary of the south. Further the kings gave them land for their temple work or apparently wise counseling and they employed the lower caste lesser mortals to plough, till and reap the rice. The Brahmins of Thanjavur sat at their smoke flavored houses (the kitchen smoke was trapped between the tiles and cured the beams), drank endless amounts of buttermilk or coffee and the rice reached home. The idle men learnt vices yet did not lose their religion. Much later on a Sunday a bit after midnight I was born as the symbol of mutant values from the days of Atri.
When I grew up and fell in love I talked to my parents. They were happy that she was not a distant tribe like a Khasi or even better an Inuit. A malayalee was of a familiar clan. Familiarity is also the birthplace of contempt. My uncles and aunts who always knew everything better were the official harbingers of doom. They predicted a manipulative evil bunch of people who will charm their ward to submission and leave him helpless.
When I say malayalees I am talking about the Nairs or the Menons. Not the Palakkad Brahmins or the Namboodiris for that will be an endless thesis of vile games of cheap revenge and cynicism. While we are there I should shamelessly define the class too. I am not discussing the Dubai romancing working class here. They are probably busy trying to get a footing and define a paved path for their families. I am talking about the descent of well-respected civil servants, royalties, doctors and engineers - the people who built the post-independence Kerala and their descendants who dropped the torch along the way.
I have been married for ten years now. I have been the silent voyeur with a dedication of an anthropologist in observing malayalees. It has its fair share of idiosyncrasies, lunacy, Parkinsons and wisdom.
As a rule there are very few malayalees who agree with you on anything. Including the next part.
Click here to read Part 2.
I am a Tamil Brahmin - Tambram for short. I was an epitome of the motor mouth clan of white dhoti clad counsels for everybody’s general well-being may it be Sivaraman from the next street or the President of the United States. I remember my uncles, when they sat around chewing betel leaves and tobacco cured in rose water in the ceremony of rites for a dead grand aunt, always had a piece of advice for the captain of the Indian team, Governor of Tripura, Boutros Boutros Ghali, local legislator and the cook in the smoke kitchen. My clan was curiously deviant in there ways. They debauched in the early part of the night with popular Scotch, rum or viscous strong beer that guaranteed far reaches of inebria within a short span of time. Later they held their breath, walked to their leaves of dinner and their waiting wives. Tucked in a substantial amount of rice, lentils, flavored with heart stopping quantities of clarified butter and rounded off with double fat buffalo yoghurt and passed out.
Early morning was an alter-world. The house resonated with the nasal din of a humble turntable with an elderly lady doyen of carnatic music singing a popular rendition of the Lord’s thousand names. The uncle in question looked shaved (Swish blade), scrubbed and squeaky clean. He was clad in a wet dhoti and offered his daily prayers for over an hour. We kids were woken up to the smell of jasmine, pungently sweet joss sticks, asafetida from the kitchen and the names of the lord in the two hundreds. My uncle was closure to salvation. He had cleansed himself of the demon he was the previous night. He was ready to tackle the day and offer free suggestions to World leaders and passersby. This was planned redemption through extended exposure to moisture. He eventually contracted a disease that cursed him with swollen scrotums that were as big as melons. The doctor reasoned; the groin region was subjected to prolonged wetness.
My family’s lineage is apparently from sage Atri – one of the seven sages who eventually became a star in the constellation Orion or Great Bear. Later the lineage was subjected to temple work and farming in the paddy fields of the Cauvery delta in Thanjavur district – the granary of the south. Further the kings gave them land for their temple work or apparently wise counseling and they employed the lower caste lesser mortals to plough, till and reap the rice. The Brahmins of Thanjavur sat at their smoke flavored houses (the kitchen smoke was trapped between the tiles and cured the beams), drank endless amounts of buttermilk or coffee and the rice reached home. The idle men learnt vices yet did not lose their religion. Much later on a Sunday a bit after midnight I was born as the symbol of mutant values from the days of Atri.
When I grew up and fell in love I talked to my parents. They were happy that she was not a distant tribe like a Khasi or even better an Inuit. A malayalee was of a familiar clan. Familiarity is also the birthplace of contempt. My uncles and aunts who always knew everything better were the official harbingers of doom. They predicted a manipulative evil bunch of people who will charm their ward to submission and leave him helpless.
When I say malayalees I am talking about the Nairs or the Menons. Not the Palakkad Brahmins or the Namboodiris for that will be an endless thesis of vile games of cheap revenge and cynicism. While we are there I should shamelessly define the class too. I am not discussing the Dubai romancing working class here. They are probably busy trying to get a footing and define a paved path for their families. I am talking about the descent of well-respected civil servants, royalties, doctors and engineers - the people who built the post-independence Kerala and their descendants who dropped the torch along the way.
I have been married for ten years now. I have been the silent voyeur with a dedication of an anthropologist in observing malayalees. It has its fair share of idiosyncrasies, lunacy, Parkinsons and wisdom.
As a rule there are very few malayalees who agree with you on anything. Including the next part.
Click here to read Part 2.
A Slice of Life
I, apparently am shortlisted to the second stage of oktatabyebye.com. They wanted me to send them a 150 words travelogue. I quote "The next step requires you to share with us a 100-150 word write-up on your most relished travel experience. Please email this to priya@oktatabyebye.com within next week." I sent the piece below. You decide!
A Slice of Life
Traveling in trains through terrains and towns is like watching avant-garde theatre. The grilled window reveals a slice in the lives of people outside as it moves swiftly.
My early train journeys were predominantly across the baked Deccan to reach Gujarat. I have watched the shadow of the train quiver over sands of dry river beds, farmers in an argument on a red landscape, boys being slapped by grandfathers in white turbans, vacant wait of cyclists at the crossing and dust clouds of a distant bus with cargo on top.
Recently I had to visit a leather and sugarcane town at the northern corner of Karnataka on a photography assignment for a Flemish magazine. The town drunkards and smell of dead buffaloes being tanned drove me out of Athani. I fled on a bus to Belgaum.
It was that ethereal red flat landscape again. We stopped for a break and there were people with me who looked like the slapping grandfather and waiting cyclists.
There was a train at the horizon. Somebody was watching this slice of my life.
A Slice of Life
Traveling in trains through terrains and towns is like watching avant-garde theatre. The grilled window reveals a slice in the lives of people outside as it moves swiftly.
My early train journeys were predominantly across the baked Deccan to reach Gujarat. I have watched the shadow of the train quiver over sands of dry river beds, farmers in an argument on a red landscape, boys being slapped by grandfathers in white turbans, vacant wait of cyclists at the crossing and dust clouds of a distant bus with cargo on top.
Recently I had to visit a leather and sugarcane town at the northern corner of Karnataka on a photography assignment for a Flemish magazine. The town drunkards and smell of dead buffaloes being tanned drove me out of Athani. I fled on a bus to Belgaum.
It was that ethereal red flat landscape again. We stopped for a break and there were people with me who looked like the slapping grandfather and waiting cyclists.
There was a train at the horizon. Somebody was watching this slice of my life.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Transit
I am sitting at this teeming terminal of the Mumbai airport, worn and inspired. I have been a lot in airports this month. These are vacant times like in an elevator where you pretend to be in a state of being that other passengers will not comprehend. These are dead times. There is no specific thought, unless you are alone in the elevator with a bomb of woman. It is strange if you are alone. You do things that you do not do in public places. Probably not what George Michael did. But it could be a jig or funny faces in a strip mirror - as if the closed doors deem you to be the king of the formica kingdom on winch.
I was in Dallas, Minneapolis, Washington, Chicago and Frankfurt airports. I was in transit with no agenda but to spend a lay over entertained and sated. It is like being in a crowded island of sleepwalkers with baggage tags. I have been back and am traveling to Mumbai now. I will be home with my daughters soon.
I will write again.
I was in Dallas, Minneapolis, Washington, Chicago and Frankfurt airports. I was in transit with no agenda but to spend a lay over entertained and sated. It is like being in a crowded island of sleepwalkers with baggage tags. I have been back and am traveling to Mumbai now. I will be home with my daughters soon.
I will write again.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
The days of good food karma
Work demanded a recent visit to Ahmedabad. I was back with money in my pocket and that was a change. I did my design education there and was pretty much a pauper right through the stint.
Design education was not a standard academic option that South Indian middle-class youngsters would choose those days. It is not like my father dreamt that I would grow up and be a graphic designer. The truth is, till date, he does not know what I do for a living. Our design school campus was in Ahmedabad, a dusty quasi-capital of Gujarat where short-frocked milkmen flirted with camels. The campus however was self-sufficient fortified dream capital with clean air, love and bad food available in plenty. Other than structured courses that demanded us to go out and document through conversation and drawings, we students were immune to the grime and grit of the city. The proverbial ivory tower of the self proclaimed cerebral knights.
I had a hand written boarding pass and clambered over seven software engineers, two media women with black lipstick, a vegetable dyed NGO lady, a gaggle of clipped cackling British guys and an unattended Samsonite to identify my lonely blue bag on the windy tarmac – the systems were down. It is needless to say that I had no friends in that flight to Mumbai. I gate crashed at Vivek and Monisha’s house, ate up all their food and subjected them to Woody Allen banter further bored-down with my own. It is a miracle that Monisha was still willing to join us in Ahmedabad the next morning. But her pursuit was more epicurean and less camaraderie.
That night I slept with Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential and dreamt of samurai sword carved lamb in a strange seaside restaurant.
Vivek and I took a ruthlessly early flight to Ahmedabad with foul coffee and no breakfast. I have this nasty habit of growing hair all over my face, incessantly drooling and tearing through my shirt when I do not have breakfast. But I held on. The early morning Ahmedabad air hit me with deep nostalgia and a mild hay fever. We were driven to a guesthouse, an apartment with late Victorian Gujarati baroque décor where chartered accountants and mills men were dished out custom breakfast of upma, cereal and tea. The cook was good and he baled us out. But we did miss the coffee. We had factory visits the entire day and I was dreading the lunch. But that was not bad either with an unnecessarily spiced spinach soup, cottage cheese in get-as-fat-as-you-can gravy, high calorie rotis and a thimble full of rice. More of factories and I reached my threshold - breaking point. I almost skipped a fantastic dinner at this highway restaurant done up like a supposedly rustic charming village for visitors from faraway land called Vishala.
Monisha had flown in later with the sole purpose of eating at Vishala and Lisa accompanied to join us for the factory visit. Winter darkness arrived before you can say ‘jamvamaté jaun chu!’ – ‘I am going to eat’ in Gujarati. We landed at this oil lamp lit walkway of Vishala village bumping into each other in darkness. A turbaned young man, who in broad daylight could be an ex-collector’s son from Srirangam working in Ahmedabad for a living, ushered us in. (Later I should tell you this story about Palaniappan who wears Pathan suits and serves in an Afghani restaurant called Kabul in Amsterdam.)
We started with jaljeera. I hated this drink in my earlier days in Ahmedabad. I could not understand how a drink that tastes like dilute cough syrup and smells like acute flatulence in livestock could be refreshing. I learnt to like it over years and I had a few glasses now. I also learnt that the cattle flatulence ingredient was rock salt or ‘kala namak’ as it is popularly known. We were walked further into the village and were seated on mud washed floor against a low table in a thatched roof cupola. Then it all started. It was as if their leader did a strong propaganda speech around the corner in militant Gujarati and the gist of it was ‘FEED THEM! SHOW NO MERCY!’ The turbaned youth brigade got into action. They brought leaves and pre-formed cups made of dried lotus leaves. First there was a sea of salads with sprouted chickpeas, peanuts, sweetened cucumber pickled, tomatoes in limejuice and more. Then they brought the vegetables – bataka nu shak (semi-dry potatoes with turmeric, cumin seeds and a little tomatoes to make it moist), mind-blowing undhyo (an amazing, tasty oily dark gravy with unrecognizable vegetables in it), and lots of deep fried fritters, thin rotis, butter and gooey jaggery to go with it. All this served with so much love and persistence that I ate too much, my legs went off to sleep and I needed help to get off the ground. It was wish fulfillment, manna from Amdavadi quarters of heaven, a nostalgic awakening, culinary excellence that surpasses a Gujarati invoked Bull Run – I was satiated and had a dreamless sleep that night. It was not over yet.
The next morning and I was still craving for coffee. The ignorant cook at the guesthouse showed me a bottle of Nescafé. He did not know that instant coffee is not kosher among people in Bangalore. Alternatively he offered milky white ginger tea that can launch lactose intolerance in R2D2. I realized that coffee is not necessarily a core competence in this part of the world. I had a fleeting glimpse of a café as we drove in the previous night. This is one of those places where very nubile young things and very young thugs courting nubile young things are draped on chairs looking vacant (read cool). I walked across middle-aged Gujarati men riding scooters sidesaddle and located the café. I asked the man at the counter for two double espressos, little milk no foam, to go. He looked at me as if I just ordered the 1952 version of Clark’s Logarithmic Table in Hebrew. I slowly deconstructed my order and drove it home. He was a slow barista and that is an understatement. The wait at the café felt longer than it was. There was an impervious early morning Roman orgy well underway in one sunlit corner involving a lot of thugs and things. If this coffee was not happening I was planning to go intravenous, sent right where it matters. Finally I was violently sucking at a paper cup filled with my coffee and took a couple back to the guesthouse. Then there was a boring breakfast and more factories to visit before our noon flight.
We boarded. Vivek had an epiphany somewhere over Surat. We were going to Highway Gomantak for lunch. Highway Gomantak is a small restaurant on the service road in Bandra that promises a good seafood meal. They somehow manage to gently coax every living creature in the sea to convert to a delectable curry dish or a rava fry on my plate. I let Monisha and Lisa decide between a hoard of dishes with names that sound like the entire process of cooking – ‘slowly twist the head and pull the inerds out as you sing an upbeat excerpt from a Konkani song’ could pretty much be a name of a dish. The place was teeming with inspiring eaters who with a sleight of hand could devour a crab with a lot of rice and sunset yellow gravy in coconut sauce. I probably had a significant part of an underwater food chain that afternoon – clams, mussels, silver fish, shrimps, pomfret in their many styles. I loved the food and hated the fact that I was going to work and Monisha to sleep at home.
I was back in Bangalore that night. This trip was an epicurean deliverance. Thanks to Vivek, Monisha and Lisa who brought in the good food karma.
Design education was not a standard academic option that South Indian middle-class youngsters would choose those days. It is not like my father dreamt that I would grow up and be a graphic designer. The truth is, till date, he does not know what I do for a living. Our design school campus was in Ahmedabad, a dusty quasi-capital of Gujarat where short-frocked milkmen flirted with camels. The campus however was self-sufficient fortified dream capital with clean air, love and bad food available in plenty. Other than structured courses that demanded us to go out and document through conversation and drawings, we students were immune to the grime and grit of the city. The proverbial ivory tower of the self proclaimed cerebral knights.
I had a hand written boarding pass and clambered over seven software engineers, two media women with black lipstick, a vegetable dyed NGO lady, a gaggle of clipped cackling British guys and an unattended Samsonite to identify my lonely blue bag on the windy tarmac – the systems were down. It is needless to say that I had no friends in that flight to Mumbai. I gate crashed at Vivek and Monisha’s house, ate up all their food and subjected them to Woody Allen banter further bored-down with my own. It is a miracle that Monisha was still willing to join us in Ahmedabad the next morning. But her pursuit was more epicurean and less camaraderie.
That night I slept with Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential and dreamt of samurai sword carved lamb in a strange seaside restaurant.
Vivek and I took a ruthlessly early flight to Ahmedabad with foul coffee and no breakfast. I have this nasty habit of growing hair all over my face, incessantly drooling and tearing through my shirt when I do not have breakfast. But I held on. The early morning Ahmedabad air hit me with deep nostalgia and a mild hay fever. We were driven to a guesthouse, an apartment with late Victorian Gujarati baroque décor where chartered accountants and mills men were dished out custom breakfast of upma, cereal and tea. The cook was good and he baled us out. But we did miss the coffee. We had factory visits the entire day and I was dreading the lunch. But that was not bad either with an unnecessarily spiced spinach soup, cottage cheese in get-as-fat-as-you-can gravy, high calorie rotis and a thimble full of rice. More of factories and I reached my threshold - breaking point. I almost skipped a fantastic dinner at this highway restaurant done up like a supposedly rustic charming village for visitors from faraway land called Vishala.
Monisha had flown in later with the sole purpose of eating at Vishala and Lisa accompanied to join us for the factory visit. Winter darkness arrived before you can say ‘jamvamaté jaun chu!’ – ‘I am going to eat’ in Gujarati. We landed at this oil lamp lit walkway of Vishala village bumping into each other in darkness. A turbaned young man, who in broad daylight could be an ex-collector’s son from Srirangam working in Ahmedabad for a living, ushered us in. (Later I should tell you this story about Palaniappan who wears Pathan suits and serves in an Afghani restaurant called Kabul in Amsterdam.)
We started with jaljeera. I hated this drink in my earlier days in Ahmedabad. I could not understand how a drink that tastes like dilute cough syrup and smells like acute flatulence in livestock could be refreshing. I learnt to like it over years and I had a few glasses now. I also learnt that the cattle flatulence ingredient was rock salt or ‘kala namak’ as it is popularly known. We were walked further into the village and were seated on mud washed floor against a low table in a thatched roof cupola. Then it all started. It was as if their leader did a strong propaganda speech around the corner in militant Gujarati and the gist of it was ‘FEED THEM! SHOW NO MERCY!’ The turbaned youth brigade got into action. They brought leaves and pre-formed cups made of dried lotus leaves. First there was a sea of salads with sprouted chickpeas, peanuts, sweetened cucumber pickled, tomatoes in limejuice and more. Then they brought the vegetables – bataka nu shak (semi-dry potatoes with turmeric, cumin seeds and a little tomatoes to make it moist), mind-blowing undhyo (an amazing, tasty oily dark gravy with unrecognizable vegetables in it), and lots of deep fried fritters, thin rotis, butter and gooey jaggery to go with it. All this served with so much love and persistence that I ate too much, my legs went off to sleep and I needed help to get off the ground. It was wish fulfillment, manna from Amdavadi quarters of heaven, a nostalgic awakening, culinary excellence that surpasses a Gujarati invoked Bull Run – I was satiated and had a dreamless sleep that night. It was not over yet.
The next morning and I was still craving for coffee. The ignorant cook at the guesthouse showed me a bottle of Nescafé. He did not know that instant coffee is not kosher among people in Bangalore. Alternatively he offered milky white ginger tea that can launch lactose intolerance in R2D2. I realized that coffee is not necessarily a core competence in this part of the world. I had a fleeting glimpse of a café as we drove in the previous night. This is one of those places where very nubile young things and very young thugs courting nubile young things are draped on chairs looking vacant (read cool). I walked across middle-aged Gujarati men riding scooters sidesaddle and located the café. I asked the man at the counter for two double espressos, little milk no foam, to go. He looked at me as if I just ordered the 1952 version of Clark’s Logarithmic Table in Hebrew. I slowly deconstructed my order and drove it home. He was a slow barista and that is an understatement. The wait at the café felt longer than it was. There was an impervious early morning Roman orgy well underway in one sunlit corner involving a lot of thugs and things. If this coffee was not happening I was planning to go intravenous, sent right where it matters. Finally I was violently sucking at a paper cup filled with my coffee and took a couple back to the guesthouse. Then there was a boring breakfast and more factories to visit before our noon flight.
We boarded. Vivek had an epiphany somewhere over Surat. We were going to Highway Gomantak for lunch. Highway Gomantak is a small restaurant on the service road in Bandra that promises a good seafood meal. They somehow manage to gently coax every living creature in the sea to convert to a delectable curry dish or a rava fry on my plate. I let Monisha and Lisa decide between a hoard of dishes with names that sound like the entire process of cooking – ‘slowly twist the head and pull the inerds out as you sing an upbeat excerpt from a Konkani song’ could pretty much be a name of a dish. The place was teeming with inspiring eaters who with a sleight of hand could devour a crab with a lot of rice and sunset yellow gravy in coconut sauce. I probably had a significant part of an underwater food chain that afternoon – clams, mussels, silver fish, shrimps, pomfret in their many styles. I loved the food and hated the fact that I was going to work and Monisha to sleep at home.
I was back in Bangalore that night. This trip was an epicurean deliverance. Thanks to Vivek, Monisha and Lisa who brought in the good food karma.
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