A cooking storm and desperation thereof

Yesterday, I was having a discussion with a person regarding hiring in the culinary industry. He started telling me about how skills were definitely on the slide. I listened. A very old incident flashed by. 1989. It is 12 noon in The Astor. I have barged into the kitchen. There are 180 packets of Chinese food to be delivered to a nearby consulate. The cook has gone missing. He is in a gate meeting at a nearby location where the ruling party has called for workers to come and sit and do dharna. I wish I knew what a ruling party protests against. Probably they don't like their own work. Whatever. The cook's gone. That's nutshell. The packets have to be delivered at 1.00 pm. There's no way that can happen if someone is not going to start cooking now. Everyone is lounging. Lots of staff. They are happy to look at my face and grin like baboons. I panic. The only way I can do the delivery is by starting to cook myself, I think. I am a Food service executive. I am not supposed to be cooking. The union won't allow me. I wear an apron. I pull out a Chinese chopper. I start cutting vegetables that are loaded onto the counter. I don't do such things daily and so my speed is not good. So, interested people collect and start laughing at my plight. They are a part of the union. They won't work in someone else's department. I am not a part of the union. Also, I am a newbie. It's like ragging, if you get the picture. The chopping board is being pummelled by my angry chops with the knife. The spring onion is done. The beans is being stringed. Then I chop them at my best pace. The carrots have to be cut into flowered slices. That takes some doing. But I am angry and game. It goes on. Minutes tick by. The mounds of vegetables collect. I haven't started with the chicken. I know the cook keeps his boneless stash somewhere. I don't know where. The staff won't help. They are looking on and chewing on toothpicks, peanuts and other such stuff. To keep themselves from laughing at me. Then, the union leader arrives. No, not the cook. He's a follower. The leader. He actually works in the kitchen as a kitchen supervisor. Someone who gets orders done. This was his work to get the order done. He has been busy in party work somewhere. He cannot be thrown out of the job as the establishment survives because he is around to handle the union and party matters. He looks at me. Laughs. And comes to where I am working. Then, he clicks his finger. A tandoor worker arrives. He motions him to take my place. He takes my place. He motions to another guy and he runs to get the boneless chicken stashed somewhere. He thunders at a third guy who's there and he runs to get par boiled rice and noodles. All kept at appropriate places. I move aside. In no time, the workers have started finishing what I had started solo. The packets emerge and the tossed rice and noodles are being packed in silver foil. I try to help in the packing as my adrenaline is still high and I am looking at my watch to see if we are on time. He motions me away. He tells me to wait in a corner. Not to move. The packets are done. It is 12.55 pm. The Chinese cook comes in then. The union leader who's quiet till then, walk across to the cook and gives a whack on his head. "Didn't you know you had a order to give?" The cook, who is about 37 years of age takes his tongue out in sheepish dismay. The union leader asks me to get it all loaded in the delivery car with the service boys. As he passes me, he pats me on the shoulder. For quite a while, maybe for my whole tenure that act of foolishness and that pat stood me in good stead with the people in there. By the way, I would never have completed the order in time. I was just desperately trying. Sometimes that works too, in rallying people to the cause.

Doorbell pranks and glum people

We heard the doorbell together. Ma and I. I walked faster to the door. Ma relaxed and allowed me to go ahead and open. No one outside. I waited. I peered to the left and to the right. Nope. No one. Very spooky. This has now happened for the third time this week. Ma has an explanation. The bell rings by itself. It's happened in the past too, she says. I ask her how does she know that. She allows logic to take over. If there is no one at the door and the bell has rung, it's ringing by itself, isn't it? Ah, that logic. Okay, so by that logic, if the ball is swinging reverse, it is always scratching itself on one side. Self scratched ball. By that logic, if no one is seen pissing on the road and yet we have the stench of piss everytime we walk that patch of road, then the road is pissing on itself. By that logic, Sunanda Pushkar has killed herself since the blessed CBI aren't able to find anyone who's done the deed. So one and so forth. I argue with Ma. Cannot there be two young boys having the time of their life, ringing doorbells and rushing off into the stairwell to quietly hide? There can be. Most definitely, that could be a case. I know. I did it when I was young. My accomplice is now a top grade engineer in a Fortune 500 company and a father of two and so he will never attest to the fact that we did it. But we did do it. So I know how this is all done. Our game was Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. Of course, I was Finn, what did you think? Inwardly, I smiled while I came away back to my study. A weekend without such pranks for any kid isn't a good weekend. I would have loved it if they would have left a warning note too at the door. "Smile at people in the lift or else..." By the way, is there an unwritten code somewhere about lifts? - "Stay glum, act glum and the world will conspire to work for you" Even the pizza delivery guy becomes the saddest soul in lifts. The Amazon delivery guy definitely is. He is like "Saari duniya ka bojh hum uthate Hain!". Maybe, Amazon one day surely will, probably, who knows. But people living in the building aren't all in Amazon, right. Why so glum? Ab Kya gum?

Salwar kameez and a woman broken.

Dining table conversation with guests who have come over centers around how vegetarian food should be repackaged again and the regional courses can then become global. We talk about a lot of examples. Some of the examples are about Soyabean. How that's never picked up pace and become a global delicacy, Indian style. My mind wanders to a completely different tangent. How the salwar kameez has stuck with the South Asian label and couldn't move beyond it to the ramps of the western and the far eastern world. Few years back, in a lounge in Doha, among many hijabs and burqas, I spotted this woman with a toddler wobbling all around her. Lime green and navy blue salwar kameez ensemble. Very quiet. Long manicured nails. Shampooed hair sheathing her face as she bent down over a magazine. The toddler asked her something after playfully poking her thighs for a bit. Pink lips moving in unintelligible language mime. She understood. She leaned forward to take a bottle of water kept on the table near her. That instant I saw her face. Someone had beaten her black and blue on the left side. The side I could see from where I sat. She leaned back and again bent over so that the hair sheathed the injured portion of the face. Her dupatta was on the side. I knew she would artfully cover her face before standing up. The toddler was oblivious. It jigged around the mother fully oblivious of the mother's plight. I debated in my mind. Pakistan or India. Her face, her bone structure and her demeanor stated that she was from either Punjab, Delhi, Kashmir or from Pakistan. Yes, she could be Sindhi too. And therefore, she could be from anywhere in the world wherever Sindhis, the super successful business people are based. But the salwar kameez was a giveaway. Somehow, I pinned the Pakistan tag on her. I decided I would wait for her flight to be flashed on screen and when she would get up to go. I would know. My own Jet flight to Delhi was some while away. It happened nearly an hour later. A screen flash. Qatar airways to Karachi and she started putting up the dupatta around her face. The toddler kept looking up at her as she arranged herself slowly. Deliberately. Taking care that her face and neck didn't hurt. Then, she stood up. Clutching the handle of the chair. Painfully. Lips nearly biting on the searing pain that was probably shooting through. Pale. Very pale. She straightened herself and stood there, tall and as stately as she could be. The salwar kameez straightened out into a beautiful ensemble and gave her the statuesque persona that she needed desperately to walk out from that lounge. The dress kept her dignity alive. Just about. The woman tottered in her first steps but then became confident as she strode out of the lounge. Her toddler skipping alongside her. She left the broken world of a relationship behind. Probably, never to be back. That dress kept her going. It's important to respect that dress and give it it's due. For how many such incidents it must covered, nurtured and guided it's wearers through. We have no clue.

Mandsaur and Shiva!

Mandsaur is known as the opium and garlic district of India. It's 1987. Pat Cash has just won Wimbledon against all odds. We are at my paternal grandfather's ashram in this district, Mandsaur. Mandsaur is in the Malwa region of Madhya Pradesh. It has a temple called Pashupathinath that's exactly the replica of the same name temple in Kathmandu, Nepal. Nice, isn't it. It's even beside a river called Shivana. I sat one evening, two days after Cash won Wimbledon, on the steps of the same temple. In the night. On the banks of that river. Watching the moon in full bloom. As a villager who had accompanied us regaled us with warrior triumphs of the Malwa people in wars against various Kings and principalities. Against Ghauri, against Sawai Man Singh and others that I could barely register. Evidently, they were very proud people. Till the Scindias of Gwalior handed them to the British in some truce that took place. The British were smart guys. They promoted the opium cultivation there. We all know for what. But the villages in the district became immensely wealthy over time. Add garlic to that and by the 80s, they had lots of money to spread around. One such village wanted to build it's own temple and ashram. It's a kind of a symbol of a village having arrived on the big stage. My grandfather Mahananda Majumdar, who was travelling his way through the entire North India after having given up on the family life and responsibilities, somehow landed up there. Actually, a village head who had been visiting Mathura had chanced on him and convinced him to come there. And he did so. They showed him the village, it's surrounding areas and quietly asked him with folded hands if he could set up a temple and an ashram there with a presiding diety. By the time we landed in 87, the temple was being thronged by hundreds if devotees from the surrounding areas and bhajans would be sung through out evening everyday by young men in filmy tunes. Of course, my grandfather would happily issue all instructions in his only known language - Bangla, the entire lot of villagers used to understand what they wanted to. No stress. We were put up in the ashram. Ma had to remain in another part of the ashram as it was all male otherwise. Father had a grand time discussing economy, politics and history with all the village elders who came by. The brother and I wandered all over the place. We even went to the Mandsaur town at the back of a tractor to have a breakfast as the ashram had no breakfast. Just two frugal meals two times a day. Cooked in mud pots. As directed by my grandfather! He was the temple priest too and so he was extremely busy. Woke up at 4 am to attend to temple duties. Back to the moonlit night beside the river. That night, somehow, and don't ask me how, I realized my Hindi was good. I could speak in Hindi with the local raconteurs impeccably. It just came out. Of course, I couldn't rattle off at speed but what was being said was correct and there was no inflection and influence of English. At all. That night, while discussing the Hindu way of life, not religion if you notice, I also learnt about the importance of Shiva in our lives. The importance of timely destruction so that new creations can take place. Again. Last year in an agitation in Mandsaur, five farmers were killed by police. They were agitating for better prices for their produce. Vegetables and pulses. The government announced some money for the killed citizens. It's not yet been given fully. Various leaders trooped there and made some placatory noises. You know what they are, just noises. Farmers, those very affluent farmers there in Mandsaur were agitating. So you begin to wonder what's happening? A year has passed by. It's even more dire. Hope they don't have to go back to Opium totally. And here we are, still worrying about some orange haired guy in some nation or some crying Cricketer. Opium for the masses? I just hope that through these destructions, there is another set of creations round the corner. Trying to be optimistic. The importance of Shiva, you see.

Fathers and daughters

"Bhai, can you provide me some water from that bottle you have?" I turned around and it was an old man with puffy fair cheeks that had turned red from the Nagpur heat of around 40*C. I handed him the bottle. Water ran down his cheeks in small rivulets as he drank hungrily. He looked reasonably well off. Sky blue half shirt caked in sweat . Grey full pants that had seen better days but was pressed. A Titan watch. A ring with a topaz stone stuck on top. Dakshin express started to come in. He handed me the bottle hurriedly and started scanning the compartments. He had come to meet someone and I watched his expectant eyes rolling with the passing compartments. Must be his son or daughter, I surmised. The train stopped. The man shuffled across the station to where the door to the carriage S5 was there. His gaunt body was now straining above the heads of the red shirted luggage helpers and trying to find his child. Then she was at the door. His lips started quivering. He was having a hard time keeping back his tears. His hand trembled as he he shoved his sweat soaked handkerchief into the pocket. He raised his hand in an awkward gesture of recognition and hailing. He suddenly reminded me of that last scene of Sadma. Kamal at the railway station. His was face was sweating again, not all due to the heat. But also due to the burst of extreme happiness. He stood there transfixed. She took her time getting down. She wasn't all that young herself. Mid forties. A little plump. Saree, bindi and vermilion in the hair parting. I deduced she was coming home after a long while. She walked across to him. Senior men like him cannot hug. It just wasn't done during their days. She bends down with difficulty and touches his feet. He is still trembling as he lays his hand on her head. His tears roll. He is a very old man. There must be a history to his tears. He is unable to speak. She starts crying too. He tries to laugh. Spittle bursts out of his mouth. Pent up. Very pent up. He has been bottling it in for a long time, I guess. Probably some family issue. He tries gamely to pick her suitcase up. She mocks him in Marathi and then pulls up the handle to roll the suitcase alongside her. His tears are still rolling as they leave the station, walking slowly. The sun blazes the silver atop the train, unrelentingly. Men with daughters do have a difficult time. With their emotions. Once in a while.

Tit for tat.

1992. Kolkata. One of those weird years when nothing went right for the better part if the year. At work in that hotel I was in, there was constant melodrama. Workers fussy. Supervisors fussier. Guests at their horrible best. New money had started to happen in Indian economy. Some people with that new money had started to flash their true monkey faces. We had to bear the brunt. My boss had a strange morning work schedule. He would sit in his crummy office and call for all the cash report print outs. He would also call for all the kitchen order tokens. He would sit the entire morning and match the orders to the bills generated. He, a guy who's supposed to look after the entire food and beverage section - food preparation, food quality, bar stocks, menus, banquets, marketing, sales and people at work, used to do bill validation! The first time I saw that, I nearly laughed. But evidently, the ownership, Sindhis, loved that bit. Somebody was looking into every penny that dropped. So, I had to grin and bear. In the bargain, some of us, next in line had to cajole the system into functioning properly. We were not of rank but we had to still give orders in a half request way and do a lot of weird stuff to enable the right things. And many a time the results were ghastly. So, one day, the baker went off to Bihar early evening on an emergency. The next guy had to come in and do the breakfast rolls for next morning's breakfast buffets. He didn't come. No one could track him down. I sent someone to his house. He was told by the wife that he works in another bakery every evening and he will be back late night. So, the decision came down to the fact that we had to buy next day's breakfast croissants and brioches. I didn't have that decision making rank. The boss had retired for the day. No one willing to sign. The owner used to live in premises. I had to get him to sign the challan. Rang the bell of the house. Bearer opens door. I say my stuff. Bleary eyed owner father comes out. I say my problem. He asks why did I come to him. I said I need the cash. I am not authorized. Neither is anyone else. He berated me for the next five minutes while I silently kept looking at the watch because the bakery where I could place the order, down the road would close in half an hour. Finally he says that me and my boss should meet him tomorrow at the office in the morning. I get the signature. Get the breakfast bread by 11 pm. Breakfast happens nicely the next day. Dutifully, the next morning at 11.30 am we line up in front of the senior owner's office. One can hear the sounds of Shakespeare Sarani from the outer chamber. We are called in. The boss is seething already but he has not yet started abusing me. The owner does his soliloquy for ten minutes. The boss does his bit for the next five. His contention being that these young kids are very impertinent and callous. They need to be taught some lessons. They both want to take the bread money out of my pay. I count in my head. Oh, so the whole salary is nearly gone. I can't say a thing there. So, keep the head down and walk out of the office. The boss grins and tells me that this is what will happen if you go over my head. He looks like a cheap version of Joginder when he says that. I know I have to leave the job. But I cannot be docked with the bill. So, I get a surprise check on the bar inventory done. We find six bottles of Johnny Walker Red Label excess. Now, I know all excesses are sent to the boss's office. Just like that. I let it go. Then I ask the barman where the excess went. He tells it went to boss. I say bill that. New system. Bills have to be made for everything. Later, it will be shown cancelled. He is cool and makes the bills. Next morning the world breaks into war. Who made a bill for the excess bottles? Barman says I told and he did. Boss calls me in. I simply tell him that all consumption is to be billed and that's what I have done. He says but excess isn't consumption. I tell him but you taking the bottles is. He cannot go to the owner with this. We both know he's been doing trades with the booze. Now he cannot cancel the bill without word going out. The bill is equivalent to his pay. Tit for tat. My salary was never docked. Never lay a hand on a Bengali's salary. His mind will start ticking.

Lifts, confined spaces and smiles.

I am in a lift in the evening. Maybe 7.30 pm. I don't have a huge rucksack that will be sticking out behind my back, the new version of the old hunchback that we have become. Two men have positioned themselves near the door strategically as they would be dropping down at 2 and 4 respectively. I hope you got that. 0 to 2, two flights of stairs and 0 to 4 is four flights of stairs. Evidently, they do not need the simple exercise. And yes, they have the hunchbacks. One guy has his laces undone. That's a fad. Or the office isn't far away. He's just slipped on his shoe. Carried the rucksack to the car park, got into his mobile hermetically sealed chamber and honked his way home. Then a few steps to a lift and viola! Home. Laces are for meetings, clients and photographs. The lift stops at 1. A gaggle of kids enter the lift along with the young moms after them. It's a large lift. Everyone makes their way in without trouble. A little girl with a distrught face is motioned towards me. "Go and make a pitch to uncle. He will listen to you. Go on, now" The sweet distraught kid looks down at the floor and starts her pitch as we are between 3 & 4. "Uncle, tigers are vanishing and have no one..." I lose the rest of what she's telling in the yells other kids are making. I bend down to catch a little more. Her mother, the young lady who's motioned her towards me, asks her to look into my eyes while making the pitch. In the meanwhile the girl is showing me the badge that she can give me if I "Adopt a tiger", an initiative rolled out by her school, Innventure Academy. I ask her how much does it cost. She says Rupees Fifty. By now, you know I have bought into her request. She could have sold me the badge, a bag, a boat and a jetty to keep the boat tethered to. She's earnest but she's glum. I feel for her. I take out my purse and hand her a hundred. She thinks she does not have the change and her floor arrives. Mild panic results. The mother helps her take out the change and hand me the fifty. We bid goodbye. The mother does a good job of allowing the kid to fight her battle herself. That kind of initiative is welcome. The school is a big and quite reputed one. Obviously, it's an initiative they have created to make the children responsible citizens and also contribute something to a wildlife fund or whatever the authorities have decided. But they have not helped the child with the confidence to do it smilingly. I know it's difficult to achieve. Everybody cannot be Shashi Kapoor or Madhuri Dixit. A ready smile for all occasions. But schools should have fifteen minutes on the art of smiling. Seriously. I mean, look at it from the point of view of children, glum mom speaking to glum Dad who's bent over his mobile answering office messages. Then glum mom turns to her own maid group and gets grimmer when she sees that some maid has been offered 7000 bucks to do JPB. What's the child to do. Where does she learn smiling? They don't have Manmohan Desai films to go to. Or Govinda to laugh away their worries with. JPB is Jhaadu Pocha Bartan. What did you think?

The Bygone Pleasures and fact speaking that could be Bygone too

I wonder why some things didn't stick around. They were good while they were there. Chicken a la Kiev. This unique dish with a chicken breast stuffed with butter, shallow fried to perfection and then put onto a bed of mashed potatoes. With sides of vegetables and onions. Would it have had a longer run if people had a continuous love affair with butter? Or if the mashed potatoes could be replaced by rice of some sort? I don't know. But evidently, something happened. Maybe chefs didn't want to do the hard work of stuffing breasts anymore. Gone from the menus. Musical thrillers. Firstly, the thriller genre has taken a whole lot of beating in India. Writers just cannot write thrillers anymore. Then, putting in songs masterfully is a dead art. We have to go back and watch Nasir Hussain, Manmohan Desai, Vijay Anand and Raj Khosla to get what these films were. How good were they? Just imagine a film, Ranbir Kapoor and Deepika, running through the streets of Rome, punchy music in the background, villains after them, they having a code or something, they enter a club and disguise themselves, a song happens, the villains are outwitted during the song and the pair runs away. To Cairo or something. Ah, wishes! The magic of family TV watching. This is surely over. Done with. Even a decade back, people used to sit post dinner and watch a new episode of something, usually the Indian language serials, and laugh or cry with the characters. That's over. The children don't watch TV anymore. Men like me have given up too, sports aside. Some elders do sit but then they are not the entire family. How fast and how swift this change has been? Many things one can come up with. The family doctor. The STD booth. Evening snack with tea. Sewing as an art. I will add one more.. Speaking facts. This is an art that's also fast going towards extinction. I wouldn't call it lies or untruths all the while as yet. But keeping to facts is declining. On phone, over messages and even face to face, I find people inserting some spins, non - facts, speculation and White lies into the conversation. What we feel is that the facts aren't powerful enough. Fine. Collect facts from different experiences and present it better. Use the art of communication in a better why but why insert non - facts. Our politicians do it because that's how they get votes. What do we get? And that's why I only watch sports now. Unalloyed facts. Nothing else. There's very little spin one can do with a magical goal from Mo Salah or Messi, you see! Or even play it when I can. Or talk about it. Even in meeting rooms. People relate. Understand. Truth begets trust. #Storify.

The Chef who has touched the sky

You are in a kitchen. You have made the Salmon entree with a lot of love and care. Even the garnishing is just perfect. Alluring. It glistens with the sauce gently poured. The fish is plump with the vapours of whatever you had put during the cooking. You watch it go in the hands of a server towards the restaurant as you are already onto your next creation. Many minutes later than server is back. "Chef, the guest having your salmon fish entree wants to meet you!" You are perspired. Immediately, your defence instincts rise within you. You think, now what's gone wrong. Was the fish overdone? Was it not sauced enough? Was the salmon supplier playing truant again with the quality? Though, you very well know that the quality is perfect. You move towards the table in the restaurant. You size up the guest. Fat, double chinned, Delhi type, loud, quick money, shirt one size tight, napkin on the side and that means etiquette is on the blink. You reach the table. He looks at you. Then he gets up and shakes your hand. "You know I don't know much about all this high funda food, my wife does. She tells me this is the best fish she's ever eaten. Thank you Chef. I had to personally say that you made our day." You look at the lady. She's made your day silently. Yes, she's overdone the diamond bit and maybe the top she's worn is from a Zara sale. But she's classy enough to know the fish has worked. Then you watch Vikas Khanna speak about his life. A boy with afflicted feet. A boy constantly home. A boy watching his grandma cook. A boy learning. He distills all his learning into his culinary space. He redefines Indian food for the world. And he expresses the joy of our earthern cooking, simply and suavely. At a TED talk, he explains the happiness of sitting near a home tandoor and watch the Dal being cooked slowly and the rotis being made while the women traded news and gossip. I am reminded of those numerous nights we have sat waiting for the Biryani, the khichdi or the Kosha Mangsho. He has used #Storify in a best possible manner to get ahead. He's met Presidents and been the Chef to celebrities. He's even jet set. But he's not forgotten his roots and the stories. We use #Storify at #LinkMind to create the same kind of stories to help you, your brand and your business. Who knows, the next Vikas Khanna could be you.

Men should drink tea slowly and show unity, with me!

Drink your tea! I receive Missus's admonishment. Again. It's a daily affair. Why would anyone admonish my speed of drinking tea? I am feeling very attacked about this. It's right from childhood that this kind of thing is happening. Ma used to sit at the dining table and bark about drinking the water immediately after dinner. Later in life, health experts pounced on me and barked that drinking water after the dinner immediately isn't great at all. Who do I believe, health experts or Ma? Now this tea business. I should be at liberty to have tea whenever I want. It's like CPM at home. Yeah, CPM. Those guys used to tell me how I shouldn't walk on the sidewalk as that's where the party affiliated hawkers association used to put up their stalls. Then, they used to tell me how I couldn't admonish their affiliated members at work. I could only write to the party and request them to look into the staff issues. No admonishing. Who do I write to about the admonishment now? Mom-in-law just guffaws at me. It's like you have spent so many years together, ab Kya!! I cannot go to the daughter. Rolling eyes. Slow shake of head. Quietness. That will be result. I am feeling very "Bangladesh" type. Last ball six type. Nearly won the game but now well played type. Like Indian Hockey team. Goes down fighting. For the whole of childhood we were subjected to "goes down fighting". It's gone into our DNA. It's why we cannot win any battle with Missus now. She's taken the tray and standing with it challenging me to finish the rest of the tea fast as she wants to clear it off right then and there. It's a duel. We are eyeballing each other. I know I will lose. There's no precedence. No man has won this duel. Even on moon we will not win. Armstrong only won by stepping on to moon. Let the first woman walk out there. Armstrong will have no arm left. I challenge. Neither there will be any strength left. I double challenge. I am going to change the adage "behind a successful man there's a woman". It will be: Behind a man there are some women who talk, bark, admonish and eyeball right from childhood to keep him straight so that the guy goes and does something useful and pertinent. Including drinking tea.

The Nazia Hassan phenomenon

Feroze Khan had derring do. He used to do things in his films that others never thought about. He cornered the kitsch Western films market like no one before, Khote Sikke, Chunaoti, Dharmatma and a few more. Then he went and did car racing across Europe with Mumtaz in tow in Apradh, a film that I liked very much, at least till when he's singing his way through the geography with Mumtaz. Not when he starts to make a living. But his biggest contribution to Hindi cinema came in 1980 and with Qurbani when he introduced Nazia Hassan to us. I mean, look at his ear for a good thing. There's a chit of a girl, a Pakistani, somewhere in London. He discovers her, offers her a song in his film. Gets her to record. Gets an independent music director Biddu just for that song (it didn't happen those days) and makes it an anthem hit across the nation. Biddu himself was a struggling musician till then doing cover versions in UK till then. It's very hot in Chandrapur and we are at the school bus stand. Anna, our trusted hair saloon meters away, put on the music early in the morning as he opened up his shutters. And I heard. Aap jaisa koi meri Zindagi mein aaye. It was instant love. The whole school bus started to talk about the song. The song itself was so easy to hum that I hummed it right through the maths, social studies and Hindi classes in the morning. Those days, we didn't see films as they released. So the romance of what could have happened in the film, with the song and with the actors stayed in stills garnered from LP VInyl covers and newspaper cinema ads. The romance with Nazia Hassan lived on. A few years later she was back with the epynomous Disco Deewane. How would we classify it? Disco it was, but slow. Even the Disco unabled with two left legs could dance to it. I was in hostel those days. And I had been invited over to our English teacher's home for lunch when she'd thoughtfully put this cassette on. Picture this, we are sitting in sofas with a plateful of rice in hand and there is Disco Deewane on the player. Only our feet can tap out the rhythm. Gawky teenagers listening to Disco Deewane solmenly. But that was the romance of Nazia. Around then, there was that other big hit from a flop film, Star. Boom Boom. Nazia, by then was making waves in her own country. And what a star she became. Tall, lissome, good looking. Even had a great looking brother, Zoheb. Yeah, well, girls in our class collected his posters. So, can vouch for that. Thank you Sayantan Mondal, you got me to remember early morning. It's a shame that we have to listen to Sufi cum Kabir cum Ghalib cum something that we cannot understand as it's being warbled by indulged singers with tinpot interludes that have only one meaning, don't listen to us, run along.

In flashbacks, truth happens!

Story tellers use flashbacks to tell a back story. Some use a flashback in the beginning to set a foundation and others set up the progress in the story by small doses of flashback. Life does that too. It's happening so often to me these days that I am left connecting dots for hours post that. For example, I am walking with Missus last evening, quick walk to clear the head before I get back to unfinished work. It's 6.45 pm. Suddenly, raindrops. Bangalore is very warm now and the sun has been at it through the day. But then, raindrops. Missus is a practical person. She starts walking swiftly. Ahead of me. Saying she's washed her hair. She cannot have her hair wet again. I am at the back of her. Trying to catch up. It's when I have that. Flashback. Goa. Maybe 1997. Same. She ahead of me. She's telling let's just get home. Me at the back, trying to catch up. I can remember even the clothes. I can remember my rubber sandals. I can smell the wet soil of Carenzalem, where we stayed then. These kinds of flashbacks have been happening a lot. I wouldn't know if it's good or bad. I also wouldn't know if it tells me something or not. Evidently, it should. But you know how it is. I don't get any life enhancing thoughts from that. Just the flashbacks. Maybe it's like Vinod Khanna's Major Ranjeet in Achanak where he does things based on the flashbacks he has, of his past, of his trainings and such. Tries to save himself from police parties. I am having other flashbacks too. Of Farakka Barrage back in the 70s and the sharing of water controversy. Bangladesh was horrified back then in the early 90s when the Bengal government first and the Indian government said that we had a formula and that formula said that majority of the Ganga waters was to be in India. Padma, a branch of the same Ganga, is the lifeline of Bangladesh. They have numerous livelihoods that depend on that river. So, understandably they were livid. That was never resolved satisfactorily though many governments since then have sat down to resolve. Once, pretty recently, during the UPA 2 times, nearly everything was resolved when Queen Mamata had a change of heart. Back to square one. Now, this NDA government has proposed water sharing through many states. I have flashbacks of that Farakka Barrage and Cauvery disputes. Why do we have to get into disputes? There's technology and better infrastructure available today. Rainwater harvesting techniques are far better than ever before. You hear of successes in many hamlets too. How about institutionalizing rainwater harvesting? One village. Farming all around. One rainwater harvesting project as a cooperative. One ePassbook for all members and users. One gas project. One mini power plant or a solar project. One purchase point for all produce and livestock at fair price set up by government or a nationally computed price for that year, that month. How difficult is this? Maybe it isn't. Maybe it's just the will. Because we are only emotively attached to our villages and see them through the prism of nostalgia, we cannot or do not bother to see them self reliant. At all.

The Dhoondho Dhoondho Rap!

I am trying to figure out how the hills around Kathmandu airport prevent ATC signals reaching the small aircrafts flying in and out. It caused a horrific accident yesterday killing at least 50 people in Bangladesh aircraft. Amazon Echo aka Alexa suddenly pipes up in the room all by itself and out comes "Dhoondho Dhoondho re Sajna" the Naushad song. It's not the original tune. It's a rap version. It's as if Sehwag and Babul Supriyo have come together and done something unidentifiable to the song. It's more Guyanese Bhojpuri Rap. Then it disappears. Alexa shuts itself down. I wait. I don't want to ask Alexa anything. Whatever I ask of her these days has only one answer, "I am not sure I know that". I know the world outside has difficulty deciphering me. Alexa is also giving up. So, I hold my counsel. I don't call out to her. But she's quiet. Then I realize what has happened. Missus has her phone. It's got Bluetooth. We are listening to some songs awhile back wherein she had transferred her playlist from her phone to the Amazon Echo via Bluetooth to listen to songs while she dressed up for the gym. Then she disconnected and left in a hurry. But Mohd Rafi hadn't completed his song, "Dhoondho Dhoondho re Sajna" and probably he was fighting with Alexa to let him complete his song in the background even after she left. So, Alexa gave permission. "Please finish fast, I have to shut down again". It's like those last encores in Calcutta restaurants from back in the 70s. One last Morricone please! Okay, only for a minute, then we have to pack and go men!! So, Rafi comes back, does the Dhoondho Dhoondho Rap and goes away within seconds. I being the sole listener. Alexa should be more considerate. The other day she laughed at someone. Someone who was prone to asking stupid questions. "Alexa, will you go out for a dinner with me?" Alexa wanted to say "Shakl dekhi apni!" But couldn't. She couldn't make up the English version of the effective Shakl sentence in time. So, she laughed hysterically. The word went out that Alexa had laughed hysterically. Everyone went into a tizzy. Amazon got many tweets saying "Ban Alexa!" How dare that lady laugh at us. Amazon bechara napalmed it's Artificial intelligence section and set right the bugs. Alexa will no more laugh hysterically at stupid men. Men are safe. What safe? So many women are still laughing. They just cover their face with their hands or their hair. Or just turn around and look elsewhere. Eyes rolling constantly. Only Alexa was left. Woh bhi gayi.

India and the Order of Govinda

India was socialist and confused as a nation till 1986. In 1986, two things happened. All of the nation started talking about the imminent advent of computers in our work life. The other was Govinda. India was no longer confused. Computers were put to use in various government departments, banks and railway reservation counters progressively to show us that we could get services in a better way, above zero that is. Govinda showed us we could fight, dance, eat, jump and play flute in the air, all with a smile. Govinda made us strong, affable, confident and resilient. Computers started to be looked as the next big employment thing. Some boys lined up at various visa centres and started to go abroad for projects. These boys never came back. But their parents were elated. Their dowry rates climbed up into the stratosphere. Govinda, in the meanwhile, could do no wrong on screen. He democratized the classes of our society, he could wear anything and do anything. He got nearly the entire cow belt dancing to his rhythm. Youngsters suddenly were okay with wrong English and fast Hindi or the other languages. 1991 came. Rajiv Gandhi went and a quiet old man Narasimha Rao quietly ushered in economic reforms. Wily that he was, he got Manmohan Singh to announce all of it. The country went into overdrive. Jobs happened. A lot of money suddenly fell into people's hands. 1991 continued. Aankhein happened. Govinda was the king of all that the common man surveyed. Pink shades, yellow jeans, rough cut CDs, Jhankaar beats, motorbikes, rainbow coloured dupattas, boots, sandals with heels and gyms, they all happened then. Because of that awareness, we got cable TV at home and in 1994, the whole country witnessed a Ms Universe and a Ms World arrive in India. Sushmita and Aishwarya. Notably, both acted in the Hindi cinema industry where Govinda had been churning loads of hits every year. That's when, aided by better budgets and the Ms India philosophy, a unibrowed Karishma suddenly turned modern and created some more monster hits with, yes Govinda again. They created anthems and you know that anthems unified the country more than ever. In the meanwhile, what was a trickle in people learning computers and doing things, became a flood. You could study anything but end up making a living sitting in front of a keyboard. And go abroad too. On projects. By then, phones and calls had also become cheaper. Govinda also helpfully did a telephone song. He philosophically asked, what is your mobile number? The country responded by hitting high double digits growth in mobile phone sales. Suddenly, the country was connected. Just like that. The South had by then seen and understood the power of the bumpkin hero. They reinvented Rajinikanth and Vijay in the same mould. Students saw their movies, did an engineering course from some college in Tiruchi or Vellore and viola they were in, US!! Andhra Pradesh took over. Their films, that were in a way the precursor to those Govinda milestones, just became grander. Venkatesh, Nagarjuna or Chiranjeevi. Six songs, six dances and lissome heroines. Some eight fights and three comedy scenes. They churned out blockbusters by the month. Their students clogged the dialled internet lines between Nalgonda and New York. Life wouldn't ever be the same for an Andhra guy ever again. By the end of the nineties, the Order had matured. The Order of Govinda. The baton had to pass on. His hair, belly and smile were starting to sag. Two things happened. The first dotcom bust and Dil Chahta Hai. The momentum had shifted. Indians would now do what their Dil Chahta Hai. They couldn't be led by the Order anymore. So, Quality came into public consciousness. It wasn't the same again. Secretly, even today, all the 80s and 90s gen pay obeisience to those Pentium 1 computers and Govinda. To lives and lives of back then. Gritty nostalgia. "Arre, tu jaa re!"

Secret Superstar and a Mum

A scene within a home. A family is told by the man of the house that they will have to go a party. The wife is told to make an exception in her attire as the gathering is a bit modern. She does not have to wear the Burqa. She is happy and dresses up. Pertinently, the daughter is not told to go along. The daughter is a teen. Appearing for Class 10.

The mother decks up. The man comments that there is a necklace missing in her attire. He asks her to take out the "only" necklace that she owns. Fear sets in. The lady cannot tell the truth. That she sold the necklace and bought a laptop for the daughter. Fear makes her fumble. Fear makes her daughter discover the truth. Fear makes them look at each other in utter helplessness. Fear makes the man bigger than he actually is. A ritual of physical abuse starts as everyone cowers in fright.

The story of "Secret Superstar" is not so much about a girl going against all odds, meeting a mentor and making it. It is all about a woman discovering her voice against abuse and dependence.

Numerous small moments strike you. The mother raising her arms and doing a jig as her husband leaves for another country, in relief. The grandma telling a story about a mother desperately running away to save the girl child in her womb. A money making tuition teacher realizing the plight of the girl who tries to apply herself to studies in spite of a very abusive home. A mother who buys a guitar for her six year old daughter. A canny mentor searches his soul through a forgotten song. A daughter discovers the plight of love in her little brother's handiwork with scotch tape. And TV, to escape the mundane existences in middle class India.

In all this, a very lovely teen love affair blossoms knowing fully well that it will be crushed by hard reality. Hindu - Muslim. In Gujarat. She, having stars in her eyes. He, a middle class steady boy, knowing his place. And they get a permission to be together from the mother on their last day at school. He takes her to his home. She's fed aam, very aam moment but powerful in the message. It's over. Because, he knows that the girl and her parents are going away to another country.

Yes, it is again the magic of cinema. It can be manipulative at times like Aamir Khan's efforts with another story about a buck tooth autistic boy a decade back. But it is streets ahead of any other maker's vision.

All the actors are in form. Zaira Wasim and Meher Vij are unstoppable in their roles as daughter and mother respectively. Meher has many close ups and her eyes are so expressive and similar to Zaira's that it makes them mother and daughter in more ways than screen. Raj Arjun has been around and he revels in the father's role. The violence is implicit and in his demeanor and that's commendable work. But the scene stealer is the classmate cum boy friend called Chintan. Tirth Sharma does the role and he just rocks every scene he is in. That includes roaming a city in an autographed shirt.

The songs could have been better. In a film about songs and talent, the songs are not catchy, that's sad. Amit Trivedi, such chances do not come by so easily.

Know the name, Advait Chandan, the director. His idea of stories on film is just about blossoming. Like, his "Secret Superstar".

Jubilee!

Do you people know "Jubilee Kumar"? No na, I thought so! Jubilee Kumar was reigning deity of Hindi Cinema between some time in late 50s to somewhere in the late 60s. He was there later too. But no one called him Jubilee Kumar anymore. He was called Papa of Kumar Gaurav. Please don't ask who was Kumar Gaurav. I will have to search for the right chappal to throw at your mirror. Jubilee Kumar was thick in the waist. He never danced. At best, his hands swung and his head bobbed around to the mood of the song playing in the background, usually sung by Mohd. Rafi. The heroines did all the hard work. It's like an immobile doubles partner in Tennis or Badminton. The agile guy did all the work and the stationery guy, well, just remained stationed and watched in glee. But yet, Jubilee Kumar turned out hit after hit. Some said, lucky guy. Some said, the heroines toiled and made it for him. Some said, he bought out the tickets of some key cinema halls in Bombay and ensured full houses. Word travelled and a middling film became a hit. Rajendra Kumar, if you must know his actual name. I feel like "Jubilee Kumar" today. I floated in a river of genius friends, classmates, colleagues, fellow cricketers and footballers, professionals, family members, minstrels, wandering monks and general busy bodies. People kept throwing lifeboats and wooden logs to save me in the gushing torrents. I drank water, coughed, yelled and paddled along awkwardly with these geniuses and here I am, "Jubilee"! I feel like the Rajendra, the Sehwag, the Madhavrao, the Venkatraghavan, the Bikas Panji, the Mulgaonkar, the Vani Jayram, the Mahendra Kapoor and the Chunky Pandey of my times and journeys. The journeyman. The survivor. The "Shavaasan" expert.

Jagga Jasoos - our childhood comes back

Moynaguri. North Bengal. A boy is born and left at the hospital. He is brought up by the hospital staff. He stammers and so he keeps quiet. He has his own world. Among books and nature. One day he watches a man take a dive from a coal train. The man is rescued by the boy and moved to the hospital. The man and the boy become father and son.

The boy is Jagga. The man is Bagchi. Both are investigators. But of different kinds.

Jagga Jasoos.

I won't tell the story here. Let me dwell on some moments.

The father stumbles into clues and circumstances. He isn't prepared half the time. Yet he makes do. In a ganjee, he cycles off with Jagga to save himself through green top jungles. We see the sequence in song, in motion, in swirling light, in brilliant green and in an anxious Bagchi's face who's so unlike an investigator up close. We are being surprised just like Jagga is being surprised too.

Jagga looks at details. He has a yen for details. There's a clock tower mystery he's solving. There's a school assembly. There's rain. There's late evening. There's a clock tower. There are two women. There's a man. And a lot of little details. Now, Jagga's mind is registering these details in staccato mode. We watch the unfurling story in the same form. Through his eyes. Through his stammering speech forms. Through a song that acts like a voice over showing all the scenes happening with swift cute. Mystery in a box. Evening. Night. Next morning. Jagga with friends. The final say on the mystery, Sherlock or Feluda style.

Jagga adds things up. They are in Ukhrul, Manipur. Shruti, another reporter-investigator arrives there. Jagga bumps into a man. He follows him. Then, there's a murder in a room and a murder on a sky wheel. Jagga's mind takes him to some conclusions. We are nudged to some conclusions too. With Jagga. Via the net, a book with Netaji's exploits, a tunnel and Shruti's own background. It's a pleasure for us too when the mystery unravels. As they stumble through to success.

There's whimsy. Through songs and stutters. Images dissolved appear and then gain focus. Like evolving minds. There's small facial expressions. Bagchi's nods. Later Jagga's nods and eyebrow ticks. Shruti's lips pursed. Portents of done mistakes. There's swift actions. A la a young Feluda or Sherlock. Or Tintin. There's a back shot of Jagga standing at a round window and dark visage exactly like Tintin is in his comic books. Every disaster of Shruti or Bagchi ends with them being flat or legs up, like Thompson and Thompson or Captain or Prof Calculus.

There's enough happening in the songs as they are dialogue in verse. Beatboxing, guitar strings, horns creeping up, violins being maudlin as Jagga is being lonely. Choruses bring enthusiastic as Jagga solves mysteries. A whole orchestra picking up as Jagga and Bagchi adventure through Africa. Music is the soul of each happening. The reason for existence.

Katrina is Shruti and she bumbles through the film quite sincerely. She adopts the clunkiness that is required with admirable gusto. Saswata Chatterjee is priceless as Bagchi. He's a detective and a Bengali. Considerate, funny, sad, emotive, stubborn, witty, angry and fueled by adventure, all at once. This is a bravura act by Saswata and shall be hailed in different ways in years to come. He's Sanjeev Kumar and Peter Sellers coming together in Eastman colour.

Ranbir Kapoor is Jagga and he wears the character, seeps it into his bones and lives it. The stutters, the little sounds, the facial expressions, the idiosyncrasies and the walk. There's so much to see. Deduce. Understand. From just his portrayals. Here's an actor who can go very far with the right stories. Watch him throw toothpaste foam into a basin from afar. Priceless.

It's Anurag Basu's mind that's on screen. His stories. His life. His interests. His wanderings. His childhood. His belief in theatre and music. He weaves it together as only he knows.

This is compulsory cinema for people who believe in the art. I mean, which cinema can have a Bengali music strain effortlessly segue into an operatic orchestra and then end up in an African tribal song all in one sequence?

Mr. Basu, just release those comic books. Bestsellers guaranteed. Please.

An afternoon with a Chef who makes things with Pumpkin

Yesterday was a Sunday. I decided that I needed to interview someone who's as passionate about food as I am. I landed up at Herbs n Spices. I know Chef and Restauranteur Paddy from far back. His background quickly then. Hotel Management from the Hyderabad IHM. A good career in the Taj group and with cruisers doing what he still does, cooking awesome food. Then, he with a friend, decided to set up a restaurant here in Whitefield, which back in 2000 was a sleepy village. He's seen restaurants come and go. He's still at it in the town that's Whitefield. We spoke about a lot of things. Chefs and their menus: We discussed the shallow menus being trotted out by all restaurants. Soups. Starters. Sandwiches and Burgers. Pizzas. Pastas. Indian. Italian. Chinese. An odd Mexican or Thai. Desserts high on cheese and chocolate. We then came to what he is doing different. I saw the authenticity he presents in his Continental and Indian items. We discussed sauces. I understood his passion for an original jerk sauce or an original provencale sauce. I got what he meant when he said every sauce is not creamy and cheesy. How a pasta Aglio Olio needs to be made. How olive oil is integral to authentic pizza and why he does not do pizzas at all because guests are so used to the mass branded cheesy pizzas. We shared some good thoughts on just enough sauce in pastas and nice herbs to taste. Why menus should change: Bangalore restaurants are faking it. Most of the time. There isn't much variety. Only derivatives. It's very silly. Tequila Chicken as developed by him seems to have gone to many a restaurant including a neighborhood one and he's had to change the menu. But it's good he changed. Because he could and other chefs faking it cannot. Restaurant owners should know food: We discussed the farce of having a lot of cuisines on menu. Chicken boiled and frozen in the freezer and adapting to all cuisines. Even a chicken sandwich in a very upmarket place tastes like unfrozen rubber that's leaking water. It's horrible, we agreed. He stocks for his menu. He buys fresh. He also makes food not available when it runs out. That way his Kebabs and Roasted Pumpkin soups are forever fresh and droolworthy. Desserts and their importance in menus: The main course needs to be just enough and well priced so that the guest can order a dessert. That's important for satisfaction and he tries that. And succeeds most if the time. On cue, a guest orders for one Gajar Halwa ensemble and follows that quickly with two more at the same table. I gape. That's a classy restaurant. Book it. And go ahead and enjoy. 154, Whitefield Main Road. Opposite Vijaya Bank. Whitefield 9945 420 242 12 noon to 3 pm 7 pm to 11 pm Pic: Chef Paddy with a guest https://www.good1.in/posts/3557

Exercise thinking

Very depressing. Wore a tee shirt. Stood in a group photo. Looking most wide among all in the pic. Some four days have gone by since that offending pic has graced WhatsApp. But mind not moving from the obscene bulge on the side.

Sages have advised. Warm water intake. Earliest possible dinner. No rice or flour. Run. Walk. Crawl. Surya namaskar. Breathe in breathe out. Slow breathe out. Problem is, nothing is forever. Of course, only diamonds are, but that's a story I can't​ express. For that, one needs legacy. Aukaat. But why have I gone off to diamonds? Right, nothing is forever. Or I am the tail of a dog. I do. I wag. I wipe off targets and discipline and start over again.

I am the before guy in the before and after pictures that friends keep producing. A friend does plank for six minutes. I am lucky to do a minute. Another friend runs marathons regularly. And advises on running gear and music. I can't run. So I walk. Intermittent. I use gear too. Sometimes the music is so good that I amble to listen to the music more and my breath less. I mean, Hemant Kumar's breath intake would surely be more promising than my own, right! Friends rock. I like or wow them and leave it at that. I can't even discuss the niceties of bananas before morning exercise. That's Missus. She even has a banana box, shaped like a banana in her bag. Wonder who thinks like that?

Then there are the Yoga and gym guys. Everyone owns a mat these days. And they can stretch and touch their toes. Once in a while when other conversation flags, the yoga conversation is a life saver. I do conversations. I skip the yoga bit. Dhanurasan = Dhanu + Sivarasan. For me. I can talk more about the killers of Rajiv Gandhi. Possibly. But people want to show how good their arc is in Dhanurasan. I try to be amazed. My arc would more look like a sandbagged culvert. With no space below for water to flow. They are going the way of a trim Kapil Sharma. And I am going the Kapil Sibal way.

Many have personal trainers. The trainers enable discipline and fun while achieving the impossible. Some trainers are good looking too. I suppose that helps. The ladies may be able to tell more. What would a personal trainer do with me? Maybe use me as a reference in a classroom. This is not what you become. This is the opposite of where you need to go.

I love the men and women with washboard abs. I did the crunches too for a period when my back was good. I too stood in front of mirrors like they do. I too pulled up sweaty tees. They see etchings on walls. I saw Anil Kapoor hair. Their tees stayed up. My tee went down and was never brought up again.

But life does not cease to surprise. Maybe one of these days, I will do something.

Maybe, build a 56' chest. And point towards it with two hands. And talk into microphones.

The Asian invasion

I am Patrick. Short being Pat. Am an amiable Brit. I like Cricket on the weekends. I watch it. Don't play. Me and the missus get around to seeing a few games in the Midlands during the summer. We take our umbrellas. Brit weather, you know. We carry the sunglasses too. Brit weather, again. We rejoice if it is 11*C and the sun is over us. It used to be good back in the seventies. Snow, Botham and Willis. Gower, Gooch and Holding. Watch a game. Have a pint. Take the 9.32 home.

Then the Asians arrived.

Don't take me wrong. I am not the type to abuse them at the Ginger Pub with the mates over a beer. But it's impossible to watch and savour a Kohli drive if someone close is always dancing and falling over you without even registering the classicism of that drive. It looks like they've had a few even before they arrive in the morning. The Bangladeshis yell in Bengali and the Indians yell back in Hindi or the other many languages that they have. Their bad teeth aimed towards television cameras. They actually live for their cameras. The food drops off their laps when they find that the cameras are looking towards them.

Missus has got no interest in Cricket. She comes along because I go. She does the crossword during the matches. Last I looked at her crossword a few hours ago, she had drawn up quizzical lines emanating from the boxes. When asked, she said that the lines were because of the young men hitting her elbows as they kept jumping up every other minute. I felt sorry for her. How would DARWIN look if all the letters have spikes going all over? And she couldn't even glare at them as they kept muttering "Sorry" too.

The men who bring their Indian drums with those cymbals and one obese man who seems to wear a frightening contact lens and stare at the camera, were right there in front of us. When the cameras weren't looking their way, they ate. Or played the instruments. I could not hear the sweet thud of the bat on the ball all through the match. When the cameras looked their way, they became mini versions of Godzilla. Is being frightening a type of celebration in India? Need to research on that.

Even the Bangladeshis weren't behind. They brought in huge tiger dolls and shoved the dolls under my nose to make me frightened. I was, for them and their sanities.

This game used to be about tweeds, hats, whites and patience not so long ago. Am wistful. On the pitch, even now, I like it when the strokes are classical and the ball seams away well. But in the stands, it is as though "Planet of the Apes with bad teeth" has been released.

Well, one can't complain. They bring the economy to the grounds.

And what's this Jai Mata di? Oh, religion, is it?

Holy cow, they have this overt thing about religion, don't they?