This man had amazing resolve and would not smile despite the attempts of a handful of friends around him. And i thank him for that ;)
Click to enlarge. Copyright Arati Rao 2006

Blue and Gold inside the Jaisalmer fort
Click to enlarge. Copyright Arati Rao 2006

Another shot of the Mehrangarh facade
Click to enlarge. Copyright Arati Rao 2006

Jagmandir Palace is said to have inspired Shah Jahan some in his idea of the Taj... on Lake Pichola in Udaipur
Click to enlarge. Copyright Arati Rao 2006

The captivating Mehrangarh fort of Jodhpur -- i couldn't get enough of this one.
Click to enlarge. Copyright Arati Rao 2006

A shy flower seller in the little market at Deogarh
Click to enlarge. Copyright Arati Rao 2006

Jaisalmer's living fort... the golden city's crown shines in the dipping sun
Click to enlarge. Copyright Arati Rao 2006

The blue brahmin houses of old Jodhpur city as seen from the majestic Mehrangarh fort
Click to enlarge. Copyright Arati Rao 2006

On the Sam dunes outside Jaisalmer... camel rider at sunset
Click to enlarge. Copyright Arati Rao 2006

confessions of a chronic weirdo

Ok, have fun :)

1. I have a weird theory. every human looks like some animal. and thus springs this incurable tendency to observe and not given up until i liken everyone i come across to some animal or the other. Not behavior, not mannerisms -- just the face. Thus, my friends and relatives include bushbabies, sheep, cows, rabbits, lions, hawks, sparrows, squirrels and even sloths. so next time you see me looking thoughtfully at you,... :) Oh and dont bother asking me who you look like, i never tell anyone to their face ;)
2. My olfactory senses are a tad too heightened. And i associate smells with occasions, thoughts, feelings, people. i remember perfumes people wear [oh, and BO as well :(]. and each time a relevant whiff comes my way, i remember things. Some unpleasant, some nice... depends on the nose :)
3. On the subject of noses, i have a pretty large and ugly one [hey cyrano, i hear ya!] -- and i study others in detail. in a boring meeting, if i already know what animal each participant is, i look at their noses. when seen in isolation, the nose is a pretty funny creature. and no two are alike. and when i see some, i burst out laughing... and once i start giggling, hard to stop me. Noses have put me in awkward situations once too often ;)
4. Swarthotisophobia: i suffer from this. it is the fear of getting into lifts (elevators for you american firangs ;)) that are filled with dark men. happens regularly in intel india and, as a result, i now dread the lift doors opening -- lest i be confronted with my worst fears.... i often take the stairs, especially at lunch time ;)
5. i love to dream. no, not dream of the future or suchlike. really dream -- at night. and i remember every one of my dreams. i escape war zones in them, i find ways of arresting a really high plunge into deep water miraculously, i find myself in restrooms with two doors -- the unlocked one i always discover after i start my business, i have discovered a hidden road route to Japan, and i dream of places i have never been to, that i am not even sure exist. but i remember them well. and revel in dreaming :)
6. On the same subject, the weirdest thing was this dream about a church, set well back from the road (some road, some place, no clue where) and with features i remembered well. and then, 10 years ago, when i first went to the US, we were driving to the Canyon [also for the first time] and passed flagstaff. sanat was at the wheel and was looking for a place to take a right turn... and it came flooding back. i told him -- take that right and on the left is a church. sure enough, set well back from the road -- there it was. that same one from my dream...

weird, uh?

hey terri, you're tagged! out with six weirdest things about yourself.

feeling weird today?

i've been tagged by dear 'serendipity' who challenges me to come up with six weirdest things about myself... watch this space for the update soon!

;)

a view from the other side

sanjana's school broke for summer hols. on June 10. and we packed our bags and left for the other side of town... another world, really. banashankari is a quiet suburban neighborhood with spacious bungalows huddling close to one-another flanking shady tree-lined avenues. sometimes i wonder, would 400 sq ft. less have made a huge difference to the house? one 20x20 patch of garden in front would've been so refreshing... regardless, the place is as sleepy and homey as they come.

and so here we are. living out of a suitcase and loving it. but it is a different world. the world of mallige flowers -- not CK One, lots of coconut in everything -- nothing fat free, where fresh veggies come in hand carts -- not cooled and cut and packed, and coffee is filtered, not instant. all in all, it is how it used to be -- simple, hard working and fresh :)

the local grocery store is the traditional barricaded-by-counter-point-desperately-to-merchandise-and-wait-for-service type store, but somehow, the waiting doesn't seem long. you take on the nature of the place... the languor, the easy-going "yen-saar" attitude and get used to having 8-person meals for under Rs. 500... even the trees seem wiser, older and happier... the trrring of a cycle bell in the afternoon just completes the picture of how, probably, bangalore once used to be.

i used to escape now and then to mysore for that feeling of suspended time... but by the sounds of it, may not have that luxury for long. the foraging IT industry has whisked my dear little native town into the frenetic world of electronic mayhem. new highways, wide inner roads, shiny new glass buildings, fewer gigantic trees, lesser breeze, more concrete, more exhaust and... exhaustion. one by one the old will give way to the new .... and not in every case will it be for the better.

for now though, i know, in a little corner of Dewan's road, in a nonagenarian's 90-year old house, i can still play a 1981 travel-scrabble with my 81-yr old dear grandma all afternoon long, sleep on a four poster bed in a mosquito net, and then wake up to her tolling a bell in the puja room, and have the most delicious akki-roti with fresh, home-churned butter...

and in bustling bangalore... still a sleepy green banashankari, where the fresh aroma of 80-20 filter coffee can ably salute a nippy dawn, gives a taste of the other side that is to die for...

the only constant is change

one harmless evening in the red room, soon after we got home and were shaking off the propah clothes, i heard a small voice...

"hey baby drop it down
i wanna see you touch the ground
dont be shy mumble mumble
shake your body like belly dancer

hey baby...." ... whoa stop!!!

sanat and i exchanged pale deathly pale glances..... who was teaching her ... akon?! "oh we heard it in the bus." innocent enough and the kid goes on singing it like a musical toy that is wound over and over ad infinitum.

the kids had no clue what the song was about... we hoped. the lyrics were beyond comprehension, right? we desperately pleaded with reason. heck she's 4 1/2. a small knot began in the pit of my stomach.

ho! if i only knew what was to come.

turns out, one day sanjana's teacher was taking her potty when a 5 year-old boy followed them and peeped in. the teacher scolded him only to hear a second giggle. and then -

5-yr old 2: have you kissed sanjana yet?
5-yr old 1: (giggle) no
5-yr old 2: you should
more giggles.

the small knot in my stomach was joined by a big lump in my throat.

if your excuse to "go back to des" is to "bring up children properly" (whatever that means) find another one.

call a spade a spade

i'm restless. i like things unpretentious. told like it is, seen like it is, appreciated (or not) for what it is, not what it isn't.

if something at a very base level appeals to me, i'm sold. i liked kalyug. there was a gripping pace to a good story, told with raw power that shook me well into the next day. i liked rang de basanti. the parallel of history as a backdrop with contemporary i thought was a brilliant premise... and refreshing. remember their expressions during the roobaroo song in the end? that's enough to buy my vote. oh and i enjoyed malaamal weekly. there was a genuineness to it -- a simplicity of execution that felt honest.

on the other hand, praise for people riding purely on physical beauty or name value riles me. ms rai being introduced as the icon of indian film or the international face of india is nothing short of laughable. while shah rukh khan has all the panache and chutzpah of a star, versatile acting is not his strength. there have been performances far superior to his even as he walked away with the awards. name value. star quality. ugh.

amir khan joined the narmada bachao andolan (nba)... eager fingers lost no time in rising and pointing accusingly at him. debates raged: should celebs join activists, do celebs help the activist cause... yada yada yada. the man is doing what he feels is right, or what he wants to. who is anyone else to judge or second-guess his motives? just on the basis of amir being a "celeb" makes him somehow unfit for having allegiances? or is it that he is a rich guy and thus must have ulterior motives in joining a high profile cause? i don't buy into either. i believe he truly wants to make a difference or bring meaning into an otherwise materialistic grinding urban existence...

on a different note, bloggers here are dissecting ads. that ads are no expositions of high truth is a given. they pick the voltas ad... people are decrying the "scientific principles" of the ad, the "patriotic jingoism" etc etc... when were ads "scientifically principled" for god's sake? did one dip in the frothing bucket of detergent ever bring out a school-boy's shirt ironed and crisp white?!! did a room ever fold up into a cell phone like it does in the amazing moto razr ad? show me one fairness cream which makes you fair enough to yes, go win a beauty contest?!! ads by their very nature are emotional, aspirational and yes, to some extent fantastic. their job is to aid brand recall and brand linkage and support a positioning strategy chosen by the company. No, no one will ever buy voltas in a fit of "patriotism" as the bloggers allude and snicker at, but hey -- if the company wants to tout its "made in India" image among the glut of korean, chinese and japanese AC makers as its positioning strategy, the ad is damn good at driving the point home. as for category and brand recall, it is emotional and explicit enough for the category recall and the brand is driven home like a bolt.

why do i care, tho? because my normally high tolerance falters, trembles and shakes in the face of blind adoration & false attributions.

sarfaroshii kii tamanna aaj mere dil mein hai...

la pura vida*

vida, you little girl
arrogant yet smart
the world at your fingertips
you make your own rules
and play by them so hard
nothing can stop you vida
vida, you little girl

you knew you could do anything
and you put your mind to it
talent was your ally
will power was your friend
as you reached for your dreams
nothing could stop you vida
vida, you young teen

you loved you cried
you wanted you tried
now your own little girl smiles
she grows with your dreams
come sun or rain you shine
nothing can stop you vida
vida, you young mother

but look around you
see things are changing
her carefree smile
exchanged for an unshed tear
his upright gait slumped
beside an empty crib
think! can nothing stop you vida
vida, you dreaming vida?

then again... remember little vida
you always favored the journey
over the destination, remember
the little things are what mattered
you enjoyed every small moment
yes, nothing stays the same
but let nothing stop you vida
not anything, not even vida itself

*vida is 'life' in Spanish; La Pura Vida = the pure life

patterns

The night sets softly
With the hush of falling leaves,
Casting shivering shadows
On the houses through the trees,
And the light from a street lamp
Paints a pattern on my wall,
Like the pieces of a puzzle
Or a child's uneven scrawl.

Up a narrow flight of stairs
In a narrow little room,
As I lie upon my bed
In the early evening gloom.
Impaled on my wall
My eyes can dimly see
The pattern of my life
And the puzzle that is me.
(Patterns, Parsley Sage Rosemary and Thyme, S&G)

a pretty-covered LP with art and paul lounging on it, inhabited long, warm afternoons in a bombay apartment shrouded with reverdure. this number stayed with me long after i moved out.

And the pattern still remains
On the wall where darkness fell,
And it's fitting that it should,
For in darkness I must dwell.
Like the color of my skin,
Or the day that I grow old,
My life is made of patterns
That can scarcely be controlled.

blank noise

My post for the BlankNoise Project.

remember that guy Madhav who called Diane Rehm to say that in india women are worshipped? where did he live, i wonder.

every time we step out of our homes, sanat finds it hateful that people stare at me. he stares back at them pointedly and they turn away embarrassed. sometimes he says "ey, kya dekh raha hai, abey?" and they hurriedly look away while i am half-afraid of their answer, if they dare give one. he finds it offensive, rude and lewd. and he's surprised at my reaction.

i ignore. a bombay girl, growing up in that melee, hanging out of trains, pushing my way into buses, only we know what that feels like. men, by and large, do not. and stares...? well those were like breathing. you get it everywhere. bangalore is particularly adept at undressing a girl with a look. bombay has the slllsss air-sucking-thru-tongue-and-teeth sound down to a T and delhi? old gnarled hands everywhere.

but more than the actual acts, what lingers is the mental dialogue i have with these characters. i begin to think about what it must be like in their homes. their wives? heaven forbid, daughters? sisters? is anyone spared their leers? my eyes well when i think of girls orphaned in the tsunami and earthquake disasters. men... uncles... all around preying, waiting, letching, leering, sllllsssing.

but in lands where smoking guns are ignored, i guess probing eyes and feeling hands can rest assured.

is perception reality?

So, so you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field
from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?

Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade
your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange
a walk on part in the war
for a lead role in a cage?

How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl,
year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have you found?
The same old fears.
Wish you were here.
(I love Pink Floyd)

what are you thinking? at this exact moment. are you forming an opinion of me? do you know how i feel? do you know me, now that i've written so much? said so much? can you look inside my head?

writing. reading. knowing. understanding. they are all perceptions. shadow play. interpretations. all protean. i write what i believe... now. i write what i want you to perceive... now.

am i what i write... and what you read? maybe, at that moment that i write it. but isn't it one's prerogative to change, learn, grow, amend and ... just immerse in the moment? be notoriously fickle? flip one's mind.

between writing and reading lives proteus. smiling in the shadows. playing with the words. moulding them like clay. first in my mind and then in yours. and he doesn't use the same dictionary or the same experience set. why, he isn't even himself sometimes.

isn't there beauty in ambiguity?

and just as you think, think again.

mera kuchch saaman

it started with something as serendipitous as a beautiful blog entry i chanced upon.

it reminded me of a ... ghazal? sher? nazm? for some reason, i decided on begum akhtar. now where was the collection of her ghazals? or was it gulzar? yes, yes... pukhraj. did i bring pukhraj with me? drawers flew open, books... papers... slip-sliding onto my lap like autumn leaves. no. no pukhraj. will the web have any of his poems? a furious, anxious keyboard yielded many hits, but not the right one.

darn. where was my pukhraj? "locked away in storage, 9117 miles away, with all your other books." Human Mind answered. how desperate.

maybe it is the milestone that's doing it. maybe just age. with me, it doesnt take much to send a passing thought into a cascade that trips over itself, multiplies and proliferates, barges into the realm of intense emotions and eventually metamorphoses into quiet philosophical musings.

and so it was with not finding my pukhraj with me. at that instance, i knew what i missed. no, not "books" or "libraries" -- no, it was nothing quantifiable.

i missed the trail of my life. collected carefully, sometimes randomly, mostly impulsively over years. like a bee adding to its hive, it all amounted to something. or so i liked to think. small incidences and instances that had come home in the form of random inhabitants... not looked at after that, maybe, but still there somewhere close... when one suddenly rummaged for them.

i missed those breadcrumbs. that symbol of continuity.

but no sooner did i feel that, than did Human-Mind-in-philosophical-mode slide noiselessly under my skin. like silk satin slipping over glass. like white on white. frictionless, almost.

"what breadcrumbs?" Human Mind queried impatiently.

"what trail are you looking for? continuity is a myth. what was, is only what you remember of it. your interpretations. shared memories. imposed influences. and what 'is' is but shimmering shapes on the horizon - adaptable, malleable, effervescent. go make of them what you will."

and so saying, Human Mind moved on... picking her way thru this and that. treading lightly, leaving no traces.

except for one musing nomad...

another year on

the crunch of leaves
on random walks
wet grass, green-brown ferns
bulrushes, daisies, pine cones
collected carefully
stuffed hurriedly
in a pocket
and forgotten.

until suddenly
i come upon them
some crushed, some fresh
but all there.
like memories.

zazen

i am not a lamp lighter. i light incense sticks only because they take me back centuries to jokhang, lhasa. i do not bow in front of beautifully crafted bronze and brass idols. i do not touch my forehead and neck (or chest?) when i pass a gopuram. i do not fast and i certainly do not pray. to god. i guess you can say i am not religious.

my maid today said to me "i have never seen you bow in front of god even one day." her tone was almost accusatory, in the light of sanat doing his rituals. my tone was slightly defiant, surprising me. "and you wont see me ever, not in front of an idol," i declared with a smile, nevertheless.

over the years, especially after moving back to india, i feel more comfortable with myself, my feelings towards religiosity. i dont feel compelled to conform anymore. if people don't like it, it is really their issue. praying and religion are personal and no one, not even my mom should have a say in what i believe.

so do i feel no reverence? no awe at a superior force? i do. my dad sent me this photo and when i opened it up, i drew in a sharp breath of calm amazement. the brahmaputra river valley. all the way from the high plains of tibet to the bay of bengal. my supple mind zoomed its way up to the yarlung tsampo that gurgled in joy beside me in tibet and swooped down to the depths of the serene, deep gorge of the ganges, in uttaranchal. i remembered the first touch of the icy cold water on a maroonish black sand bed. we rafted down the ganges, head upturned in awe at the sheer beauty. yes, i felt reverence. yes, i felt awe at the superior power of white water. to give life, to take it. to replenish and drain. to ebb and flow. like emotions. constant, yet ever-changing. there was my inspiration, my religion.

away from the glare of hot stars, i stretch out on a cold bed beside the small warm sanjana who snores ever so softly and lean towards her to take in the sweet fragrance of her freshly bathed skin. when i feel her cheek and the slight beads of perspiration on a warm summer night, i remember her laughter and her ready forgiveness each time i impatiently berate her fiestiness. there, lying in the dark everything seems so clear -- her wonder at the smallest beetle and her joy at the sight of her 'snoopy' and i feel humbled. here, in this child, is my faith.

when i walked on the streets of lhasa into jokhang, when i ran my fingers along those centuries-old, butter-soot soaked walls, i felt the same reverence as i felt leaning against the red stone of the 9th century temple at the base of nandi hills. stone bearing testimony to history. good, bad, ugly, bloody, glorious. history. i know i will feel that same reverberation in mohenjodaro, like i felt when i stood on the terraces at chittorgarh, or even when i stand in the archways of my alma mater xavier's. i know i will tremble with joy in the sunderbans like i did when i saw lion pugmarks in samburu. in such resonance lies my solace.

in knowledge, in learning, in virgin forests and cold gushing valleys, in a spirited child, in the paw print of a feline, in sudden pink of a stork in flight, in the joy of a passing shot down the line, in a perfect stroke of calligraphy... here lies my deference.

and i bow everyday.

piped water or pipe dreams?

my latest article for India Together went live when i was away... it was an exceptionally difficult one to write, on a controversial topic that has little concrete info around it, but much debate.

privatisation of water and the water situation in Bangalore's booming suburbs.
if you are still interested, read it here.

the best part about writing for India Together is the conversations and debates I have with the editors. subbu and ashwin are mines of information and any time spent with them is enough brain fodder for a month ;).

amazing. IT is a magazine i am proud to be a part of.

memoirs of a trip

there is something exhilarating about traveling alone. a permasmile -- that slight upward curve to the corners of my mouth -- seems to translocate to people around me and i find them smiling back. that then translates to a spring in my step and a general feeling of bonhomie all around. liberating. tho, i must admit that the phenomenon of people smiling back only happens in the US. somehow, that translocation of the permasmile seems to get lost somewhere between my face and the other face in other places around the world.

regardless, i find traveling alone liberating. and so this past week traveling sola, i sauntered over to the LAX airport bookstore. with a rare display of decidedness, i walked up to the "bestsellers" section -- for that was where my chosen book was, in plain view -- and picked up "memoirs of a geisha."

what followed was a 36 hour long tryst with Sayuri in Gion. clicking in irritation at the polite "indian vegetarian meal, madam?" and "would you like a hot towel, please?" interruptions, i traded in my meals (and sleep) as i devoured the 502 irresistible pages instead.

when i was 6 i remember telling my school friends i was born in Japan, a figment of my imagination -- borne out of a fascination for ancient Japanese culture, even then. i remember staring for long at hokusai's paintings of Japanese life and mount fuji (36 views of mt. fuji) and wishing i were there. i remember summer holiday afternoons spent trying to replicate his drawings of geisha ... that nape of her neck... those folds of her obi... that exquisite pattern on her kimono... the setting sun through the cherry and plum trees...

and Golden's descriptions of the kimonos in Gion took me right back to those days. there is so much to be said for an author's ability to transport you into the story -- so much so that your eyes glaze over when you look up from the book. i know i tried to imagine those stewardesses as geisha, silly as that may seem. and constantly, i found myself thinking of the metamorphosis of amiran to umrao.

for all the book built up gradually, i must say, it didn't deliver towards the end. without giving it away, i'll say this. the verve and details with which Golden captures Chiyo and then Sayuri's feelings, is lost after Amami. somehow somewhere, that magical enigma evaporates into rushed and tired prose. not nearly enough of Sayuri's voice comes through in the end. but even so, it is un-put-down-able.

traversing into Sayuri's Gion added that je ne sais quoi to my trip. not unlike the feeling i get, say, when i watch umrao jaan or ijaazat... sola.

--------------

tomorrow MoaG releases on the big screen in India. will i see it? of course. will it live up to the book? probably not. and i wont know until i see it.

but there is ken watanabe in the film. cannot be too bad then, can it? :)

four years, seven months on

Feb 20, 2006
she speaks a lot, non-stop, loves company and constantly wants to do "projects" and "dictation."
she fancies herself as preity zinta (no idea where that is coming from), loves hanuman and her microscope.

of course, her doting parents, grand parents and great-grand parents spoil her no end.

pill vill pyar vyar

the guys were thrilled about their 'pill.'
S: it's awesome man. take one 30 mins before the evening and the morning after is a breeze.
A: really? wow. now that is some pill, if true. I want one.
S: i have only two. i need one for tomorrow.
A: i want one.

this went on for some time while the girls exchanged quizzical glances that dissolved into giggles.

eventually, they had one each, spent the evening in revelry, woke the next morning and repeated the same. blissfully inebriated for 48 hours with none of the headache. the pill was wonderful.

the morning after:
A: can i get some more of these?
S: it's awesome man, yeah. will bring you a cartload next time.
A: (showing rare animation, clapping hands) Awesome!

it was nice seeing them after nine months. it was nice seeing everyone. the pleasure of sitting on a cool floor chatting (or not) -- simply soaking in the company of old friends -- was as refreshing as the cup of adrak chai i was sipping. this was the stuff my dreams were made of these nine months.

and the only thing that could beat their expressions when they saw me there was the frenetic beating of my own heart at the proposition of meeting them after so long. by the time i got to phoenix i had replayed how things would play out time and time again like a tune that refuses to go away. of course, it did not quite keep to script, but the effects were amazing, nevertheless.

the human mind is a curious thing. sometimes it frets and wails at change at first but then adapts easily. at other times it welcomes change early on but then longs for how things were. or maybe mine is just not as evolved as others. but one thing was certain. i felt at home where friends were.

when we go back (and we evenutally will), things may not quite be the same -- the novelty of us being there will wear out quickly, no doubt -- but for me, the value of these friends has only doubled with the distance. and i hope that will translate into more chai-time masti.

i did not get nearly enough time with anyone, being there for one short, short day, but that was my pill for the year.

stop us if you can

sorry, terr. couldnt resist a stunning parallel with your life.

humans came over one evening. some invited, some spontaneous, all very welcome. anyone who knows us, knows we can be loud. very loud. but this time, truth be told, half the humans had gone out to pretend they were chimneys. the rest sat lounging and snacking, chatting and bantering. a couple prefering privacy, hung out in the balcony whispering, when the doorbell rang.

i was certain it was the chimneys causing the complaint, but no. "saary, saar. please keep vaice down. some neighbors are complaining." haan? a finger went in the direction of the said "neighbors" and anonymous they were not, any longer.

bbb... but it's 9:30pm! heavens, some humans had only just arrived. oh ok, fine, we resigned. the whispering two came indoors and resumed close-talking. the rest pretended it didnt apply to them.

an hour later, pictionary. despite the supposed calm of the activity of drawing, decibels were rising slowly, spasmodic shrieks at inane suggestions were accompanied by guffaws... and a doorbell.

same security chap. "saary again sir. they [finger again pointing in the relevant direction] want you to close the doors when you have party." his embarassment was palpable.

the whisperers, chimneys (who had since returned) and other random humans proceeded to analyze what these 'complaining neighbors' must be like. giggling, guffawing rolling eyes pitched questions at the embarassed hosts. "are they old?" "why cant they live in a villa?" "who goes to sleep at 9:30 on a saturday night?" the hosts looked embarassed and amused in equal measure and apologised in spite of themselves, fuelling more amusement in the visiting humans. and the revelry continued albeit behind closed doors.

anyone who knows us, knows that these humans were not easily quashed under wet blankets.

well all was done and dispersed, suns had risen and set, a Circular arrived. These arrive with predictable regularity after any incident that riles one of the "committee members" in the apartment complex.

"No parties after 11pm. please close your doors after 9pm. do not move furniture after 8pm."

saar, swalpa adjusht maadi.

pogo's loss of innocence

have you seen the new pizza hut commercial?

javed jaffrey in his salaam namaste role would have been hilarious, just not on pogo. (pogo is a tiny kids tv network, but you would never guess, if you saw the ad).

still sporting his bihari accent "we will give you the sweet mammaries (memories)" cut to a strappy low necklined mom eating choc fudge (?) ".... and the sax..." cut to a saxophonist, but there is no fooling anyone what JJ meant.... and it goes on. the innuendos are severe, blatant and the accent completely out of line on a toddler/primary school kid network like pogo. come to think of it, pizza hut has been risque of late... even with its "wanna get fresh?" line for the freshizza.

anyways, this latest jj ad wouldn't have made the cut on network tv in the US and certainly not on nickelodeon. now if only it had not "the aired on the pogo, it was the screaming fony ed."
sorry?
eggjhactly.

look ... a culture shark!

this morning, when i was driving in to work, i saw a strange sight. polyester checked shirt on scooter, gesturing wildly. talking to himself? and then i saw the extension to the left ear. ear phone attached to the ubiquitous cell phone, more plentiful in bangalore than anywhere else i've been. look out of any window at any time & you will see checked shirts with moustaches -- one arm bent at the elbow, handset stuck to the ear. plenty of them. some walking in twos each talking on the cell. to each other? naah. hope not! patiala salwars with crinkled dupattas are not to be left far behind. their phones hang around their necks like nooses. indeed it is that -- a noose. no way you can escape a cell phone in bangalore. life comes to a stand-still if you do not have one. "give me a missed call." 'scuse me? uninitiated, that means call me so i have your number and can save it.
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stop at any signal and look around you. all you will see are men. seas of them, oceans of them. staring back at you. wait for the elevator -- make sure you don't balk when the doors open. men inside. tons of them. you squeeze in feeling naked for all those eyes bore into your back. walk into a cafe for more men. cups are set down and eyes are trained on you. you can be boy, girl, fat thin, beautiful, plain jane, big butt, slim hipped, blond, streaked, or simply average joe. those eyes will stare. you're in a car, in your cocoon -- or so you think. auto to the right and scooter to your left. auto driver, mom-dad with kid in the back will peer in. scooter driver and pillion rider make their hair in the reflection of your thankfully tinted glasses. else 4 more eyes would stare. and not just glance, not just look. i mean stare you down. until the light changes and they get a move on (or you move on). and probably catch up with you at the next light to continue the activity. and... not only men, women stare too. like when this woman stared me down in an elevator that went 6 excruciating floors up, up, up, to my cube. we're a staring culture.
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"silence" "people working, please be quiet." "no meetings in the aisles." "find a conference room for your meetings." thus go chandler corridor signs. cut to bangalore. the decibel level on the 6th floor of the airport road office is unbelievable. every blue badge is screaming over the amplified voice of another.

Blue Badge 1: "Aa server bantaa? yenoo, naa tarbekaa?"
Blue Badge 2: "What? The dealer has not replied? why didnt you follow up? you are underperforming."
Blue Badge 1: "Yaav server tarlii?"
Blue Badge 3: "helloo? helloooohhh?"
Blue Badge 2: "You should call back everyday! kya yaar."
Blue Badge 4: "kitne ka discount hai?"
Blue Badge 3: "why can't you do this yourself? this spoon-feeding will not do!"
Blue Badge 4: "helloooo? sunoh!?"
and then to top it all, someone puts his call on speaker phone! "this is anil, can you hear me?"

yeah, we all can, thank you.
was this the stock exchange i had walked into? i mean the noise level was insane. and on days that sales guys are visiting and occupying any which empty cubicle they can, the melee gets unbearable. you can forget hearing the person at the other end of your own coversation. can we ask them to pipe down? or find a conference room? no, that's not polite. 'scuse me?
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and so it goes. life in bangalore. frustrating at times, interesting at other times -- always entertaining. not so much kannada in the center of town as you hear bengali, hindi, marathi, hingligh, indian-english and the occasional twang. on saturdays, typical brigade road demographics go something like this: 20% women, 30% young men, 30% old men, and 20% white/oriental/blacks.

and often, you'll see a polyester checked shirt with a tall caucasian sporting green cargo shorts flagging an auto....

polyester shirt will say, "is bangalore too much of a culture shaark for you? this is aahto.... give it a shaat."

wokay, why naat.

umrao jaan 'ada'

yesterday i watched umrao jaan again. muzaffar ali's film about the legendary courtesan amiran, aka umrao jaan 'ada.' more relevant, one of rekha's best performances ever. i would go so far as to say that as the hindi film industry goes, this is probably the most complete film i've seen. period films tend to be opulent, excessive and trite... or plain silly. many such come to mind... devdas, for all its 'splendour' was bereft of any feeling. it did not move me, it did not stay with me... why, i could not stay with it and walked away after a while. parineeta was a favorite for a while, until i saw it on the small screen. it lost half its kashish and the melodrama in the end had always put me off a bit. lagaan was too long and too futile a movie for me. paheli lacked feeling and seemed all too blithe in every department. mughal-e-azam i have not been able to sit through -- but partly due to logisitical problems -- still, what i saw didn't wrench the heart.

maybe it is the players as well. rai is superficial, mukherjee lacks 'dard,' madhubala, while exquisite, shows that she is 'acting.' balan and saif acted well, but between them, there seemed little want -- and then the wall breaks.

but umrao? rekha's voice, its quality and tone and her eyes all speak umrao's heart. and urdu adds to the magic. every word spoken furthers the story and every song sung needs to be there. but more than anything, i never once could separate rekha from umrao. even if i chanced upon 'phool bane angarey' which was playing on another channel. i could still turn back to umrao and be completely captivated by the story.

muzaffar ali has developed the characters well. gauhar mirza's unscrupulous ways to nawab sultan's spineless demeanour. husseini, khanum, bismillah and even faiz ali. you know what makes each one tick. and of course, umrao.

25 years ago, 1981, was when the film was released. suhasini ali's costumes and the set design leave nothing to be desired and the attention to detail had me falling in love with the film pretty deeply. notice the paan daans, the curtains, the hookahs, the ghararas, the rings, the juttis, the pile of papers on faroukh sheikh's desk. shahryar's lyrics are amazing bested only by ruswa's shayari peppered through the movie. but i keep going back to her. it's her dialogue delivery that makes the difference. how does one convey the sentiment? rekha not only does each sher full justice, but also the intervening silences speak eloquently through her eyes.

and this is a film that does not shy away from leaving you disconcerted and wanting more. no happy ending here, just a real life tale of a girl from a long time ago. ali was dead-on choosing his leading lady. i wouldnt say the same for the leading man. you need someone who matches rekha's intensity. sheikh is bland. but probably very nawabi. though, i still subscribe to the fact that a nawab interested in shers would be more than sheikh.

rumours have it that jp dutta is remaking this film. with rai. reports gush "rai is the perfect umrao." excuse me. the perfect umrao has already happened. and rai cannot act to save herself.

i don't know if i will see the new umrao jaan. maybe if curiosity consumes me, i will. but i suspect i will have to antidote myself with the real thing.

for now, i'm picking up mirza ruswa's novel. and some more rekha films. (no, not bachke rehna re baba -- i know better :))

Post Script: Zindagi jab bhi teri bazm mein laati hai hamen... took me back to chandler and the company of sucheta's wonderful rendition. I miss those days and those mehfils.

announcement!

yeah, yeah, i would never have thought. in a familiar role again. though now i am in a different country with different norms. and i have to prepare sanjana who, as it is, gets to see me only in the evenings for a few hours on school days. just when i was relishing freedom and free hands, i decided (well, it kinda happened) to get encumbered again.

all those plans of adopting will have to wait now. a little at least. and this time, i will be putting on weight merrily -- where i was able to easily resist the intel canteen food in the US, india is different. intel india canteen, i mean.

yeah, i'm getting blue.... blue-badged and cubed.

what did you think?

with ambivalence towards one and all

to return or to stay another year? to write or to earn (two different things, u know)? to conserve or to consume? to drive or to walk? complete and wholehearted ambivalence.

not sure about you, but my life has been full of contradictions. feel one thing, want one thing but do something else. or, as i like to tell myself, life happens. but i end up being two things simultaneously, inside and out or inside out. or thinking two opposite things. feeling this way and that.

like the other day. someone walks up to the closed car window and taps. i ignore -- then steal a glance. a kid. turning cartwheels. i turn away then look again ... and stare. she's really good. in the back of my mind i remember a report. this is their life. their earnings are what you deign to surrender. (your pride, your principles or your dineros.) i'm confused. will she go hungry because i ignored? so i reach in. the lights change and we pull away.

darn! regret and relief. at once. next time, i tell myself. next time i'll give that child. but the next time is an able man with a young child. a girl. geez. will she get any or will he get his daaru? unsure and yet willing. after all i'd promised myself, next time. i reach in again and yet again the light saves me. or dooms me... to my ambivalence.

5pm bombay airport departure gate. a little boy selling magazines. no thanks, i don't want any. i glance at them anyway. no, nothing i want. "please, sister -- i need money for school." he's fibbing. i walk away. but something pulls me back. ambivalence? which school? "vakola government school" he answers with surprise. i shove a 20 rupee note into his hand and grab an inconsequential glossy. study well. "yes sister." will he, wont he?

richmond road, 12:30pm the next day. a girl turning cartwheels. a-ha. i'm ready with my heavy fiver. she taps, i roll the glass down a tad. slip the fiver in. she beams and turns to join her brother. will she eat? was i right? did i perpetuate a hopeless situation? shouldn't she be in school? everyday the same questions, every signal offers the same dilemmas.

my editor told me he was going to teach a class in the singapore school of journalism about the morality of indulging beggars. analyzing these doubts. and how to report on it. i think i need that class.

not for reporting, just for sleeping easy. until then, my ambivalence has free hand as it dances in front of me mocking my every decision.

many happy returns...

milestones i couldn't be there in person for, but thought of you all...

Suneel, Avantika, Maya, Nandini, Atul, Aria, Rahul, Runali, Ankit, Happy birthday!
Nandu-Raj, Id-Zee, Gau-Suneel, Bineet-Sarita, Deepa-Marsh, Happy anniversary!

Many happy returns to you all... some belated, some in advance.
we miss you all.

;)a

hats off to saif

salaam namaste, last night, alone (sanat is ni hao-ing in chi-country). nothing better than to stretch out and enjoy saif ali khan to the fullest. if you ask me, he is the hindi film industry's best comedian. not in buffoonery, mind you, but in pure unadulterated expressions that have you clutching your sides and guffawing. javed jaffery's dialogues also were to die for.

Lathon ke bhooth baaton se nahin maante
Ghost of the kicks not listening to the talks

typical indian fashion of planting "the"s everywhere and butchering english. and somehow preity, even with a tad bit of over-reacting and being loud, endears herself to you immediately with those happy dimples and heart-felt smile. arshad warsi is the unassuming find of the hindi film industry. the guy can act (have you seen sehar?) and is great at comedy -- again, not buffoonery of keshto, jagdeep and johnny lever, yuk -- but just reacting perfectly -- no overacting here -- to absolutely silly situations. yup, you can tell i loved the movie.

the disbelief part: whoever heard of a radio jockey's salary paying for med school in a first world country and a beach house to rent?! last i heard, med school kids only sleep in their spare time, being on call most nights. but preity (hambar... no, ambar), studying to become a surgeon has time for plenty more. and she does up the house really well... but again, these things cost money, no? not in australia apparently ;)

but hey -- thankfully, the movie is not judgemental or preachy about anything -- living-in before marriage, pregnancy before marriage, abortion, etc. adults (you know, parents, in-laws etc) are left out of it and it is purely a 20-30-something's point of view. came across as a pretty honest take.

the funny part is, i was looking for serious movies to watch (Utsav, Ghar) but no one had them and Salaam-namaste came my way instead.

willing suspension of disbelief is a small price to pay for a good laugh.

inspirations

there is a girl i have known since i was 6. she grew up to be slim and tall, ramrod straight with a head full of curls. with a voice like a tinkling bell, sweet and lilting... and a disposition to match. talented beyond imagination -- dance, song and sport in equal measure. not lacking in brains either, notching up degrees and accolades that make parents stand up proud. in short, a wonderful dream of a girl. but the best part of her is this... she never gets flustered. or if she does, it doesnt show. not a hint of anger ever and her smile doesnt leave her pretty oval face. she's like a breeze that walks into a room -- always cool and composed. poised with a capital p. everyone's fav niece and model child grew up without losing an ounce of that perfection.
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i met her at a bookstore and immediately knew we would be friends. warm, enterprising and smart with oodles of style and panache. her petite frame belies the strength and stamina with which she can scale steep mountainsides, not losing breath. shooting baskets better than guys and rattling off college football team names without batting an eyelid. if you want an engaging narrative, listen to her speak. she dresses up a house and keeps it looking like a museum with meticulous effort deftly hidden from the public. but the best part of her is this... she rises way above pettiness and opens up to let the world in. so confident and self-assured is she, she has a smile for everyone ("if you see someone who doesn't have a smile, give them one") and genuine love for her friends that she shows in beautiful ways they treasure forever.
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if i think of friends, i cannot not think of him. his energy invigorates you no matter how exhausted you are. and his passion for fun infuses whole groups of people. the life of parties and the most vocal guy around -- and one who loves his phone ;), you seek him out to make things happen. he comes from the lap of luxury but anyone more down-to-earth is impossible to find. sport comes to him naturally -- whether he thunders down the bowling alley or slams a forehand cross court. but what comes more naturally to him is niceness. this guy genuinely cares. the best part of him is this... even if he is down, out and broke, he'll stand up with a smile and make you feel special.
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all people i meet affect me in different ways and i always look to learn from the encounters. rising above pettiness, poise and calm in the face of cynicism or adversity, genuine affection, uncomrpomising fidelity to friends, an honest openness that makes you implicitly trust, making people feel special -- all these are qualities i cherish.

i hope someday i am to my friends the inspiration they have been...
and above all, i hope i never take them for granted.

the small pleasures of serendipity

a chance discovery by way of a NPR interview. how many times has that happened? too many to count. i know at least one bill clinton and one mother teresa who will find fiction attic interesting...

i did.

now, if there are any einsteins out there to join me, you'll probably find Orion interesting...

i did.

one day and two finds. i can sleep happy :)
by the way, see jada pinkett-smith here for an idea of how my hair looks now.

more books... and some hot blood

... thanks anu - the Marjane satrapi series sounds fascinating. indeed, am adding them to my list. remember zahra kazemi? iran has always fascinated me and her sad story made me sit up and wonder what really goes on in those closed societies. the princess series is another i have been wanting to read.

i also remembered an old(er) book i have been meaning to read and now that the movie is about to be released, i'd better hurry up: Memoirs of a geisha. on the topic, check out Jodi Cobb's research for national geographic on geishas. pretty interesting. Cobb is an amazing woman photographer who has also worked with and documented the lives of women in saudi arabia.
so the new added ones are:

1. embroideries
2. Persepolis 1 & 2
3. Princess Series 1,2,3
4. Memoirs of a Geisha
   

of late i have been reading about women in parts of africa who live a dismal, pre-planned existence. pre-planned by their father, who, usually in debt forsakes his daughter (some as young as 9,10) to men as old as 50,60, even 70 in return for debts owed. the little girls become bed-mates and then have pregnancies that are disastrous. they "belong" to their husband's family and usually have no recourse, save courage. and some use that courage to escape, others to just bear night after night of misery.

yesterday i heard the Diane Rehm interview on the Mukhtar Mai episode. much as i like Diane, somehow that interview -- maybe beause of the language barrier -- seemed irrelevant and dislodged given the gravity of the situation. and when one "Madhav" called in to say "women in india have traditionally been worshipped. why are you concentrating on this incident and clubbing india, pakistan and afghanistan?" haan?! the Amnesty guy present correctly said "ask the women who were raped in gujarat their story" were they worshipped? and the women in the north-east? how silly can these Madhav-men get? do they honestly believe that women are worshipped in modern society? that they ever really were? that they were not treated merely as objects owned? ask draupadi. ask any number of women. "worshipped!" my left toe.

sadly, when women bring up the issues of gender and women's rights, even well-read people apathetically dismiss it as "oh there's another woman talking about gender."

given the patriarchal societies that we live in, the day men stand up enmasse to fight for rights denied, we can be granted that apathy. unfortunately until then, whoever cares has to speak up. and more often than not, on women's and children's issues only women care.

i know i sound naiive when i say this, but i wish there was a way out towards equity and justice the world over.

which film are you? which leader are you?

come back and tell me what you are, if you take these tests ;)


What Classic Movie Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

What Famous Leader Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

notes to myself

one decision in feb this year allows me monday morning freedom to think back and ponder, to indulge and contemplate on the year, the changes, the decisions and the days ahead.... thanks, sanat.

am listening to Amartya Sen speak on democracy on NPR and mulling over what i need to do, what i want to read.

here are some books that i have to read for my own good:

• the argumentative indian (amartya sen -- history, culture and democracy in india)
• india: a million mutinies now (vs naipaul -- history of india)
• branded by law (dilip d'souza -- about the denotified tribes in india)
• my land my people (dalai lama -- his autobiography on life as a Dalai Lama and Tibet)
• adoption in india (vinita bhargava -- first of its kind book on what it takes to adopt in india)
• hampi (george mitchell -- descriptions of the ruins)
• extremes along the silkroad (nick middleton -- travelogue on the silk route)
• natural capitalism (paul hawken et al -- book on ecologically friendly capitalism)
• power to the people (vijay vaitheeswaran -- the energy and envt correspondent for the economist -- book on the energy future of the planet)
• monsoon (steve mc curry-- my photo guru -- need to study his work)
• the world is flat (Friedman -- you've heard of this, no doubt)
  
• eats, shoots and leaves (Lynne Truss -- a very interesting book on grammar and punctuation)
  
• other reference ones on various topics ranging from Shivaji to Photography.

strangely enough all the above are non-fiction. the couple fiction books i read in the past 6 months or so are by Dan Brown (DVC and A&D) and by Satyajit Ray (adventures of Feluda). if you are looking for a quick mystery, pick up the feluda series. quintessential Ray, it is fast moving, graphic in expression and with curious twists.

what i am realizing more and more is that there is no substitute (for me) for reading and learning. i have so much to catch up on, recognizing that in the ten years i was away, i did a bad job of keeping up with what was happening in india. i was interested in social issues and environmental problems, but didnt keep up my end of the bargain by reading about the developments. so now i have to double up and run faster. i feel the need for a mentor. someone who has been through this process and is a successful, sincere and aware journalist. someone who can guide me or at least keep me honest.

india is teeming with talented journalists and knowledgable people with more than an equal number of charlatans. as the curtain falls on another year, it's up to me to make sure i belong to the former and not to the latter group.

mehendi rang layegi

life plays out strangely. arathi (with an h) got married yesterday.

16 years ago, i joined St. Xaviers college, Bombay doggedly certain that i wanted to only study physics. Xaviers is a culture unto itself and anyone having passed through its haloed doors is a citizen of a community that connects on some innate level. but, for all that, there is snobbery and snootishness galore from some who live, say, in "napeansea road" rather than, say, in dadar.
so quite often, dadar hangs out with mahim and kanjurmarg hangs out with chembur. napeansea road hangs out with carmichael road. but somewhere along the way, as one grows up and charts life paths, carmichael road finds kinship with chembur and santacruz is best buddies with cuffe parade and it equals out eventually. but when one is 16 or 17, being from "napeansea road" matters. and being from "the suburbs" matters even more.

and so, as affinities developed, anupama, arathi, arati and aparna hung out together. like minds, like lifestyles and like natures. inseparable 4-As we were called. then suddenly, one day -- a month into my three year sojourn at Xaviers, arathi disappeared. just like that. no byes, no explanations. anupama, aparna and arati stuck on, finished their bachelors and then went separate ways with the due byes and "we'll catch up later." oh, and we did.

but arathi (with the H) was awol. until 6 years later. sanat and i were getting married. and sanat casually mentioned one day, "my cousin was in xaviers for a month -- her name is also arathi." eureka! i had found the missing fourth member of our gang. turns out she'd left to study engg in pune suddenly. suddenly was right... but, it was great to see her again.

she disappeared and re-appeared several times in the decade of my marriage to her cousin, but somehow we always knew the general area she was in. for now she was related. and relatives have a way of keeping tabs ;)

and now, 10 years on, arathi tied the proverbial knot. and once again will disappear -- this time to dallas. but, today, we are going out for dinner and "byes" and au revoirs will definitely be exchanged. this send off will be proper.

i'll miss her though. she's a fun loving, talented, interested creature.
and yes, afterall, she's a xavierite.

;)

Who cries when mothers die?

here's my second article for India Together:
It's a little long, but the problem is no mean one either.

Who cries when mothers die?
The probability of an Indian mother dying during childbirth is roughly 10 times that of her Chinese counterpart. Reducing the Maternal Mortality Ratio (MMR) by three-quarters in 10 years is now a Millennium Development Goal. Why is MMR in India so high and how far are we from the goal? Arati Rao unravels the many challenges to saving mothers' lives.

21 November 2005 - Lhamu, a mother of twelve, lives in a remote village in Western Tibet. Three of her children died within a month of birth and the four year old strapped to her back looked as small as a one year old. She gave birth all alone, at home, all twelve times. But Lhamu was lucky. She didn't die. One in 33 women dies during childbirth in Tibet. Malnutrition, abject poverty and lack of any health care – however basic—plagues Lhamu's family, as it does much of Tibet. Tibet – vast lonely stretches of dead habit with nary a creature on its harsh plains and no economy to speak of. It can't be as bad here in new economy India, right?

Think again.

One in 48 women in India is at risk of dying during childbirth. The Maternal Mortality Ratio (MMR) in India is a high 407 per 100,000 live births, according to the National Health Policy 2002. Other sources put the MMR at a higher 540 (NHFS and UNICEF data, 2000). Reducing the Maternal Mortality Ratio (MMR) by three-quarters by 2015 is a Millennium Development Goal (MDG) for all countries including India. Achieving this means reducing the MMR to 100 by 2015. Part of the problem is this measurement – MMR data is just not there and if it is, it varies widely depending on what method was used to get it.

Studies show MMR among scheduled tribes (652) and scheduled castes (584) is higher than in women of other castes (516, according to one study). It is higher among illiterate women (574) than those having completed middle school (484). The key determinant seems to be access to healthcare. Less-developed villages had a significantly higher MMR (646) than moderately or well-developed villages (501 and 488 deaths, respectively).

"It is very sad that the numbers are so high even 57 years after independence," avers Dr H Sudarshan who is Vigilance Director (Health) of the anti-corruption body Karnataka Lokayukta. "Not only are the numbers from the Sample Registration System (SRS) high, they are also incomplete. We do not know how many mothers actually died during childbirth and why. Underreporting is rampant and people hide MMR numbers in fear of repercussions. We need state-wise and within states, district-wise data," says Sudarshan who was also Chairman of the Karnataka Health Task Force which made wide-ranging recommendations based on a 2-3 year detailed study conducted in the state. Regardless, the UN MMR numbers for India (540) are several times higher than those for other developing countries like China (56), Brazil (260), Thailand (44), Mexico (83) or even Sri Lanka (92).

Medical reasons

So what exactly leads to such a high MMR? ....

read the full article on the India Together website: http://indiatogether.org/2005/nov/hlt-steepmmr.htm