Somewhere in Space

In the middle of all the euphoria, amidst all the celebration of high voting figures and low, one tragic story has missed the media’s attention.

This is the story of a young tribal girl from…no, sorry…the girl has pleaded that her name and identity should not be revealed, nor details of where she came from and where she is headed.

The story…her pathetic story begins with a dark and lonely night in the city where she had come to take her dreams forward. That night when she was waylaid by six strangers in a deserted alley in the forbidden part of town. To say that she was raped would be to trivialise the incident. She was attacked, she was molested, grave bodily harm was part of the agenda…and she was subjected to every perverted desire that each of the six men had.

How she survived that night she doesn’t know. But she did. And made it to a hospital where a kind Doctor and the efficient Nursing Team there took her under their care and slowly nurtured her back into a semblance of normal life. When she finally recovered her strength, her dreams began to demand that her broken wings be repaired. She prayed and her prayers were answered. Slowly, steadily she limped back into sanity. And began to prepare for the next ordeal that she knew awaited.

That was when she met this man, a pleasant enough chap. He was a crowd organiser for some political party. And he took care of her. He sent her to rallies where all she had to do was shout slogans as she was instructed. They gave her Biryani, some cash…and once in a while some beer.

Then one day he came to her hut and scared her. “What if you are pregnant, and don’t know it” he asked, with seemingly genuine concern writ large over her face. “No, I cannot be pregnant”, screamed the girl. She couldn’t afford it. “But what if” he asked.

At the end it was decided that she would take a Pregnancy Test. A date was fixed and she was taken to a place where there was a huge queue. Of women, men, young and old.

“Are all these people here for a Pregnancy Test?” she asked innocently. “Yes” he replied confidently. Again, biryani was given to her and a thousand rupees cash. And she was told that she had to do two things.

The first was to walk up to the man who had a small brush tip in his hand and was applying some liquid to people’s forefingers. After getting her little ‘tikka’ she had to wait for five seconds and then walk into a booth where there was an electronic God.

It was a box with some strange signs. There was a cycle, an Ambassador Car, a hand, a lotus flower and so on. Whatever were her dreams for her child were all represented there. She had to press one specific button. That was it. That was all she had to do.

In the meanwhile, the “tikka” on her forefinger would have dried up. If at that stage she could scrape it or wipe it off, then she was safe and not pregnant. If she couldn’t, sorry, but she had to accept that she was pregnant.

She entered the small booth after getting ‘tikked’ off and then pressed the button she had been told to. She tried to scrape the dot off, but it was adamant. After a few times, she gave up and walked out of the booth.

Her shoulders drooping, her face elongated into disappointment, she walked up to her friend who was standing there with more cash in his hand. And pointing to her held up forefinger she said…almost sobbing…I am Pregnant.

The man looked suitably shocked and tried to console her. A gentleman standing there quietly muttered…I don’t know if you are pregnant Lady, but you’ve surely been screwed.

And I walked off…dreading the thought of getting involved in this mindless deception called Indian Politics.

The last few weeks we have all seen a concerted effort by all and sundry telling us to go out on Voting Day and exercise our rights. If you think the idea behind this has to do with your good, you are sadly mistaken. Politics has been overtaken by mathematics and statistics.

In a world where a 2% swing can mean the difference between loss and victory, you are just a number. But that’s not the real tragedy.

This time, and more and more with each election, we seem to be running short of candidates with any genuine claim to fame. Most politicians are just ‘below ordinary’ people who have access to more funds or more muscles. They have no vision but their own. No plan other than systematic looting. In fact things are so bad that you wonder whether it is worth it to respond to the Cast your Vote campaigns.

Because let us face it, whether your vote counts or not, the chap or the lady who is getting your vote is just a different shade of scum.

Without doubt it has been proven that the parties are all the same. Trying to cash in on some perceived weakness or the other, cashing in on everything from religion to regionality.

The few exceptions are those so called neo-politicians who left lucrative and responsible jobs to get into the game. They are the worst, because we trust them and expect a lot from them but finally realise that they have to give in simply because they are an insignificant minority.

A JP in a minority is an impotent irritant or as AK proved…if you do not have the numerical strength you can be bullied without a problem.

And as he is but human, willy-nilly, today or tomorrow, the JPs and crusaders like him cave in and bite the bone that is thrown to them. And then the tail wag really begins.

So tell me, what should I vote for? To bring to power a party that has no history or one that has no future…

a party that has as its latest member a litigant police official who has the gall to say he was honest and efficient, or a party that’s headed by a gentleman out on bail with a few thousand crores unaccounted for…or one that thinks building temples or even rebuilding them are the cornerstones of a progressive plan.

The choice is not for us to make. In today’s battlefield, the lines are already drawn and the outcome agreed upon. But the next time, let us do something that will give us a relevant choice.

It is not really a long drive from my place to the Marriott, but when I went up the elevator to the 2nd Floor to the Muse Art Gallery where my friends Prashant Jain and Revathi Turaga were celebrating 9 months of their hugely successful Gifting Venture…I suddenly found that I was experiencing a desperate urge to pee.

So I left my wife alone at the entrance to the gallery and walked briskly to the loos, scared that I would not be able to hold on too much longer. The toilets on this side of the gallery are almost a mile away and the walk was lonely and brisk. I was panting by the end of it all, but quite satisfied that I had managed to avoid the embarrassment of wetting my pants. I reached the end of the corridor where the loos are and ran into the loo…

…only to be confronted with an unfamiliar sight. There were only six or seven cubicles with pots in them, but the usual urinals on the wall were missing. I had no time to think and I walked into a cubicle…did not even have the time to shut the door…and let go…

Minutes later, as bliss was replaced by a rational and calm look at the world, I realised that I had walked into the Ladies Section. My luck was good since no one entered the loo while I was there…no one saw me going out. And I walked shamefacedly back to the gallery.

And that is when my problems began.

You see the invite to the event had specified that we should all sport a dash of yellow. I did think of wearing a yellow shirt or throw on a yellow scarf but for once I decided to be more bizarre than usual.

A few years ago when I had lost some weight due to my illness and due to the fact that I had no trousers that could be worn at that size I had bought myself a pair of track suit lowers. One of them a bright incandescent canary yellow.

Many of my friends and family had made fun of me then but my recovery was more on my mind than any colour sensibilities. However, as I grew back into shape the kids,,,or the wife…or both…contrived to hide away the offensive yellow track into the back of my cupboard.

For the occasion however I rummaged through my cupboard, found the object in question and wore it with a naughty smile on my face. To top it all I had an old pair of Nikes that had a streak of yellow, so that completed my ensemble. To soften the impact of it all, my wife convinced me to wear a sober maroon shirt.

It was only when I was walking back briskly from the loo after my misadventure that I realised that I was in a new kind of trouble.

Due to a long period of being tucked away in the cupboard and perhaps due to non-use, the elastic on the tracks had lost its elasticity. And the tracks were slowly but surely slipping off my waist.

Now this was dangerous territory, and not just because I had forgotten to wear yellow underwear, but also because my mind was already dreading some CCTV footage that the hotel may possess about my foray into forbidden territory and I did not want to have a wardrobe malfunction any time soon.

So I explained things to my wife, gently and discretely held on to my pants, walked in and managed to say hello to a few friends. The  agenda after the candle lighting was the wine and cheese. But then I realised that if I held a glass of wine in one hand and nibbled on a cheesebyte with the other, the danger of dropping my pants would be more real than necessary.

So with the least amount of fuss, and without the courtesy of good byes I made a quick exit and managed a cheeky dash to the safety of my car…

Then we went home and changed into more formal clothes since we had to go to another party, but that’s a whole different story.

There was no security. No Priyanka in the wings. No Rahul looking casually disinterested. And Sonia was nowhere to be seen. The normally alert Press, especially in the sleepy town of Hyderabad missed the biggest event in its history.

Not since Alexander the Great had come to the Deccan so many years ago and spawned what was destined to be the ruling class in a Moghul Empire gone astray, had such a celebrated person come to town. And the rocks of Lamakaan were glowing with stifled excitement.

The audience was a mute spectator to the drama that was unfolding in front of them. Even the clamour of their frequent applause could not mute the hidden noise, the disturbance on the radar and the sonar…because it was turbulent below the surface of the earth and above. The skies seemingly went into pause mode to more carefully witness the great event.

And the hundreds of power point presentations that had flown via the internet in the past several months…the presentations detailing how the Indian Polity had become so family dominated that now, even sons in law were entitled to pecuniary benefits…or are they called peripheral benefits now? All of them were ignored…

And the hundreds of accusations, proofs, allegations and what have you were swept under the carpet of leaves that intermittently showered down onto the audience. Everyone was too busy figuring out whether Sanjaya Baru’s book about the unmasked Prime Minister was but a preamble to a time when the opposition would systematically proceed to strip the once highly regarded Super PM of his torn red underwear.

And Bob, let’s call him Bob for now…was in no mood to stay around while Delhi was getting ready to burn…and the family’s fingers were too sensitive now to hold on to the end of the rope as the fires blazed towards their dirtied fingers. Swiss knives had their limitations and the Caribbean was only good for a holiday if you managed to reach it.

But the question that remains is how did Bob meet Riyaz Usman? Better still how did he convince Riyaz to give him a role in the play 39 Steps?

How much was paid to Riyaz? And is this the beginning of a pattern? People who are in hiding approach theatre directors and grab lead roles for a price?

What a deception! Escaping the glare of a thousand accusing spotlights by gently slipping into the glow of a few applauding ones. From the theatre of the corrupt to the theatre of the absurd…what a journey!!!

And I…I tremble at the thought of meeting my friend Srikanth KM in a dark alley…or bumping into Saharssh Bubna who first pointed out to me, the amazing similarity between the villain and the hero.

Unlike the Earl of Sandwich who asked for pieces of meat to be placed between two slices of bread, mine was a more humble beginning. As a kid growing up, my idea of a sandwich was a simple Jam Sandwich…preferably with a lot of butter.

Later, as my family discovered the not so unforgivable sin of eating eggs, omelettes and fired eggs made for more adventurous fillings. And the salami, ham, bacon strips etc. made their presence felt much much later in my life.

But a sandwich has always been my favourite snack or even meal. And I have experimented many a time with some very innovative, sometimes bizarre fillings. The one I have yet to try is a Pimento Sandwich which I talk about extensively as Felix in The Odd Couple, a play DCH put up many years ago.

I have had the good fortune though of also trying out sandwiches around the world and as I love saying “From Mountain Bakery Sandwiches to Mecca Masjid Shahwarma Loaves” I’ve had them all and love them all.

I even have friends in the US and Canada who own Sandwich franchises. The Sydney Sandwich place on Pitt Street though is my all time favourite…both for the variety of sandwiches it stocks and for the pace at which they are consumed. My estimate at one time was about 5000 sandwiches per lunch hour.

Anyway, I have always wondered how the sandwich, which is but a creative rendition of bread and a few ingredients can differ from place to place and whether there was a tangible difference between a home made sandwich and a hotel made one, especially a fancy hotel made one.

As luck would have it, I landed up a few days back at Taj Falaknuma…undoubtedly the fanciest of hotels in this quarter of the world…and a Taj property to boot. And my foodie side got the better of me and I asked Girish Sehgal, the affable GM of the grand hotel whether he could ask his chef to rustle up something special for me.

Very graciously he agreed, and after a few minor clarifications, his chef asked me for a few minutes and then served up a whopper of a club sandwich. Given that he hardly had any time to plan, or even think about it, I was amazed at the layering that he managed, but then I suppose you don’t get to be a Taj Chef for nothing.

I casually asked him what exactly the ingredients of the sandwich were and he rattled off a few words…I stopped him and asked him to get it written down for posterity and for my reference. And so, here goes…

1. Lettuce Lolo Rosso

2. Roma Tomatoes

3. Oak Wood Smoked Streaky Bacon

4. Olive Oil and Garlic marinated Chicken

5. Pepper Chicken Force Meat Slices

6. Fried Egg

7. Salt & Pepper

8. Dijon Mustard Dressing

9. Cream Cheese Dressing

10.Balsamic Dressing

Served with a House Salad and French Fries

My Verdict:-

A sandwich, especially one that aspires to the title of a “Club” Sandwich has to be made with love, with passion and with a creative streak that can almost foresee the mingling of tastes and textures. The fillings can be as exotic and as varied but if that something special is missing, a sandwich very easily is reduced to being two or three slices of bread with some stuff thrown in between. Else, like at the Falaknuma…a sandwich can become a delicious piece of art…

And now I have decided that I shall embark on a Sandwich Tour of Hyderabad to start with…let me see where the people have fallen in love with the creation as much as I have…so if you have any suggestions, do let me know. But for now, the King…stays in the Palace

The year 2014 saw two important choices that were legitimized after spending a long time floundering in the alleys of indecision.

The first was the acceptance of the third gender or the non-gender as some people call it. No longer is it necessary to be a MAN or a WOMAN, Male or Female…one can be None of the Above…or both as the case may be. By accepting the existence of a third Gender the country has officially done the good deed of the year.

The second was better still, they introduced the NOTA option into the voting process and EVMs this time, came with the new option.

Wonderful. Great News. But if the NOTA concept is to be given life and a relevance that translates into credibility, this concept needs to be extended.

1. Are you honest? Are you dishonest?
   Are you None of the Above…
2. Are you North Indian? Are you South Indian? Are you None of the Above…
3. Even “Are you Andhra?” Are you Telangana? Are you None of the Above…

Questions and options like these have to put in some concerted effort and discover better thresholds, better tolerances…

Because as the world becomes a collection of freer spaces and communities become a web of consenting disagreements, mankind needs to evolve and weave for itself a more palatable benchmark.

Because you can’t be rigid…
you can’t be too flexible…
yet you have to be
None of the Above…

There was a time when the Hyderabadi concept of time was legendary. The whole laid back, Nawabi culture was charming and was built around the belief that nothing could be achieved in a hurry that couldn’t be achieved at a more relaxed, gentlemanly pace. We enjoyed the amusement of realizing that ‘parson’ (day after or day before by definition) could mean a few years back as much as a few years from now. After all, precision and time was a bourgeoisie concept. And we were all royals…by descent or by definition…or worse, by self declaration.

But hey, wake up…and smell the steaming hot cup of Irani Chai…things have changed and it is time to redefine definitions, reorder priorities and reinvent ourselves.

Hyderabad is now the capital of a new state. It is a state that has been won after a long drawn fight for independence. And victory has been ours at a huge cost. We have, as a populace, surrendered to the whims and fancies of political greed and pecuniary pleasures. But we did that, hoping that life as we knew it, would improve tremendously…and that our children and their children would benefit from our sacrifice.

But Hyderabad, the battle is only half won. Getting possession of a city is nothing…it is the baton of a brand that we have in our hands today. And we can either take this brand and run with it towards greater glory or drop it, complaining that it is too heavy a burden to carry. And remember, no one else…no XYZ, ABC, 123, 456 or anyone is going to run for you. They will be too busy distributing the booty. The onus of reinventing Hyderabad and making it a viable, vibrant entity in tomorrow’s world rests entirely with you.

And the first step you can take in the right direction is to learn how to deal with time. The days of Rip Van Winkle are over. The days when time was a stretchable commodity have gone. This is the age of schedules and timelines. This is the era of commitments and clockwork.

No more ‘kals’…no more ‘parsons’…only the ‘abs’ are acceptable in this new dynamic. The ‘chalta hai…dekha jayega’ attitude has to be given an urgent burial (and let us not waste too much time discussing the modalities of that burial).

The day the world wakes up to this new, more time conscious, more quality conscious, more precise, more dependable Hyderabad is the day when we can all sit back and congratulate ourselves on a battle well fought and a victory well deserved.

And the call my friends cannot anymore be “Come On We Can Do It”…it has to be “Come On…We Have To”. This is our chance, our only chance. Let’s not ‘d’uck it up.

Let our city, our culture, our reputation no longer be one of ‘baad’ as in after…but instead let us, each one of us, revel in the happiness of a Hyderabad reinvented into a city that always races the clock forward, and indeed sets the pace for the world.

If I am right…and I could be wrong…it was Shirin Bhat’s parents who were in the front row yesterday at Lamakaan. And if you wanted an honest opinion about what they thought of the play/s, one look at them would have been enough. Theirs’ was an expression that combined tears of joy and smiles of pride with the bliss of relief in a way no actor can.

Because without any hesitation let me tell you that the script was in a class of its own. Without giving any allowances for Shirin’s age, her experience, whatever…it was a good script…full stop! Sure it could have been better, but so could Hussain or Michelangelo.

More than the script the sweet little, innovative little interpretations and interventions…young men with placards…some tall, some short…splitting the stage into a wish list and a current affairs section…reserving the ‘punch’ dialogs for the end monologue…I liked the casual flow.

From a typical middle class family trying hard to be progressive when it came to encouraging a daughter to ‘settle down’…to a young professional trying to convince his uninterested wife into pregnancy…being pitted against a couple who in almost real time were changing nappies and warming the feeding bottles.

The play also gave us a real indication of what Sachin Tendulkar is being reduced to after he retired. He is now fodder for marital arguments, an ice breaker for strangers and what have you.

The last segment had this stylish young woman in svelte black swinging from the ‘ooh I am so cool’ stage to ‘damn, I am being ill treated’ to ‘fuck you, I’m not going to take this shit’ phases with amazing ease.

Keshav Deepak on lights was like a musician playing with the dimmerstat and the way he adapted to the setting sun showed his mastery of lighting control to a wonderful extent.

I loved the way the entire cast did away with mikes…lapel, ground or whatever…the projection was clear and natural. And just right for the audience at Lamakaan.

And as far as acting goes everyone did their job with ease and elan. But one guy stood out…Atul Rastogi I think was his name…

Rahul Reddy, the director has to be commended for a job well done…but I must ask why it was necessary to have him (or any male) read out the girl’s diary…if there was a note of discord…it was this. But all is forgiven for Daddy’s Little Girl

The other thing that was proven beyond doubt was that Shirin Bhat is a serious contender for the ‘World’s Fastest Dress Change Artist’ title…and she may win it pants down…

 

Whatever else there was or wasn’t, there was a lot of charm on the first evening of the Newbies Debut that DCH (Dramatic Circle Hyderabad) had crafted out of a recent workshop that had been conducted as part of the DCH 50th Anniversary Celebrations.

The most important thing that the evening made evident was that there is no lack of either talent or commitment in the new lot of theatre wannabes. If not for the announcement that most, if not all the performers were first timers on stage, we wouldn’t have known. Kudos to them for a very commendable first effort.

It was notably a serious shift from the typical English-English performance…and natural guttural accents were allowed free flow. Naturally, in the Lamakaan setting the usual perfectly styled sets were given the go bye…and on stage properties were kept to a minimum.

If you have been a Dramanon fan, the evening would have been nostalgic since at least two out of the three were part of their Anton Chekov repertoire. But so what?

If there was any flaw in the performance it was in the Sound Department where obviously due to technical misunderstandings there were intermittent sound overloads and blowouts. But that is excusable in an ‘among friends’ environment that it surely was at Lamakaan.

As this group matures and mellows with more and more performances, one is sure to see a downplaying of accents and perhaps even an under-toning of ‘overaction’. But Ladies and Gentlemen the future has shown itself…albeit a glimpse only. And that is always a gratifying experience.