Somewhere in Space

I drove today. And I rode a motor cycle. They are to blame for my madness. And I downed two large pegs of Mount Gay, a rum that dropped in home from Barbados. So stop looking at me like I am bonkers.

Let’s try a play, an inner voice said to me. Just before the curtains of my eyes decided to come down on the performance and listen to the sleep induced applause that my wife calls snoring.

What should the set be like?

Yes. That is the first question I should answer. The story can come later. This is modern theatre after all. Not the fuddy-duddy story in three acts squashed into a shaky plywood set. With unstable steps and doors that never shut properly. Let’s have just one object on stage. A little off centre. Let’s have a traffic light. On a pole.

How many actors? Well, let us start with two. One can be the 22 year old chap who forgot to cut his hair. The other can be the 66 year old fellow whose hair forgot him quite a while ago.

And what about props for these two actors?

Well, let’s give them two different things to hold on to. Let the youngster have a motor cycle handlebar. And the old man, he can have a steering wheel.

Oh stop complaining Mister…sure you can have a power steering. Now can we get on with the play?

So the two of them are standing next to each other in front of the traffic lights. The lights turn to green. And they are off. The biker speeds off in a noisy hurry. The car follows at a more sedate pace.

When they come to the traffic island that the lights are built on, the biker swerves deep and does a graceful U Turn…his body swinging from a low right to a low left gracefully. The car fellow slows down and takes a gentlemanly turn without burning rubber.

They take another U Turn at the end of the stage…all the while making vehicle sounds with their mouths…mimicking a bike or a car respectively. By the time they have completed the second lap, they come face to face with the other side of the traffic lights. They are now facing the audience. And they are next to each other.

The biker looks at the car man in surprise. How did you get here so soon? he asks. The car man snorts and says “Safely”.

The light turns amber. The biker slides his visor down and revs up his bike. The car man is stoic. When the lights turn green the bike revs up one last time and races forward.

And comes to a screeching halt. The rider looks back and sees the car man trying to put out an imaginary fire.

He goes back to the car and asks…Can I help? The car man just turns away.

Why are you getting so upset? asks the biker. The car man doesn’t respond. The biker gets irritated and starts banging on the glass windows. The car man turns eventually and says…can we have a bit of peace and quiet please. I have a funeral to attend.

Oh yeah. Whose? asks the biker.

Yours’ my friend, yours’…didn’t you notice that I am a Hearse.

Mine? What do you mean mine?

Yeah, don’t you remember…you lost control on the turn yesterday and crashed into the wall.

Lost control!!! me??? I don’t lose control…I am an ace.

You were…you definitely were.

How come you are sounding all calm and collected? Didn’t my death affect you?

Yes it did. But I have a power steering. And power brakes. You had neither.

But I had so many plans for my life. How can I go back?

You can. But you have to write a driving test again.

It was once a favourite subject. And I was quite proud that I had graduated with Honours. But when I saw how it was being manipulated I lost all respect for it and soon I looked at every one of its findings with suspicion.

I am talking about Statistics. And more specifically Research. There are a hundred theories in statistics that compensate for a hundred lapses in research but ever so often something called the Last Mile Credibility lets the whole process down.

I used to have this problem with Consumer Research and Feedback Forums. While the theory and the bigger picture presentations were always logical and rational, there would always be a step in the game where everything would falter. The Manager for instance would be all about honesty, sincerity and integrity. But the man on the field would be a bit of a lazy lout or even just an indifferent interrogator.

So every time we got pulled into customer feedback sessions with Research Agencies presenting both ‘Quali’ and ‘Quanti’ data I would scoff. Who hasn’t heard of the aided recall experiments that were labelled as spontaneous?

For a long time I carried a kind of a guilt because once as an youngster I had been involved in a Research Study for a Milk Producing Body that finally led them to discontinue Whole Milk and switch to Skimmed or something like that. And all the 5000 forms filled had been filled by my friends and me with data stolen from the Telephone Directory and fabricated opinions.

Then I came across teams of Surveyors who could be coaxed to let the results show what was required. It was almost as crazy as the witness for prosecution being the same person who was the witness for the defence.

But one thing always stood out. And that is Questionnaire Design. The Questions were so framed to elicit information at different times in different ways and on several occasions. This made sure there was not only rationale but also an in-built safety mechanism that removed everything from duplication to falsification from the ambit of the study.

But today’s Form that I filled and the Surveyor who came home to get it filled, left me aghast with the entire farce.

Let’s start with a couple of questions about my house that we were sitting in when the questions were asked. What kind of a roof do you have? And I said, quite incredulously…RCC. And the man writes “aarsee” and carried on to the next question.

And then he asks me questions from the section meant to be for orphans. When asked why, he turns around and blames me because I said Late Mr. So and So when asked about my father. And then I hear him wondering if I am getting some benefit from the Government because both my parents had passed away.

Then after writing the letter F in the column for sex of the individual he asks me why I have no sons.

Oh did I mention that I was filling in a form in English while he was questioning me in Telugu from a different form. And when I asked him to explain or look up the meaning of a word marked with an asterisk he told me that it was for decorative purposes only.

This was before telling me and my wife very clearly that he had come home at his expense and would not be averse to any kind of reimbursement.

The last few weeks have seen the rumour mongers scrambling over misinformation about the motive of the study. A study that perhaps for the first time in the history of the world has had the Government declare holidays just so that we could all be at home when the Data Collectors arrived. And I was worried.

Will they take my details and hack into my bank account? Will they brand me as something I am not? Will it affect the many subsidies that the Government is giving to Burger Joints, Sandwich and Salad Centres, Pubs, Bars, Hi-Fashion Stores etc. that my daughters frequented? Will I be considered a traitor just because I like ‘Avakai’…

But what worries me now is what kind of decisions and directions will this government take depending on this mammoth survey?

Because I am a hundred per cent sure that the process is flawed…even if by some chance the objective is not.

Because I am a hundred per cent sure that the findings are going to be as bizarre as the methodology.

After intensive study and careful collation of details it has been found that people who live in Banjara Hills in houses that have more than 6 rooms and a kitchen, are probably Income Tax Payers.

Similarly it can be said that homes where there are only daughters do not have sons. And there are homes even in this day and age where electrical appliances are not used when there is no power.

And tea is not most expensive in five star hotels. Its price when mentioned as reimbursement of chai-paani ka kharcha can run into a few hundreds of rupees.

God Bless Telangana. A State that we fought for?

It all started with BRS Pickles first making contact on Facebook and then asking me to sample their stuff. I told them I would be brutally honest and they accepted.

And they sent me four plastic bags of four different types of ‘home made’ pickle, about two or three spoons each. My wife shouted at me when I brought all the plastic bags on to the table and insisted that I wait till she served them properly.

Fine, I said…if you want to be posh, go ahead. But I am going to eat these pickles with rice, ghee, the works. And you dare not stop me!

I was joined in the experience by my daughter and a friend.

We started with one of the chicken pickles. Nice and succulent. Well drenched in oil and masalas. And the meat had absorbed the flavours. But that was not so surprising. Just a few days my daughter had cooked some chicken that had been marinated in her Grandma’s Home Made Pickle and the dish turned out to be a winner.

We moved on, licking our fingers…to the Prawn Pickle and that was indeed very good. Strangely enough, prawn pickles were the pickles I’ve had the most of…almost always from bottled stuff. And this version was as good as any of the branded stuff I’ve had.

We tried the other chicken pickle. This one with slightly chunkier pieces. But marinated enough to be tangy. Tangy, mind you, not spicy. And that was the common denominator. None of the pickles were prohibitively spicy.

I had kept the Mutton Pickle for the last. Because it had the most oil, and that scared me. I thought the experience of this harder meat may prove to be disappointing. The pieces were close to minced. And the oil was pooling around the chunks. But it was quite nice actually.

Which one was my favourite? Well, I must confess that the Chicken Pickles won hands down. With the prawns running to keep pace. Of course the mutton, being the heavier participant, lagged behind…but not by too much.

And then I remembered that I had forgotten to take a shot of the dishes themselves…and that is a kind of foodie fixation. All food must be shot before consumption.

But I did manage to get an “after” shot, and that is what is the pic above…four dishes used to serve pickles after they were licked clean.

I wanted to write off a ‘review’ immediately. But I was reminded of another Foodie Credo. Food must be enjoyed from both ends. So I waited for the next day, and I’m glad to inform you that the stomach behaved perfectly…a good sign for the pickles. Because an upset stomach the next day would have meant disaster.

If you still want to know about the pickles and what I felt about them, do send me a message. I’ll be glad to ignore it

I cried. Yes, I confess to the frailty but I did cry. It had nothing to do with anything in my eyes. It had to do with an age old packaging of emotions that was despatched by Vinay Verma and gang at their wonderful play at the Telugu University Auditorium last night.

It was almost as if I stepped back into the history of theatre. The stage was small, not the mammoth Ravindra Bharati but the quaint and newly refurbished Telugu University Auditorium. The backdrops were layers of simple graphics. The props were minimal. The background score was ‘live’ even though there was no pit and no musicians could be seen.

And in this once upon a time land, lived a great theatre star called Samrat Singh Rathore, not to be confused with the actor who played the role of the ticket collector, but Vinay Verma himself. In a ageless role that starts from maturity and heads often towards the childishness of old age. From the trappings of memories to the failings of expectations.

In their quest to own the space that they are supposed to dominate, many directors have their actors flit from side to side, from left to right and back. But this was quintessential drama, nay melodrama. And this demanded centre stage.

So the eye was never strained to look around for the action. It was always there in front of us. With the supporting cast coming in from the wings and exiting the same way whenever the occasion or the script demanded.

The layered backdrops meant that the actors went farther back from the audience with every scene change. But that only added to the charm of the play and Vinay held onto his audience connect with such tenacity that the distance seemed immaterial.

The script was naturally written in Intimate Theatre, First Person style at one level and at the Second Person “I’m just here to add to the story” style at the next. It encompassed all flavours of Hindi…from shudh parishudh to ashud and anglicised. But did so with such natural flair that you did not notice the impact of the dialect until you walked out and were accosted by yet another shade of Hyderabadi.

The lighting was colourful as is required in period sets…reds, blues, strong source lights and in your face mood sets. And operated seamlessly.

The man who had it all. To the man who had to give everything away. But when it comes to setting a price for abundant love, the children find that circumstances cloud the horizon and make the grandparent an unaffordable luxury. In a show of regret tinged with sarcasm and wry wit, Vinay stole the hearts of the audience with his versatile performance but had to let go whenever Naren Yadav made an appearance…Naren’s fan club made sure of that. The little grand daughter was cute.

On a quirky note, the history of Hyderabadi theatre should recognise Kanishka Dasgupta who first brought in caricature Bengalis into his Samosas and Banerjees etc. But Malayban Lahiri and Shayontoni Ghosh took the stereotype further by mocking the BabuMoshais in our world…a good cameo.

Pallavi Varma is beginning to become like Nirupa Roy of the old. The ever suffering Ma. Which is okay but…Saurabh Gharipurikar as the son who cannot stand up to his wife plays the role of the hen pecked child with elan. The conversation between him and Vinay in Body Language was fascinating to watch.

But why did I cry? The mix of powerful dialogs, wonderful and resonant delivery, packed with apt music…the result, a very operatic mood control and uncalled for tears. My way of applauding perhaps.

Ok. I admit it. I am a sucker for quirky names. Especially when it comes to restaurants. Especially when someone uses a page from history to come up with a totally unexpected name. EAT INDIA COMPANY derives its inspiration from the East India Company and probably serves Anglo Indian fare I thought. And boy was I surprised, pleasantly surprised to discover that the menu was all about Delhi, Punjab and Lucknow.

But what took my breath away was the huge 100 year old iron kadai that hung over the table in the most intimidating manner. Even before we could recover from our collective gasp, I saw the matt blue crockery and I was sold. The fact that the serving bowl looked like a Tea Cup from Alice in Wonderland added to the charm. And (jumping the gun) as we were walking out, the ‘Somph’ container just tugged at our imagination and told us to mark this place strongly in our memory. A converted ‘Iron Box’ it was so cute that instead of populating this blog with appealing pictures of food, I am just going to show you guys this ‘good bye’ item.

That’s not to say that the food is not worth mentioning. As I clarified earlier, the menu at Eat India has a northern Indian flavour. The Open Kitchen mutes the transparency of the concept by making itself less obtrusive and discretely less out of your face.

The food also, and I must state this clearly, is very Traffic Friendly…as in it is very easy to transport from the plate to the palate. No speed breakers of the spicy hot or extra hard, un-chewable types. In fact the mantra here, and understandably so, is soft, melt in the mouth subtlety. And when you are told about an eighteen member team imported from Delhi and Lucknow…about the regular import of potli masalas from UP, then everything falls into place.

The Ajwaini Fish starters tickle…and don’t bite. The Haryali and Paneer Kababs lap up your feet like the proverbial ‘last wave’…with all the force of the ocean but with the strength of a baby. The breads are also typically turbanned. I for one think that something goes wrong when the tandoor is maintained by anyone from the South…perhaps his Idli/Dosa origins show, even in the preparation of the naan

The full floor open ambience is a delight and the Private Dining Room area that can host two individual discretions is also quite a friendly neighbour. When you realise that the management of the other venues in this building – Urban Asia, Via Milano and the Lost Society – is the same, you get the feeling that this place is showing signs of emerging as the Food Headquarters of Jubilee Hills, if not Hyderabad itself.

Without any offense to my foodie friends, I must also confess that there was a different magic in being at the table with ‘normal’ friends. There were no Photo Ops (Delicious Selfies of the Food). Most people just stored an aromatic picture of the experience in their minds.

But damned if the urge to talk about the food does not come to the fore…again. And I am forced to talk of the Paya Soup that started it all. Served in a handle walla kadai style container it was a curtain raiser that was true to the theme.

And as we took sips of this delicacy, an inner voice seemed to say ‘Aahistha Bol, Aahistha Bold’…Good Food Area. Do Not Disturb. And definitely do not blow your horns.

What a tasty and wholesome way of getting us all normally talkative people to press our Pause Buttons…and freeze the smile of satisfaction that lit up the place.

Thanks Ajay, Thanks Uttam…