Somewhere in Space

Breakfast for me has always been the heartiest meal of the day. Something I attack with gusto. And my lament for years has been that there is no breakfast place in Hyderabad.

Sure we have thousands of idli-dosa options, but a proper ‘English’ breakfast has been missing. Yes of course, the clubs have been known for a good breakfast platter and so have some of the star hotels…but a pure breakfast place…serving a hearty ranch type breakfast has not unfortunately made an appearance in the twin cities.

So when Vishal invited me to a new place Ci Gusta for a soft launch of sorts I was ecstatic. I arrived at the venue (in the lane opposite the Madhapur Police Station, just about a hundred yards down, to the left), at the appointed time. And walked into the sexiest reception counter in the city.

The counter promised me froyo (frozen yoghurts). And I knew that I was about to fall in love. I stepped into the wide open, bright and welcoming restaurant and saw that a few of my foodie friends had reached before I did.

Exchanging warm hellos, I took a spin of the place and saw some promising fittings and fixtures.

The coffee machine. The freezer. The cutting table. And the juicers. This place meant business I realised. And then I sat down for the sampling.

The bread was good, apparently it is in-house bred. The homemade strawberry jam and orange marmalade were exquisite.

But then, the first sign of trouble appeared. The restaurant was obviously overwhelmed with the number of people who were there. Slowly, the service levels dropped and the gap between dishes became inordinately long.

For example, a delicious beaten curd and fruit combination was preceded by at least fifteen minutes of waiting aimlessly. Then the gorgeous Cous Cous Upma with its peas and pomegranate texturing filled in the blank while we were salivating in wait for our eggs.

Eggs Benny…Eggs Royale…Eggs Florentine…the eggs on bread with creams, sauces and sprig leaves…amazingly cooked…tempered with slivers of salmon or turkey ham…on dollop sized buns…the fare was complete.

Or so we thought…waffles, pancakes, parfaits, coffees and caramelised muesli later we knew that the formula had been discovered.

The place was great. The food was exquisite, kudos to the Chef. But the gaping hole was the service. And just because I love this place so much, I pray that they get this aspect of the eatery right and soon.

But even otherwise, if you are prepared to be kind and patient, this is a place where you should start your mornings.

I am imagining an early morning session…say 7-730…a set of news papers, or a laptop with wifi…coffee/juice…uninterrupted breakfast…more coffee…and then back home by 11 or so. With a full day’s work already put in from the comfort of a friendly neighbourhood.

As I said my good byes to my foodie family I could see that all of us were raving and saying together See You Soon @ Ci Gusta.

While I have never been a great devotee of Puttaparthi Sai Baba, my parents were staunch believers. And I think my mother’s life purpose was fulfilled, when thanks to my sister and her in-laws, Mom actually had a one-on-one darshan with her God.

When I was in hospital a couple of years ago, battling death so to speak, many of my family members and my friends assured me that Baba was with me. In fact I used to wake up many times at night in the hospital and find that a small packet of ‘Paramam Pavitram, Baba Viboodhi’ was always under my pillow…and I guess that the fact that I am alive today should make me convert to ‘Baba’ism.

But I have remained at the gate, looking in but hesitating to step in. Why? I do not know. From experiences shared by my Christian friends I surmise that perhaps I have not yet been ‘called’.

In the meanwhile however I have discovered that I love the bhajan sessions that a few of Baba’s devotees conduct. There is an amazing adherence to schedule. There is an amazing display of passion and devotion. There is an energy that reaches out and engulfs all around you with divinity. And the climax, the aartee…gives you the feeling that you have reached God’s doorstep.

There is no remarkable singing prowess…there is no great composition…just a series of chants that invigorate your entire being. And by the end of the exactly 60 minute experience you feel you have connected.

I had a similar experience recently at Babaji’s place. Maybe the discipline and the seamless transition from one chant to another was not there…but the devotion was identical, the ecstasy was the same. And the rough edges actually made the evening more inspired.

Strange how we find islands of serenity and treasure houses of love. Especially when we are not looking for them.

Now, imagine this…

I’ve lived for the past few months with a slowly dwindling collection of teeth. Teeth that were once a mouthful have been falling by the wayside so to speak. No gum left to support them you see. And for some peculiar reason, my health did not allow extraction.

It’s been hell. My smile, indeed my laughter, has been stifled. My appetite has been reined in. My voice has air bubbled into mike-disturbing blows.

And while I wasn’t worried about the gaping hole in my teeth from a cosmetic point of view, I was definitely concerned about the impact this situation had on both my passion and my profession.

I love life, I love food…and I make money from my voice you see. And the very foundation of my personality was now not just shaky, but literally falling apart.

I spoke to my friend and Dentist of a few years and he finally suggested a temporary pair of dentures. And after a few weeks of measurements, moulds and fittings, finally yesterday I was fixed.

And thus began a period of acclimatisation and adjustment. I had to get used to laughing with my teeth. To eating with my teeth. To drinking with my teeth. To speaking with my teeth.

It wasn’t easy. I almost gave up. But I was told not to give up. “In a few days you won’t even know that you are sporting dentures” assured my doctor. So I braved on.

Then the kids and the wife came back from work and suggested that since a double celebration was in order…my teeth, and my daughter’s birthday…I should make an evening of it.

Now, except for some soft Dal & Rice for lunch and a couple of soft Vadas for a snack in the privacy of my home, I hadn’t yet ventured out. I wasn’t quite ready for coming out of the ‘closet’.

So we decided to dine at a favourite place. A place that we loved not only for its excellent food and service, but also for the quiet and peaceful ambience it provided. Plus of course, it was so close to home.

We reached Ziti’s a little after 9pm. And were pleased to find just a couple of tables taken. Strangely, most of the tables occupied had men at them Two here, three there…see what I mean.

Only one table had three (later four) young men and one lady and all of them were negotiating their way through a meal and a laptop.

And that’s where the problems crept in.

All the male only groups left discretely. ‘Wonderful’, I thought to myself. My relief was only momentary.

A quiet, harmonious place like Ziti’s was suddenly assaulted by the shrill, high pitched cacophony that the lone lady passed off as conversation, flaunted as a voice.

Look at her and you wouldn’t believe she was capable of such irritation. But I promise you, within seconds of our settling down, she began to grate.

The conversation was about some web content, some target and pattern identification and some programming benchmarks. I couldn’t understand a word and only prayed that the group exited soon.

But No! They sat on…and then a friend joined them. And that poor fellow was interviewed on the spot and some seriously good advice about foreign travel and credit/debit cards was bandied about.

In the meanwhile, our conversations were stunned into silence. My irritation began to show. And the kids had a hard time preventing me from making a scene.

I had to ask for a second round of starters simply because the first did not even register in my memory bank. My coke had to be repeated too.

Luckily, by the time my main dish arrived, some grilled bassa and a tiny portion of rice, the group had finally heard their calling and had left for their destination…happy with the ‘Jugaad’ they had planned and the alcohol they wanted to consume.

The rest of the evening shaped up well but I was still not in a mood for dessert. So we decided to get back home and have a celebratory drink.

The moment I stepped out from the restaurant, the cold hit me. And I began to shiver. My teeth began to chatter. And this was a whole new experience. I was worried about whether the rattle could be heard outside. Worried if my new teeth would fall out.

But my daughters were quick to the rescue. They switched on the heater in the car. The wife threw around me a shawl (and her arms). And I reached home, a quietened man.

A couple of scotch’n ice shots and I was fine…singing a lusty happy birthday song as my daughter cut an assortment of cupcakes.

Damn, I thought later, as I was slipping out of my teeth…damn, but I pity the guy the girl at the restaurant is destined to marry. The poor chap will never be able to have ‘sweet nothing’ conversations with his wife. Doesn’t matter.

As long as they don’t come to Ziti’s…ever again. Bloody hell…that voice still rankles in my mind. I better get into some pa’jazz’mas.

The name Marrakesh had always intrigued me. Of course I remembered that Marrakech was an ancient city of commercial power and wealth. And the name triggered off Arabian Night images.

But the road to Marrakesh Hyderabad was reportedly rocky and I was advised by the kids not to attempt scaling the rocks even if I was missing a few special occasions in the bargain.

Last night however was an occasion I could not miss and I braved the dangers of the uneven steps rock-cut into a treacherous topography and ventured forth into the depths of the city’s most rugged celebration destination.

As I reached the amphitheatre which had been brilliantly lit up with amber star lights and sky lanterns, I heard strains of the Indian Ocean, a band I had heard here a few years back. By the time I had walked down the steps, albeit with the assistance of helping hands, I was almost out of breath. And I wondered if I had not pushed myself too far, too soon.

But as I walked onto the balcony and met up with my friends I realised that they too were breathless.

The spectacle that awaited us was a collage of twinkling stars, illuminated skyscrapers, placid reflections in the dark water, the warmth of a fire and the delicate light hangings that completed the picture.

And to match the ambience, the barman started playing a double black tune of Scotch and the service staff started bringing out the most exotic of starters.

Crab, fish, prawns, pork…the platter seemed to be endless. And the tastes were divine.

And then we partied, under the canopied sky. To the beat of Bollywood gone insane. And we met up with friends from a different chapter in life. And rewrote books of shared memories, while indeed creating new ones.

As I drove home, late at night, my legs were pulling from the strain of it all, my back was in agony…but I sat back with a satisfied smile in the car.

Durgam Cheruvu, the fortress of my childhood dreams had indeed blossomed into a party. And my favourite rocks had not been disturbed. Man had shown once again that he could coexist with nature.

I must go back there, soon. I promised myself.

 

 

 

 

So we had this driver called Younus. A cheerful enough fellow he was. A fairly decent driver and there were two things that made him special. He knew bikes…and he often allowed me to drive Dad’s car.

What I was too young to realise at that age however was that he was Hyderabadi and tended to exaggerate. For instance when he told me that he had driven my friend’s Plymouth to Bangalore in 4 hours or something, I knew instinctively that he was pulling a fast one (because in those days Hyderabad-Bangalore was often a 16 hour trip with an overnight stay in Kurnool). But I was stumped when in response to my doubt he clarified that he had taken a shortcut.

We tolerated fast ones like this because he was otherwise quite a nice fellow. Always had a smile on his face. And on long journeys he was of great mechanical assistance. For example at Shimoga, when our gasket blew because of our Jog Falls climb, he managed to get us to the Guest House and spent the next day at the workshop fixing a new head gasket which essentially meant an engine overhaul.

But the story he told me once about speeding is what stuck in my mind and I remember him fondly till date.

You see we were all learning how to drive, and I would take my father’s Fiat 1100d for a drive to the Tank Bund everyday and clip from one end to the other at speeds close to a hundred kmph. Which was perhaps the car’s outer limit. One day I got caught and Dad admonished me and warned me of the dangers involved, but Younus…

Younus got totally upset that his training had obviously not made an impact on me. So he launched into a story telling session that was supposed to start with ‘kahanis’ of his prowess and end with a bit of ‘gyaan’.

You think you can go fast Baba? he asked derisively. What is the top speed you can achieve? And when I said 100kmph or something close, he snorted and told us that the Plymouth he used to drive he used to go so fast that the needle would start reading slower numbers,,,like 10 or 20.

Needless to say I looked at him with confusion and disbelief. He then described how he was going so fast, going so fast…that the meter…when it reached its outer limit…just skipped the finish point and started registering speeds once again. So thanks to the clockwise nature of the arrangement, the meter, having run out of digits to keep pace…60, 70, 80, 90, 100…and again…0, 10, 20 and so on.

So a speed of “20” was actually 120 kmph according to the double clock system. And when he was really flying, his speedometer would read 100 for the second time…but those were dangerous speeds mind you.

Luckily I was intelligent enough not to be gullible. And like I told him once when he was crossing the limits of factuality…I too was a Hyderabadi.

It’s undoubtedly the most natural split-level restaurant in town. It has the most casual of menus and the most homely of fares. From Goan to Greek to Railway Club specialities it has featured them all. It’s a place I fell in love with the moment I stepped into it a couple of years back and only felt bad that the steps and the levels made it difficult for me to frequent the place more often.

I respected the fact that the owner took a long time before settling down to getting a Liquor License. It definitely filtered the audience.

I have always thought the place was ideal for intimate get-togethers. Each group of individuals could easily be given a separate nook at a separate level. There could be privacy and peace and quiet.

The restaurant on top, once the liquor license came, became a nice watering hole. It stood out because it was the most casual of all bars.

But my attraction to the place was for more theatrical reasons. As against the auditorium kind of space that many places offered, I had a soft corner for the multi stage opportunity that the topography of Truffles provided.

I imagined personalised acoustic (vocal or instrumental) performances at different levels. I imagined soft serenades. I imagined a muted reading of sorts where you could hear characters but not see them…and enjoy your beer.

I even imagined a fashion show of sorts where the models could flit from one table to another. One day I remember, I even thought of suggesting Truffles to a client to have their annual workshops…individual groups to meet at level 1, 2, 3 etc. And congregate at the restaurant later for the final presentations.

Of course, I never thought too much about these things because Truffles was already doing so much with its wonderful space.

I remember the Dramanon Auditions on the hilltop space…and of course the amazing sandwiches. And the interactive blackboard at the entrance.

But last week I was fortunate enough to land up there for some Trivial Disasters in the Sandbox Collection.

While the sketches were funny and the three actors gave the stories character, it was the stage backdrop that I had a conversation with. The damned illustrations were so comic that I could actually imagine that the performance had two audiences. One in front of stage and one behind. And the ones at the back enjoyed it as much if not more than the audience in front.

Every time I laughed for instance, I saw a face from behind the performers also laughing…and that was quite disconcerting at first. Then I fell into a pattern of figuring out who would catch the joke first and who would laugh earlier. The chilled beer that I had must have helped, but I think I won

I went home and thought again about my dream of doing something exclusively at Truffles. The idea of performing while people were having a drink or eating…performing without being obtrusive…that is engaging my mind these days.

Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I am tired of communicating with people only after calling for their attention. I want to communicate at a non-intrusive level.

Letting them enjoy whatever it is they are eating, drinking. If I can enhance their pleasure…if I, or something that I conceive…can become like the music playing in the background while you are enjoying a long drive and appreciating the scenery…then I will be happy. Content.

But in the meanwhile I know that Truffles has a lot of good things on the menu or in the pipeline…and not all of them are edible

 

 

With dining space becoming hard to find in some of the better restaurants, many of us have made it a habit to reserve a table in advance. That’s nice I suppose. And the way Restaurant Managers lead you to the appointed table and quickly whisk away the ‘Reserved’ sign is a study in discretion.

But the other day when I went along with a friend to Eat India Company for an absolutely wonderful meal, what took me by surprise was the little signboard that told me without any reservation that the table was indeed mine for the evening.

The board said “Promised to” me.

Now how quaint is that? How intimate, how charming.

To me, a ‘Reserved’ board says…someone called, made a booking, and this table is for him. Or her. Or them.

‘Promised to (My Name)’ makes it look like there is a relationship between me and the restaurant. A relationship that’s sacred. And a commitment that has ensured that there is a  table set aside exclusively for me.

It is these little touches that make a particular restaurant a place you feel like going to again and again. I know for instance, that whenever I am in the mood for something subtle, whenever I have an open ended evening…I shall definitely look ‘Eat’wardsto Eat India Company.

 

Underclothing advertising has long been a contradiction. The product is essentially functional but over the years it has been reduced (or elevated) to a very sensuous and cosmetic level.

Your dreams will come true if you choose one brand. Women will fall for you if you choose another. That kind of positioning is what started the male wars.

Female underclothing remained for a long while in the shadows of discretion. But inevitably that category came out of the closet and started becoming more appealing, sexier if you will, and bolder, definitely bolder.

Even the brand names stepped up with confidence and the amour and petals types made way for suggestive (if not downright provocative) names like Victoria’s Secret and so on.

And that was a name that intrigued all of us. What was the undergarment doing to the fictional Victoria (and not the Queen) to make her look, feel better?

Was it perking things up? Was it playing things down? What else, other than reducing the ‘hang loose’ quotient, was it doing? Or rather, what else was it expected to do?

I have over the years, as an advertising professional, perhaps as an occasional letch, and as the head of a predominantly female dominated family, followed the evolution of the undergarment.

And come to understand some of its many nuances. Learnt to understand why one brand cost more or less, why bras were better to buy abroad than in India and so on. But I never came across a USP like the one Jockey is using now in Filmfare. Maybe the ad has appeared before. I did not see it then, and that’s why I am reacting now.

A Bra or a Pantie that promises that your secret is safe as long as you wear a Jockey?

What does that mean? That the other brands start leaking your secrets the moment you buy them? How is it that this notional advantage “I keep Secrets” is being presented as a proposition that will make you change your mind and opt for Jockey.

Has anyone heard of a brand that conceals cameras in the undergarment? Is this something to watch out for? Or is there an embedded device that latches onto a nearby blue tooth signal and transmits confidential data to a nearby stalker?

If the answer is ‘No’, then I am truly concerned about the state of advertising. If the answer is ‘Yes’ I am more concerned about the state of the female.

And if you want to keep it a secret, then God Bless You.

All my life, I’ve written for money.

For a client. With a purpose. On a deadline. In different writing styles. Targeting different audiences.

And I have no regrets.

Most of my life I’ve had to be in a position to perforce take decisions. As a Director. Of films. Of companies.

So just as I use theatre as a passionate distraction where I am very comfortable with someone taking on the mantle of Director, I thought blogging would be my ‘write for fun’ distraction.

To write without direction. To write without expecting money in return. To write without a deadline. To write for nothing but the sheer pleasure of writing. And perhaps feeling good when my writing evoked appreciation from like minded people.

So when I heard about the Hyderabad Bloggers Meet I was in two minds. To go or not to go.

What should I look forward to? Was it going to be a ‘gyaan’ session? Would I be amidst a bunch of revenue hungry youngsters who were exploring monetisation opportunities with SEO, SEM and other deceptive three letter words?

Or was it going to be a place where I was outnumbered, out-aged and out witted? Damn it, let’s just go there, I finally decided. After all my friend Subhorup was the driving force behind this initiative. And I was sure to bump into some of my Facebook/Foodie Friends who are always a pleasure to meet in the offline world.

And I wasn’t disappointed. Sabyasachi was there. Usha. Neidhi. Ashis. Sanjay. And quite a few others whose face I recognised but didn’t quite manage to ‘name’.

Due to some confusion, the first speaker was a young man…Venki…who flashed his venkinesis handle. In a few quick slides he reduced the art of writing into a right brain, left brain exercise and separated the narrative into clarity and impact. Suddenly I felt I was back at Advertising School where we were told, taught that no amount of clarity would work if you did not have impact.

But perhaps the Blogging World is a different kettle of fish I thought and listened.

Then it was time for a Feast and a dunk into April’s Well.

And voila! The presentation devil appeared. Suddenly the laptops lost their connection with the projector. And there was an embarrassing lull.

The boys battled on. And April used her I-Pad to make a charming and effusive presentation about what the US Government was looking for from bloggers and similar communities.

Finally it was lunchtime. And then I realised that the Feast was going to be the highlight of this day. What a concept!

Let’s try and bring back the good days of friends and families breaking bread together. Days when homes were platforms to show off culinary skills and real networks. And in the process, their initiative had made possible a sampling of food prepared by two unlikely chefs. Oh I love it when business initiatives discover a strong social angle literally at birth.

The lunch was simple yet wholesome and filling. And quite naturally, sleep inducing.

Some amount of psycho mumbo jumbo was thrown in at this stage to try and stir things up. But Subhabrata’s presentation reminded me again that in today’s world, audiences could be more demanding than clients. Attention Span problems were natural. And the call for tea was a welcome break.

That gave me a chance to rue that I hadn’t taken advantage of my friendship with my ‘Tea’ friend and spent some time with him just dipping into chai and the mist of nothingness.

The introductions over…each of us was invited to describe ourselves in one word…and that is difficult. Try it.

But it generates serious laughter.

And I was getting ready to sit through a presentation by Saurabh Chatterjee whose work I follow..but…

Suddenly I was feeling unwell. And had to rush home. Talk of unceremonious exits. And without even waiting for the Kheema Kachoris.

So what did I take home? Some pleasant memories. Some insights that may not be useful to me today, but a definite and welcome addition to the data base I call my collection of wisdom and knowledge.

And perhaps a clarity that says I should continue blogging. Aimlessly. Without expecting anything in return but a smile. And a feeling of belonging that I always cherish.

 

Whether you are a North Indian or a South Indian, a Gujarati or a Maharashtrian, a Bengali or an Assamese the sound of a child feeling hungry is something you understand in a jiffy. That is what motherhood and motherly instincts are all about.

Similarly the child, any child…understands the sound “Mum-Mum” and starts licking his or her lips in anticipation. The word is so appetising that hunger vanishes when a child hears it and expectations begin, digestive juices begin to flow and that smile of contentment takes shape.

The word has become so much a part of our lexicon that we even use it for pets…”Mum-Mum” Time is feed time…and the desperate wagging of tails and the gasping hungrily is a signature response to this sound.

It’s an amazing phrase…actually, an amazing sound. It encapsulates everything from “I’m here for you” to “Are you feeling hungry baby” to a host of other emotions and comforters.

The funny thing is that the progression from this terminology leads coldly and not very kindly to words like Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner, Naashtha, Khaana etc.

Suddenly you feel that “Dinner is Served” is not an affectionate announcement but more of a Railway Station Tannoy Appeal. And this is true of almost all languages and cultures.

However there is one word that I heard that breaks the rule. And the word is “Buvvaa”.

As a child is growing up, the mother and the elders ask the child whether it is time for “Buvvaa”. When the child is an adolescent or even a youngster “Buvvaa thinnava?” is an endearing question.

Why, even after marriage, a concerned wife asks her husband to eat “Buvvaa” on time. There is all her love and care mixed into that ball of rice, the roti or the curry…or the curd.

People who eat “Buvvaa” tend to have a more satisfied smile on their faces. Just like they did when they had Mum-Mum when younger.

I sincerely wish that the newly formed Telangana Government should adopt a more “Buvvaa” stance when planning its next ‘Feed the People’ program…perhaps a lesson they can learn from my friends at 13 Dhaba where Love is Served Free

The sad thing about fights nowadays is that it never is about how high the opponents can reach but how low they can fall.

The more than a decade long battle between Hyderabad’s very own Deccan Chronicle and the Hyderabad edition of the famed Times of India has been excruciating, extended and quite awkward. TOI which in Bengaluru managed to shake Deccan Herald off its throne only by outlasting a family and its many squabbles, has found Hyderabad a tough turf almost from Day One.

One of the better known facts was that TOI had near-on endless finance. And that DC in those days was slightly more stable than a Mom & Pop Store. But when DC went Public and DCHL was born, the equations changed. Both were cash rich. Both were Ruthless. Both were Savvy. Both were Committed.

The way their battle was being perceived, and the way it was stretching out indicated that the people had quite honestly lost interest in the quarrel. But when DC Management hit what is popularly known as a Self Goal, people perked up once more.

Suddenly the focus shifted to whether there would be an edition of the paper the next day in the case of DC, and whether there would be any news in the next day’s paper in the specific case of the Times of India which in all fairness took “Sold Out” to a whole new level.

Deccan Chronicle has always been famous for an enlarged and ambitious, even arrogant vision. So people were expecting a retaliation with broad targets and sweeping results. But what it seems to have come up with is a mere strategy of street smart.

But is this too little? Too late? And in media sensitized economies, will the trick work? In the peculiar case of ‘Who blinks first’ has DC got the facts mixed up?

Because the strategy is brilliant. It has the Magnanimity of a King. And is a conniving move befitting a Chanakya.

Release an ad, a classified ad in Deccan Chronicle and you get the same ad FREE in the Times of India. That is the special scheme. That is the Festival Offer.

But damn…has it backfired? People are suddenly accusing Times of India of lifting classified ads from the Deccan Chronicle and publishing them without any shame…without any cost.

In this suddenly enraged environment I have just one question. The Times has no problem with lifting content from DC and even acknowledging it in print. The DC should have no problem as long as it’s being given the credit. The customer has no problem since his classified ad now has more of a reach.

So what’s the fight about?

Indeed, am I right in assuming that there is no fight left after all? And are these petty skirmishes puppy like in their intensity. More of an instinctive, habitual knee jerk. Fighting for the sake of fighting?

Because the fight is long over. The fight that never was…

Well, I am I confess a Corporate Film Maker by profession and passion. And I excel at getting great expressions, good performances and crisp enough bytes from my clients. As a rule I dislike using models to portray professional roles…sexy girls dressed up like nurses, studs in factory helmets and so on…are not my kind of work. I prefer taking the real and getting them to act. It makes my films more authentic and more compelling.

But when I need to make ad films I have to change my perspective. Of course it helps that I’ve worked on some of the finest campaigns in the country, some of the finest audio visuals…worked with absolutely the top models. The top crew. And learnt to look for and find that extra spark that makes a film stand out.

A few docu-dramas I have had to produce also led me to understand that while the look of the model was important, my rapport with her…or even with him…was much more important. Perhaps this is because I have always believed that my film making has to be fun, fun, more fun and perhaps some money (in that order). And my communication has to be effective…because that’s what I sell myself as…an effective communicator.

My shoots have to be fun. For everyone involved. After all, we tend to spend at least a week together on shoot and many days thereafter on post. So from Anna Bredmeyer to Nandini Sen to Radha Sheth to a few models and actresses in Madras and Bangalore to actresses like Sonali Bhendre, Anu Kottur, Anupama Verma, Sherie Mehroomji, Dia Mirza and a host of others I’ve been friends first, film maker second and am proud that most of the girls and boys who have worked with me over the years have remained friends or at least fond acquaintances. Not to say that I haven’t had the odd misunderstanding or two, but they were almost always client based conflicts and a function of immaturity…mine, or the models.

Very early in my professional life, because I was almost always the script writer and the film maker, my scripts would often take shape around a character. My early days work with Alisha Chenai always reminds me of what a cheerful and smiley girl she was as a friend and how that helped me mould her into a toothy model for Forhan’s. Chabi Dhariwal was another such. I have believed that I managed her to smile more warmly than others simply because there was a connect.

A few months ago I met this girl  who impressed me so much with her yoga skills online that I created a character exclusively for her in a play that we put up recently.

So yes. The name of my company spells out my approach to my profession. Heartworks.

I work from the heart. My teams are of long standing. My models, co workers and vendors have more often than not become personal friends. And family.

Now I am at that wonderful stage again. Looking around for a girl who can be my muse. A girl with spark, spunk and a unique blend of sauce and sensuousness. I have a film or two in mind. And I am sure I will meet this girl soon.

In the meanwhile I keep writing half way scripts. And using imaginary casts to fill in the blank that I mistakenly call my mind.

Since I am a habitual early riser, the responsibility of going out to the gate, switching off the gate lights that we normally leave on the whole night, getting the newspapers and milk from the basket, feeding the dog, letting him have the run of the land etc. are given to me. No, let me correct that…they are responsibilities that I have taken upon myself and I try to keep my commitments as often as my health permits.

Now when I go the basket on the gate I always realise that the newspaperman obviously delivered first since the milk packets are on top of the papers and not the other way around. And I quite like it that way. The papers in their folds become perfect carrying mechanisms for the milk.

Now since the milk is delivered from ice boxes of sorts, the packets are moist and when they are placed on the newspapers, the papers obviously absorb the moisture and depending on how early or late I got up, the papers are either wettish…or fully wet with absorbed moisture. Obviously, right?

Yes. Obviously. No points for getting that answer right. But something baffled me and has baffled me for a few years.

You see I subscribe to three mainline papers. The Deccan Chronicle. The Times of India. And The Hindu. Since the newspaper vendor for all three is the same, one boy delivers all the three at the same time in the morning.

But here’s the funny thing. It is always The Hindu that wraps the other two papers and it is the paper with the least inserts. Now, if you are familiar with the process of collation and pre-distribution then you’ll know that this is just a function of the way the boys all sit at the adda and pack their papers. Paper 1 for House No. 20. None for H. No. 21, no one lives there. Paper 1 & 2 for 22. Paper 1, 2 & 3 for House No. 23. And so on.

So the way the heaps of 1, 2 and 3 Papers are kept and depending on whether the collator works clockwise or anti-clockwise, the order of newspapers in the bundles remains the same. And if one paper is the last in the arrangement, it also gets a lesser share of inserts.

I know that. One side of my brain accepts it. But my problem is that every day I have to contend with a wet Hindu. And I promise you that neither DC nor TOI look sexy wrapped in a wet Hindu.

So I think everyday…why, oh why doesn’t the order change. Why doesn’t one newspaper boy break the pattern. Wrap the Hindu and TOI with a DC. Or something.

But no! The old order never changeth.

So I stick to the labels. DC gives me Hot News. TOI gives me blatantly biased news. And The Hindu gives me Wet News.

But have I stopped questioning this cosmic order? No. I still wonder what would happen if the boy retires and a left hander is taken in his place?

And then I wonder if there is a message in all this…somewhere. Do we ignore the answers because we believe that if we are not questioning, we are dead? Think about it…

if you have nothing else to do. I didn’t this morning!!!

Once upon a time there was a world where the game of Golf was an insanity indulged in only by the rich, famous and ‘nothing-to-do’s. That was a wonderful time. People, especially friends, woke up at earthly hours and the only T-off we referred to was our fantasy of Bo Derek taking off her wet Tee Shirt.

There was no talk of Golfing Weekends, Foreign Soirees, Golf Widows and a ridiculous pot at the end of a rainbow called the 19th Hole. PUT was still spelt P U T and a Caddie was a Cadillac that we couldn’t afford.

The same thing with the Marathon Runners. The only people who took up running as a career of sorts were the criminals, the petty thieves…who still had to escape the clutches of enraged mobs or pot bellied cops. And needed running skills.

Or the poor Jawans.

I guess in the Olympian times it did make sense to see who could run so many kilometres the fastest…there may have been lives at stake. But in today’s environment, running seems to be a mindless passion.

I always find myself asking the runners…in my mind of course…what are you running towards/from? And I always find them too out of breath to answer coherently.

So my lovely circle of friends…people like me in some form or the other…who like things sedentary. Where the movement of elbows is magically timed to the swing of dusk, and the mouth is used for things other than gasping.

So my circle of lovely friends…people I have grown up with, admired, emulated and even envied…many of them are vanishing. Victims to this new age disease.

Call them for a drink and they’re likely to tell you they are in the Philippines or heaven forbid, in Bali. And damn…even at the ramparts of Golconda. And they make it sound as if they’ve reached there early in the morning to help save the Nizam or his harem.

The Marathoners of course are a different breed. Not satisfied with driving us mad by running us down for being lethargic and so on, they decide that there is a higher calling in running in different locations.

Have you run the New York Marathon? The Boston One? Not even the Hyderabad 10K, the half marathon? I actually know a couple who ran the marathon in almost every known run in the world.

I always imagine a conversation between a parent and a child. “Beta, bada bankay kya karega?” And the child answers…”Bhagoonga Dad…ya Golf Kheloonga”.

And damned if I don’t have a friend whose golfing son is well on his way to becoming World Champ and has already made more money than his parents did their entire lives!!!

I guess it’s all a result of cricket and sponsorship and Sachin Tendulkar.

Saala. Cricket may tho chance naheen hai…to kyo na hum Golf khelen? Ball he ko tho maarna hai na?

And if you think I have a problem with running or golfing because I can do neither, you are mistaken. I only have a problem with this new culture of setting goals, competitive standards, world records and obscene pay cheques.

A million dollars if you hit a ball 300 yards…a zillion if you smash it outside the stadium. Are we talking real money or Monopoly?

But I guess, in a world where billions of dollars are paid for a straight line between countries I should not be surprised any more. Thank God I still have friends who believe that meeting up over a drink is still a healthy pre-occupation. And a great way to enjoy full contact sport is to watch it on television.

As the next instalment of entertainment in its 50th year, Dramatic Circle Hyderabad (DCH) decided to fall back on an author, on an era and a plot that were rooted in the time when DCH was formed (or thereabouts). So it was an evening of vintage wine that we savoured.

The sets were charming. A quick change study in the use of stage craft. And signature DCH. With great attention paid to detail. The music was city hall…echoing the swing of the sixties.

But it was the venue that set the tone. Not the comparatively swank Ravindra Bharati but the quaint Bhaskara Auditorium at the Birla Planetarium literally across the road.

On the modest size stage were Ranga in his typical English Bluster of a role, Jayant in a comfortable stereotype and Aarti who played the concerned Niece-cum-Agent with aplomb.

But it was Neil Simon who took centre stage today in a laugh-a-minute script that allowed actors to titillate the audience.

Of course, Ms. Sexy Long Legs helped.  As did the Nurse who was not amenable to the mild and harmless exploitation that was being attempted. Charan did a small walk-on as a patient. The interaction between the hassled stage hand and the off stage Pranava went awry because of serious mismatches in sound levels but that was eminently forgivable.

Two aging actors who had once starred in a hit TV series called The Sunshine Boys are now confronting old age, forced retirement, fading memories and loneliness. How a few women…from a caring niece to an eye-candy nurse to a loving daughter and a professional  take care of the two till in the end is essentially the humorous plot.

For climax and drama there is an ironic if predictable twist and the two friends/rivals land up going to the same retirement home for actors.

Ranga in his role as the cantankerous Uncle Willy was quintessential Ranga. His fluid moves had only graced with age and the stiff upper lip slipped into the role effortlessly.

Aarti managed a balance between an exasperated agent and a caring niece with ease and walked in and out every Wednesday. Her routine needed just that bit of naughty Variety and she accomplished that with three cigars.

A notable highlight of the play was Jayant who walked in at some stage wearing a curly boyz wig and a blow-me-if-you-can type of moustache. Must say that the costume showed us a very rare Jayant. Relaxed…not quite the stiff and gentle giant that he almost always portrays.

All in all, a very pleasant evening. An evening where one did not mind the few forgotten lines, the mistimed cues and the constraints of a smaller performance stage. But did find the fact that there were no snacks available during the interval a tad irritating.