Somewhere in Space

Narayana. My man Narayana. He is a great guy. Has been with me for close to thirty years.

Loyal and trustworthy, he is however a consummate actor. A master of the body language. And the star of a thousand anecdotes.

That he is a story teller par excellence we all knew but that he had been identified and invited to the Hyderabad Literary Festival was news to me. And I was as surprised as I was impressed.

Wow! Our friends at the HLF are taking their idea of making the fest more inclusive very seriously indeed, I told my wife when she informed me about Narayana’s sudden elevation into the orbit of literary dignitaries who were gracing this years’ HLF.

But this year’s Guest Country is Poland and the theme language is Urdu. So where does Narayana fit in, I asked my wife…still in a state of shock.

I have no idea, she admitted. The only thing I know is that his session where they were expecting just about twenty-twenty five kids to attend has been a sell out. And they’re now expecting over 50, she said.

They apparently had called to find out if the escalation in numbers was okay with their speaker.

I was impressed. Not only had the organisers expanded their scope and looked beyond the horizon…even the participants were obviously looking beyond the norm.

But I was also doubtful. And hesitant to believe everything I heard.

So I asked my wife to tell me exactly how she found out about our Man Friday’s new status.

Some lady from HLF called, she told me. And asked me to connect her to the staff member who was involved with the HLF event.

Now, since I had essentially made my company (after my long bout of ill health)  a one man mission, and had got rid of all staff except Narayana and Narasimha (my chauffeur who was on long leave) she figured out that the only person they wanted to speak to, had to be Narayana. QED.

How I figured out that it was not Narayana they wanted, that there was an obviously untrained events coordinator at the business end of the festival, and that the onus to conduct the Interactive Session based on an English Translation of a Polish Poem called The Locomotive fell on me, is a different story altogether.

But for those few moments that I believed that Narayana was scheduled to take centre stage…I was impressed. Truly impressed.

And even after realisation dawned…I am proud to say that while Narayana’s inclusion may have been momentary and virtually in my mind alone…I can see that the day is not far off…when raw talent will emerge as a natural winner, and the HLF will benefit from the contribution of yet to be discovered talent, and not just concentrate on the luminaires that clutter the social skies.

 

You can stumble into Calcutta. You can get lost on your way. Or you can get guided.

Each has its own charm.

But Calcutta is a whole cauldron of cuisines. There is the typical Bong food, the aloo dom-maacher jhol-chingri type. There is the street-chaat culture of phoochkaas & bhel or Jhal Mudi and Ghoognee. There is the biryani and kebab side as well. Not to forget authentic Chinese that Calcutta is famous for.

And there is Park Street.

Now, on the best of nights you can easily get lost in this Anglo-Indian bastion of delicacy. The names that call for your attention include Trincas, Mocambo, Blue Fox…even Flury’s. And each has its own signature, each has its own style.

The uninitiated can get lost in the bi-lanes of taste. So when you get invited by a gourmet to dine at Call of Bengal, Hyderabad’s only Restaurant that serves you ‘Park Street on a Platter’ you change any plans you may have made and just land up there.

Now, any journey of discovery is defined by the clarity of direction. We were lucky last night because the Captain of the ship was an old Bengali connoisseur. And the Navigator and the Engineer-in-Chief were also seasoned hands.

“Soup, soup” said the chicken to the coriander as we started off the evening. The delicious Fish Chop interrupted the conversation with the salad. And chicken chops vied with the restaurant’s signature dish…Dimer Devil.

Then all the way from Florentine, the fish and spinach said cheese. The meal ended with sweet nothings from a caramelised custard.

The way we sat at a long table reminded me of the Calcutta Boats…six oarsmen on the port side, six oarsmen starboard or aft. The captain at the helm and the coxswain at the other end.

Since it was late we almost had the restaurant to ourselves. Just a lovelorn couple who were expecting solitude and the owner, the cooks and the waiter were there.

The meal was pre-ordered so there was no time wasted in thinking about what to order. And that’s when the thought struck me.

I have always looked at life as a series of surprises. Decisions taken after long debates with my family, friends and loved ones. But is there a different kind of life? One that is defined if not determined, by a greater being. And he decides what you’re going to be served and how much.

Or is life actually just that and is the whole unplanned, mystery-adventure bit only a mirage?

Every Sunday. Between 4 and 8pm. You can hear a different sound at 10 Downing Street.

Sunday Unplugged is the voice of new, original music. Brought to you by the promoters of Sunday Sessions, one of the first recognised initiatives that encouraged the city’s raw talent and dedicated itself to finding them a stage.

10 D makes the music sweeter by offering a Just 99 deal. Anything you eat, anything you drink. For just Rs. 99/- an item.

This evening a Guitarist and a Tabla Player will be jamming. And the sound promises to be magical.

Drop by.

For Details…

https://www.facebook.com/events/1403095183319543/

It all started with a concept called Democracy. Everyone in the country would have a Vote. And every vote had the same value.

No preferential votes. No weighted votes. One vote each. Simple.

It was alright when the masses did not know enough about the elections or frankly didn’t care enough about the Democratic Process. The candidates focused on a specific segment and won the game of numbers with ease.

This led to the discovery of the minority vote. And over the years the minorities became priorities only because they represented easier reachable masses and numbers. And damned the Majorities to a lifetime of conflicts, mostly unresolved.

Now that is a chapter of history that we are living and I guess there is no logic there. And no point complaining about the riff raff that’s taking advantage of the statistics and unleashing a rule of milkmen and dancing girls.

Of course the three idiots of national stature did nothing to help the public beat the math.

But that is not what I am interested in. I am interested in the power of the Internet. Especially an Internet that seems to have discovered the charm of polling.

Who is the greatest Leader? Which is the best Song? Which is the finest Movie ever made? Who is the best looking girl in the world? Questions like these are being asked by way of polls. And therein lies an opportunity.

Now here is a chance to rewrite history and define the future of perceptions.

All we need to do, by hook or crook…is to ensure that in every relevant poll, or every poll worth the effort, we should have an Indian Entry.

Best Song? Let’s propose Jana Gana Mana…doesn’t matter if it’s really the best that music has to offer. It’s a national song and we are proud of it. So let us put our muscle, our netizen muscle behind it and make the charts register a clear win.

Do you get the idea?

Take a Movie. Slumdog Billionaire. Hell, if we plan it right, this movie can get an Oscar even before it is actually made. That is the power of our Indian Population. And the fraternity that has been trained to log in and vote.

Don’t forget. India is perhaps the only country where Revenue Models for Television Shows begin with a SMS Contest.

Just to test the waters, try this yourself. Make a list of five women. Five beautiful women. From Sophia Loren to Marilyn Monroe. The names do not matter, neither does your taste.

Then add one Indian lady. Say Deepika Padukone. Or even the late Nirupa Roy. Like I said, the name doesn’t matter. It is the strategy. It is the planning. And the promotion. And our presence across the world.

I promise you we have the muscle today to vote Nirupa Roy as the best looking woman in the century. We do.

It’s a different thing altogether that no one has nominated her for the contest.

It’s a different thing too that some people are being nominated. Some Chief Ministers for example. Some actors too.

Maybe someone else has realised the power of the online poll.

My God. Soon we’ll have two realms. An Online Polity. And an offline Leader.

And may the twain never meet.

I had a wonderful friend who was also a Doctor. One day, when I described some symptoms to him, he immediately diagnosed that I was a diabetic but since we were due to go on a Road Trip the next week, he deferred the announcement.

Only after we returned from a memorable trip did he call me and advise me to go in for a blood / sugar test. He also warned me that the report would be damning.

So I landed up early in the morning at some Diagnostic Centre in Basheerbagh. Gave my ‘Fasting’ sample and then wondered what to do for the next two hours before I could give my post prandial samples.

Taj Mahal and a couple of Idlis would have been the right choice. But there was a thought that was haunting my mind.

I was doomed to be on the wrong side of sweet. I knew that. I knew my doctor friend too well. I also realised that eating sweets would no longer be, possibly never ever be a guilt free experience.

So I called up a friend. Got him to come and meet up with me at Liberty X Roads. And then barged into the Yankee Doodle Parlour that used to be there.

The sweepers were just about cleaning the place up. The counter boys were dragging themselves in. And that’s when my friend and I walked in.

At first they were not ready to serve us. But a bit of cajoling and a bit of ‘dadagiri’ later, they were serving us with pleasure.

I looked at the whole thing like a condemned man’s last meal. And ordered the most exotic, richest, creamiest concoctions. The staff was aghast…but soon they caught on to the significance of what they were an unwilling part of. And experiments began to happen.

A little more cream, a few more nuts, a lot more sauce…the ice creams became richer and the quantity increased.

After almost a full two hours of binging I went back to the Diagnostic Centre and gave my sample.

But…I never went back for the report.

After the front row pleasures of watching Mallika Sarabhai and her group enthral the audiences (all except one), I was looking forward to a close up view of the dancing legend, the Kathak Sensation Pandit Birju Maharaj.

But alas my plans were not to be. Just before I took my ‘reserved’ front row seat I got a call from the Event Manager who asked me to report to Saswati Di, the Pandit’s Lead Dancer backstage. Pronto.

So I reported for duty at the Green Room. And met the Maestro and his Disciple who asked me to be a part of their team for the evening and announce the various stages of the dance performance they had in store.

Now, could I say No?

Not me baba, as the Bengalis would say. I  definitely did not have nodding in the negative as an option. So without hesitating I sat down, understood the flow of events, found some blank paper to write some notes and then asked the Event Manager where I was supposed to be seated.

The problem was the light I required to read, and the table I needed to put my papers on. Finally a solution was found. Very close to the green room was a single tube light and luckily just next to it was a box. So a chair was found and I was fixed up. My bottle of water given. And everyone gave me a cheery thumbs up.

I went to the on-stage podium and made my announcements. And as I did that I realised that this was a bigger day than the previous one. The audience seemed to be everywhere. Even as I asked them all to sit down I could see that there was going to be a problem…there just weren’t any seats left.

Then I went backstage to my place and sat down. My cues were simple. An announcement when the artist/s were entering the stage. And an announcement when they were exiting.

Now came my first surprise. I could see from where I was sitting the artists entering and exiting alright…but that was all I could see. The part of the stage…centre stage…was hidden from my view. But it was too late to change position.

The program began and I realised that I was in an unique position. I who had met Birju Maharaj in person, spent a few minutes with him, exchanged pleasantries and even had a cup of tea with him…was now being denied the pleasure of watching the legend.

No. I don’t always get the best seats in the house Priyankaa Vir I thought to myself and settled down.

Of course the sound system in the auditorium was working well and I could hear the music without any problem. And I could hear the applause.

And that’s when the magic began.

The first round of applause was full. It was for Saswati Di, the lead disciple of the Maharaj. And for her invocation to Lord Krishna.

But no, it was not deafening.

Then the girls came on to stage with their rendition of the Royal Courts Dances. The applause was increasing in intensity. I got the feeling that there was something else I was hearing. But couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

Then he came on. The great Pandit Birju Maharaj. He stepped gently onto stage…but I heard a thump. He spoke softly…I heard a roar.

The audience applauded. I heard the crash of waves. I felt the vibe. It never was a trickle. It began with a gush. And just went on. Climbing beyond crescendo.

And it wasn’t just the sound. It was the feeling. Of a couple of thousand joyful souls getting mesmerised by the master magician.

He who rules with humility. He who controls with gestures. I saw that he was speaking to the audience with body, with mind, with footsteps, with elegant flicks of his hair…and the tsunamis of applause just crashed onto the backstage baffles…one after the other, and I was bathed in the energy of the moment.

And though I could not see the performers I got to see the performance.

I did get the best seat in the house after all.

 

I do not think I am a dance connoisseur by any stretch of the imagination. But dance has been part of my life for almost half a century and I have had an opportunity to watch most of the greats. So I know a good thing when I see one.

What I saw tonight was by no means pure or classical Kuchipudi or Bharatnatyam. But it was a choreographed show that mesmerised most of the audience. And was definitely the best put together ensemble cast I’ve seen in a long time.

Hyderabad (with perhaps the exception of the ever graceful Ananda Shankar) is full of brilliant dancers who excel in theory, in abhinaya and so on…but sadly lose the battle with age and children, and become ungainly sorts trying desperately to hang on to the vestiges of a sprightly youth.

Not so Mallika Sarabhai. 60 years old if not more. She was slim, fit and graceful. Her colleagues on stage all fit the same bill.

But the star of the evening was the musical avalanche that the show unleashed. The men (and I think one lady only), all dressed up in white, went through a repertoire of Bhajans dedicated to several Gods…and the dancers just danced along…well, in a choreographed sort of way.

The only sound you could hear, other than the compelling percussion and powerful vocals, and the subtle tinkle of the Ghungroos…was the wave after wave of applause…

The bhajans were rendered with passion, percussion and professionalism. Seamless, they just floated from one stream to the other to climax and ecstasy…the main singer must have sung for a full hour alone.

And the trance like state that the bhajans took me  to, was a high that was pure joy. I was speaking to a lot of the audience members after the show while jostling for photo-ops with the ever obliging Sarabhai and the refrain was constant…wonderful…mesmerising…magical…

One old Shilpakala Vedika veteran actually said…the best show that had graced the stage after Vishwa Vinayaka.

I have been driving on the Hyderabad-Bangalore Highway for years now. From the days it was a single lane kind of state highway to its now world class expressway avataar. And the fun has always been checking out new eating places on the trip.

In the recent past I have been frequenting a place near Jadcherla because I found the food decent, the ambience nice and the loos were usable. Today however a few of my friends suggested that we stop in a place called Balnagar…and introduced me to Hill Park.

And let me tell you, I am a convert.

It started with seeing three entrances, leading to three cuisine sections. It started with having Milk Shake Counters, Ice Cream Shops, Subway Stalls, Cafe Coffee Day Outlets, Idli Dosa offerings, Biryani Platters et al…all in a sparkling clean environment that included a five star loo.

It started with the sound of three or four heavy duty bikes and SUVs that drove in early in the morning…Yamahas mostly…and Fortuners…kids from Hyderabad I think, who drove out on the ORR and stumbled into this really swank place. Cool man. Cool.

The Idli Dosas that I had were wonderful. Not Govind Bandi rich mind you, but nice. The chutney and sambar were what they were supposed to be. The Poori Aaloo that my friend had looked delicious and it was later confirmed that they were.

On our way back however we landed up during lunch time and were told that snacks would not be served. (Now that is a rule to remember).

Just now I can’t stop praising this place. If more such places come up in India, Road Travel can easily become a wonderful experience that many of us can share.

And now I am tempted to put on my Trekking Shoes and heading out to a different highway, a different cuisine…

Discovery!!! Here I come.

I was young and innocent. Even naive. And the only ‘foreigners’ I had seen were the guys in the English Movies. That was the time I thought the world was made up of three types of people. Englishmen, Chinese and Indians.

And the English Women had bigger breasts than the others.

And most of the English Men I saw were Detectives or Spies.

Their life…no, let me illustrate this…

The English Man is sleeping. The phone rings. He picks it up, alert from the word Go. The next thing you know he is driving down a city street or a highway in a fancy car at breakneck speeds to save the world and perhaps a damsel in distress. (The Movie was true to script every time).

No shave, no shower, no…well, no peeing even.

So I grew up thinking that Englishmen do not Pee.

I used to envy the white man. I who used to wake up at least once every night and venture out to the loo…I who used to run to the loo the moment I woke up…I who had to face the embarrassment of wetting my pyjamas ever so often…

What was their secret I used to wonder.

Then I heard about the camel and its ability to store water. Aah…I thought…so camels store water and English Men store Piss.

By the time I lost my innocence and learnt some amount of self control…or as they say in ‘pet’ language…by the time I was house trained I guess I was also old enough to realise that my English Perceptions were unreal.

The English were not the only white skins in the world. And so what if they did not ‘Pee’…they ‘tinkled’.

And then I saw a series of Indian Movies where the film begins with a scruffy man waking up with a snort, and then peeing into a dirty pot and even giving the world a farting shot.

I think I was better off when I used to think that English Men Do Not Pee.

One of the first things I realised when I came to Hyderabad almost 50 years ago was that there was a whole different equation the people here had with water.

Walk into any Irani Hotel in those days, and the first thing that would be served (four dirty fingers et al) would be water. Only then would you be asked what you wanted.

And whether you ran up a bill or not, the water was there and the smile. Absolute strangers would unhesitatingly walk up to your table, take a glass or two of water, and carry on without even the courtesy of an ‘excuse me or thank you’.

And there was a saying that once you had the water here, no other water would quench your thirst for love, affection and harmony.

But that was Hyderabad. And the legendary days of ‘Gandipet ka Paani’.

I don’t know when it happened but the saddest day in my life in this context was when I saw water being sold. I had come across the practice in New Delhi in the early seventies (Cold Water sold by the Glass) but never thought we’d see the sight in Hyderabad.

There is a shortage of water, I was told. And the water has to be purified before consumption and there are costs to be considered. So eventually the 5 or 10 Rupees made sense.

Of course with the plethora of Mineral Water Brands around the question that really popped up in my mind was…whatever happens to the concept of Hyderabadi Paani?

Well, the good news is that boiled, purified, double boiled, Sterilised or whatever there is still water available in Hyderabad. And as many people will testify, the magic of the water still remains. They all come back home to Hyderabad.

The bad news is that a bottle of water which is MRP’ed at around Rs. 10 is actually being sold at many restaurants for Rs. 50 or 60.

And there is nothing we can do. Or so we have been led to believe.

My question today is this. Feeding a patron or quenching his thirst for water have to be viewed from different perspectives.

I am prepared to pay 30 bucks for a Dal in a Dhaba and 250 bucks for the same Dal in a 5 Star place. I understand the value add that is involved in the serving. I understand that the costs are different…everything from rents to salaries to utilities and taxes. But when it comes to bottled water there is no additional cost save the cost of stocking it and perhaps cooling it.

So why is it that we allow restaurants to charge an exorbitant 50 or 60 rupees for a bottle of water when there is absolutely no value add.

I am not aware of the law in this regard but I fail to see the logic in this issue. Looks like someone is fleecing someone. And that for me smells of cheating.

Now, can we do something about it?