Somewhere in Space

It will be amazing, Priyankaa Vir told me. You shouldn’t miss it, said Vaishali Bisht. Even my friends at the Park were of the opinion that I should make the effort to drive all the way to Shilpakala Vedika on Sunday evening for this brilliant Kathak and Flamenco performance by Akram Khan and Israel Galván.

But it is now Monday Morning. And I am waking up to the fact that I may be asked why I did not do as suggested. And missed the 3rd Day of the Park’s New Festival 2015.

And you know me, I like to be prepared for the questions. So I’ve been doing some thinking.

What struck me almost immediately is that I am a victim of the ‘I want to see myself’ syndrome. If I am going for a movie I want to see myself as the hero (okay, sometimes the villain or the comedian). If I am going for a play, I come out thinking that one particular role was what ‘I’ had played.

If I read a book, I become one of its characters.

You get the drift? It is called ‘empathy’. Stepping into someone else’s shoes.

Now while it is easy for me to see myself speaking in a Bachchan like Baritone in a movie with my childhood sweetheart Zeenat Aman, or even think that I am singing a Kishore Kumar or Neil Diamond song to Shruti Hassan (my current flavour), or imagine myself sharing stage space with my heart throb, Supriya Pathak…even I draw the line when it comes to these extremely talented, extremely fit, extremely nimble and agile dancers.

You see, my feeble mind revolts at the sheer imagery of me dancing, pirouetting and setting the floor on fire. So unless I know that the dancers are going to be pretty young ladies (who I don’t want to empathise with) I normally stay away from these male dancer events.

I do make exceptions. For my friend Haleem Khan. And for performances and dance extravaganzas like Vishwa Vinayaka. But that’s it.

Plus the loos at Shilpakala Vedika are too far from the seats for my comfort. And it is an uphill climb that I like to avoid. Sure, I mostly use the VIP entrance and come in through the Green Rooms, since most of the times I am there, I have an on stage role. But otherwise…hey, I shudder to think of all the walks I would have to take for necessary relief.

Plus of course the fact that we ran out of Gas in the kitchen yesterday and I had to make arrangements for dinner.

And not to forget, I have two presentations today, for which I had to work overtime yesterday…that kept me away.

Okay. I think I’ve got enough excuses up my sleeve.

Thank God. I’ll not have to tell anyone that I was simply exhausted. And I just couldn’t drag myself all the way there.

But I am sure I missed something magical.

Aah well. Inshallah there will be a next time.

Ok. I give up. I surrender. Uncle, whatever. But hey, I was ambushed!!!

No fair.

They told me that he was an actor, director and film maker. They told me he was born in Mumbai, trained in Sweden, a trained clown, an award winning performer and a magician.

They also told me that the evening would be all about a journey of discovering self, answering deep questions and possibly finding myself.

They told me too, that his name was Rupesh Tillu.

And everything they told me was true.

This dimension of The Park’s New Festival 2015 was appropriately presented at Kismet, which I always think is the Kingdom of my young friend and DJ Maharaja Piyush Bajaj.

First things first, I loved his contraption on stage. Metaphorical. Glint of metal. Effortless movement.

And I loved his body. It started speaking the moment he landed on stage…and the music began.

But…and this is purely personal…it started speaking without a preamble. There was no warming up to the audience. No attempt at a connect.

Bang!!! And we were underway.

So the first few times he asked the audience how they were, and also picked some random members and accused them of being premature ejaculators…the audience, or at least I…did not know how to react.

As the evening progressed various facets of Tillu’s skills were brought to the forefront. Outstanding was his mind, body, sound and light coordination. Maybe his English was not quite up to the mark, but yes, I realised that I was being a bit too proper.

But let’s face it…I am not made for meaningless profanity. And definitely don’t like it when mime crosses the decency border…stops the moon walks and the glass door improvisation…and starts gross definitions of the size of one’s penis. Twisted!!!

Let me at this stage clarify that the audience was lapping it all up. Cat calls, whistles, the whole nine yards.

Specifically there was one loud guy in the audience who knew exactly when to laugh…except that his clock was going a couple of seconds faster. So he ended up sounding like a Joke Alarm.

But the people who enjoyed the show the most, had no business being there. Two young kids in the front row were laughing innocently at all of Rupert’s physicality and antics. And while it was endearing up to a point, I felt that the Organisers had erred on this side of the Age Limit.

At the end of the evening when I went back to the bar for a glass of chilled water, I had the strong feeling that there was a circuit break somewhere.

All the elements were there. And they had been revealed in a kind of pre-planned sequence. But somehow, all the elements did not quite add up. The light flickered. But did not light up.

I feel the lack of connect was to blame. I may be wrong. But I don’t think so.

But it was specially commissioned for this festival. And I like the sound of that. There was a genuine attempt to take this kind of story telling into mainstream entertainment.

So what if the dish was served before it had cooked. We could still smell the right flavours, see the right colours, textures…and we could see the seasonings waiting on the side.

Maybe next time we see Tillu, he may have matured into a Cordon Bleu Masterpiece.

I wish him all the best.

By no stretch of the imagination am I even qualified to talk about music. But I am an avid listener and I react to different kinds of music with the different senses I’ve been blessed with. And what follows are just that…

My reactions to a musical evening at The Park as part of the Park New Festival 2015.

Some time back, someone had suggested that I look up Aditya Prakash and his Colliding Worlds Project. I did. Thank you You Tube.

And I was sold. I was keen to see this ensemble in action. And thanks to a few friends in the right places, I ensured that I would be there for the performance.

The outdoor performance space at The Park, Hyderabad is like an artificial bay. Nestled as it is between two wings of the hotel, it creates an intimate space without losing out on the open air feel.

As I walked into that revered space my surprises for the evening began. The stage was a psychedelic arrangement and I could see instruments that were surely alien to Indian Classical Music.

The key board was not a harmonium. The percussion was not just a tabla or even a mrudangam. I couldn’t see strings. But yes, I could see a lot of electronics in the middle of the smoke blasted stage.

And then the musicians themselves.

No, they were not dhoti clad, kurta sporting, pot bellied vaadyars. They were smartly dressed, all in black gentlemen who simply walked onto the stage and took over the evening.

Aditya himself was a tall, clean shaven, bespectacled man, who to me, looked like Clark Kent.

That’s it. My mind zeroed in on the memory association. Clark Kent became Superman. And I realised that AP was a truly well built specimen. And he did look like the comic book hero of my childhood.

While I have heard, live or as part of high quality concert recordings, many of the Hindustani and Carnatic Classical veterans and admired their vocals, not since Shankar Mahadevan have I seen the kind of breath control that I saw last night. The Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaas and Uuuuuuuuuuuuuus were literally breathtaking.

And as AP began a very physical demonstration of his musicality, I began to see him dressed in blue…with a great big ‘S’ emblazened across his chest and a red cape fluttering in the winds.

Just as I came to terms with that imagery, my shirt fluttered and I thought that the gust of wind that probably was the cause, sure had a sense of timing.

Then it happened again. And again.

Only on my left side was my shirt fluttering. This was definitely not a natural phenomenon. I looked to my left, and sure enough I spotted the culprit.

A man sitting to my left was busy expelling breaths from his body every time AP started a new number. He would go Huh Huh Huh for a few times and then settle down with a beatific smile on his face. Till the next number.

After two or three cycles I could not resist. Yes damn it, I was flustered. So I asked him just what the hell he was doing.

Something to do with Prana, he answered. My breathing exercises take me onto a higher plane, and so I can listen to this music better.

I stopped breathing for a moment. Gave him a pitiful look…trying to deride him about needing to be on a higher plane to appreciate the music…we were all, the others in the audience, quite fine where we were. And liked the flight that the Colliding Worlds Project was taking us on.

The other pleasant distraction I found was my learned friend Raja. Sitting just one row ahead of me on the opposite side of the aisle, he was a delight to watch.

While his hands kept perfect beat with the music being performed, it was his face that was a delight to watch. Lighting up with joy most of the time, but quite often slipping into a grimace when perhaps something done on stage was not to his liking. He became my barometer for the evening.

And what did the barometer say?

Surprisingly I found that my evaluation was quite similar to his.

I enjoyed the evening. No doubt about that. From the young lady who made the brief opening announcement…very poised, very proper…loved her…especially because she was so short and sweet.

To the whole evening of music. And even to the sudden shower that celebrated the end of the evening by applauding from the skies.

Did I feel short changed on any account. Yes, I felt that AP had not allowed his fellow musicians their moment in the sun. This is something that is an integral part of classical music performances (if I am wrong, forgive me).

But while he did announce the names of the artists quite a few times for the applause, we really did not get to see any of the others on their own. But hey, that’s just a personal observation. No complaints whatsoever.

But the other observation I had, almost spoilt the evening for me. At the end of the show, when I walked up to the bar to return my finished glass of Virgin Mojito and asked for a glass of Pepsi for the road, I was made to wait for a few minutes because of a young man who was ordering the barman to fix him a few double large whiskies.

When the barman finished pouring his regular quantities, the young man barked…More! And kept barking till each glass was about half full of whisky.

Damned Freeloader!

Anyway, walking out, back towards the lobby, my friend Raja made a comment that touched me.

“All in all” he said. “A brilliant performance”. And continued with his trademark grimace…”But what a pity. This is the only way our youngsters will get exposed to classical music”.

And I realised the wisdom in his words. If conventional musicians in their regular garb tried to push 10th century poetry and ageless shlokas down a young audience’s throat, they would get mauled.

But AP with his new improved, fusion packaging had managed to present some timeless classics to an unsuspecting audience who loved every moment of it.

The Men in Black was a lesson. The six pack body was an attraction. And the quaint American accent that peppered AP’s South Indian Hindi was a delight.

As I get ready for the rest of the day, I now wonder what is in store for us this evening and the next two…as the Festival continues.

Have fun. Catch you tomorrow

 

There is a lot of turbulence in the air nowadays. Some of you may have noticed it, felt it…others may not have. But take my word…it is there.

The problem you see, is caused by our treatment of bottles in general. The bottle of aerated water…where there is a lot of value addition by way of its ingredients and by way of its chilling, transportation etc., is upset with the mineral water bottle. And it is not because the value add in the case of Mineral Water is far less than that of branded and aerated waters.

It is because while the whole world is objecting to the idea of charging a marked up price in restaurants serving mineral water, the world does not seem to have any objection when the same restaurants over charge for the coloured, branded and aerated waters they serve.

In both cases the scenario is the same. Bottles of the stuff are procured by the restaurant. Stored. Chilled. And only then served.

And both products are sold at marked up prices.

But while people have no objection to paying a lot of money (many times the actual cost) for a chilled soft drink, they seem to think that chilled Mineral Water should be either served free or sold at actual cost.

I guess it has something to do with the once noble practice of offering free drinking water to guests. But what we seem to be forgetting is that when water is free or costs very little, the possibility of providing water for free is easy. But when the same water becomes a commodity with a price, the potential, the need and the opportunity for mark up on price is almost natural.

Profit after all is the motive of most businesses.

Otherwise you tell me why should a cup of coffee that uses the same amount of milk, sugar and coffee powder cost so differently…on the street it is about 5 to 15 bucks. In a star hotel it can cost up to 350 or even 500 rupees.

Where’s the logic?

One second.

Logic?

You mean there are still people who believe in logic???

Hey, come on…this is Hyderabad. Here Irani Cafes used to allow anyone to just walk in, grab a glass or two of water and carry on. No charge.

And then water became a problem. One never knew what would happen if we drank the stuff that hotels served. And then there was a campaign…Drink Mineral Water…it is safe.

And then there was another campaign…and yet another. Till a stage came when even the labour working on sites began asking for mineral water. And there was a distinct Brand Preference at play. Kinley, Bisleri and Aqua scored. The others were suspect.

So Mineral Water is the only potable drinking water around. And potable water is the minimum courtesy you can extend to your guests. And therefore Mineral Water should be served free or at cost. QED.

Wow!!! That’s a revelation if ever there was one.

But what about Beer? How is it okay to charge so much for a bottle when it costs only this much at the shop?

But that’s a sad story…But another story altogether…

Shall we talk about water?

 

I have been a believer in Homeopathy for more years than I can remember.

When we were in Calcutta in the early 1960s there was a famous Homeopathy Doctor at one end of Southern Avenue, and he was one busy old man. We were his regular patients. and we’d go there at 5. 30pm or so whenever we needed to, take a token and then go see a movie, have dinner at Komala Vilas and then come back in time for our appointment with Dr. Das (I think that was his name). And then he would prescribe medicines for us that a compounder would pack and charge us a fancy sum like Rs. 5/- for the consultation and the medicines.

When we moved to Hyderabad, my father would send the Good Doctor a postcard describing our ailments and a week or ten days  later, a VPP parcel would arrive. We’d pay the Postman. And collect our medicines.

What fascinated me about the Homeopathy Medicines was that they all looked the same…little white pills. And they were all sweet. Never did I get prescribed a ‘kadwa’ medicine. Or wait…maybe once in a while we’d get a liquid that was quite ghastly.

But in general, all cures looked the same. Little white pills or small packets of powder that we’d be asked to take X times a day.

And over the years these little white pills and packets have been part of so many ailments, and so many cures.

When I got married it was a relief to find that my wife too was a homeopathy believer. Once we had children of our own, the dependence on Homeopathy continued.

Not only the children but even the dogs were treated by this amazing science. And the little white pills remained dosages that we followed strictly whenever we had a problem.

Yesterday however I went to my doctor’s clinic after a while. While one of the perks of meeting my doctor is getting to see some sexy car or the other that my doctor keeps buying (the latest toy is the all new Skoda Superb which after a series of Audis, Mercs, BMWs and Porsches was a bit disappointing) what greeted me when I finally got to pick up my medicines was a shock.

I was given, along with the packets (poodis) numbered 1, 2, 3 and 4, three small bottles of clear liquid with an aerosol nozzle. 2 Sprays, 3 times a day I was told. I asked what about the little white pills. I was told that they were history.

I drove home in a daze.

While the rational side of my mind accepted that the white pills were just sugar balls designed to be carriers of the actual medicine…and that a direct spray of the medicine may actually be more efficient…I could not get over the development.

RIP. My little white pills. You will be missed.

 

Statutory Warning: This blog may contain objectionable and adult content.

But it is the truth. It is something that actually happened.

My entry into the mad world of advertising was a crazy adventure. And only after I got into it and started enjoying myself did I realise that I was naturally equipped with the skills required for advertising (ok, ok…I am kind of boasting, but allow me that privilege).

I was a good writer. I had a incisive mind and a marketing instinct. I had an affable persona. And I was an actor, director, producer with some experience.

I must admit that this realisation took a few years, but one of my first encounters with an unknown skill had interesting dimensions.

You see, I have always been a closet poet. To the extent that I came out in the open only after my 50th birthday when my children collected all the scraps of paper I had scribbled on over the years…and painstakingly typed them out…and then presented me a bound copy of my poems.

Otherwise, only a few close friends knew that I dabbled in poetry.

But the point was, that since I was what I thought, a natural poet…and one who used to make up the lyrics of most songs I tried to sing…I kind of knew that I’d be good with Advertising Jingles.

Hyderabad unfortunately did not give me an opportunity in those days to try my hand at writing jingles. I had to wait till I shifted to Chennai…and of course after that there has been no looking back. I crossed the 100 jingle mark quite a few years back, and then stopped keeping count.

I have written in English, Hindi and Telugu…yes Telugu.

But Hyderabad did introduce me to jingles in a very strange way.

There was a client that the agency had who had a weakness for women. And I was told that in the interest of making sure monies were collected efficiently, this Accountant Fellow used to be regularly entertained.

Needless to say, we ‘children’ were not invited for these soirees. But colourful reports would be given the next day.

And that is when I heard that this fellow…boring, insignificant accountant that he was…had a knack of creating interesting and effective jingles.

Since he was interested only in the wining and womanising, his mantra was…wait for it…

Drink a little…Govinda.
Fuck a little…Govinda.

And this was repeated ad nauseam in a tune that still haunts me.

When a few months later I read Ogilvy who used to believe that only those people who had nothing substantial to say, would resort to meaningless tunes…I of course, begged to disagree.

The jingle had given Govinda exactly what he wanted!

I have never written such a jingle, but I have had many a jingle succeed in the market place.

So no thanks Mr. Ogilvy…I’m still on song. And hell yes, I write against a black background…in reverse

Ratika and Dheeraj Keswani celebrated the first birthday of their daughter Myra today at the new Kondapur Heart Cup Cafe.

But I am not going to tell you what a great place that is and what great arrangements were made…not talk about the music, nor the mood in the place. Let me just say a great time was had by all and the bar was singing right through. And the kid, little Myra…floated through the proceedings…never did she make a fuss, never did she complain. She was an angel. As was her mother, resplendent in a white dress that shouted old world charm.

What I am going to tell you about is the wave…the tsunami of nostalgia that washed down my fatigue, swept away the discomfort of a hot, muggy afternoon…a whoosh that took me back to 1986 when my daughter, my older one, turned one…and we had a party at home.

It’s not as if I am trying to steal the Keswani’s thunder, but I could see other parents reminiscing about their children’s birthdays. A lady with a small child sat down next to me and I could see that birthday parties were nothing new to the child.

So I just sipped on rather well made virgin mojitos and sank into a sea of nostalgia.

I am not going to bore you with photographs that we still have of the occasion…nor am I going to talk about how good it was to meet up with friends like Ramakrishna Shenoy, Vinay Varma, Ankit Bakshi, Kanishka Dasgupta, Mayura, Harika, Anisha, KC…even Harshvardhan Rane and Ratika’s sister who actually remembered the play we had put up last year around the same time.

But I must share with you two mad things that made my daughter’s birthday special…for us at least.

The first thing was so silly that I don’t even know if this is an appropriate platform for me to display such idiocies.

It had become fashionable just then to buy from Bombay, or even get from Abroad, a string of letters that spelt Happy Birthday…and they would be the backdrop.

My wife…or my mother…I can’t remember who…was very keen that we have that decoration.

The next thing on the wish list, simply because my daughter was born on Christmas Eve, was to have a Santa Claus Cake.

Imagine…this is about 30 years ago. The bakeries here were fairly simple…pedestrian even. Custom Designed cakes were not in vogue. And we were very apprehensive about getting anything good in Hyderabad.

Then my wife had a brainwave…we had just spent a long time in Delhi…and had become regulars at Nirula’s. So the demand was for the cake to be made in Delhi by Nirula’s and air lifted from there. It may be easy to do these things today, but back then…it was a huge exercise.

And as Murphy would have it, there was a last minute glitch and it looked like the cake couldn’t be shipped. That’s when my wife’s brother came to the rescue.

He was based in Delhi in a Senior Government position…and he knew that the Governor of AP Ms. Kumudbehn Joshi was flying into Hyderabad that evening. So he got through to her and requested her to carry the cake.

Look at the amazing thing…she graciously agreed. And she carried back a 5 Kilo Santa Claus cake from Nirula’s. The cake reached in time for the party and was a big hit amongst the guests and more importantly the kids just loved it.

Many other things happened that day. But most significant was the realisation that this was the first function I’d host for my children.

I am sure Dheeraj and Ratika may not have realised the importance of this milestone…but I am sure they soon will. They are all heart anyway…

No wonder their one establishment is called Heart Cup and the other is Extreme.

It can’t be more prominent than it is. It is on the Jubilee Hills side of KBR Park. It is opposite Subway, Ulavacharu etc…diagonally opposite that Sodabottle place…it is one place with ample car parking, and possibly something we have all passed in a hurry a million times.

In my defence I must mention that the place has had a rather chequered past. From Sandwiches to Snacks two or perhaps three owners have changed since I first spotted the place. But the new avataar, FEAST…has been around for a few months now.

Chef Keshu who is one of the brains behind the great stuff at the Gallery Cafe is also the Consultant Chef here…and he has been inviting me to come check out his non-veg offering.

But you know how it is…something or the other crops up every time you make a plan.

Today, the rain caught us unawares and I found that I had a few minutes to spare. So Chef and I decided to do make the trip.

What strikes you first as you turn into the place is the amount of space they have…cars are parked, children are running around, girls are satisfying their ‘selfie’ urges…and the small cabanas invite you to sit down and enjoy the feast.

And then they place the menu in front of you.

My first reaction was “Wow, for a small street side place they do have a rather large spread”. Then I realise that a few regions have been all given centre stage. Mediterranean, Arabic, Indian…and all of them have been fine-blended with a chatpata flavour.

The FalaFel with Hummus was one of the best I’ve had. The Galouti Kebab on a crisp mini sheermal was a revelation. The green chutney accompaniment, the garlic sauce, and the juicy succulent chicken and meat pieces that made up the rest of the platter…with the pita bread quarters that are served in a warmer of sorts…all these and more make Feast a serious Party Destination.

Man, they have Combos…and Combos. Even rice plate combos. And they have desserts. A Baklava you’d kill for and I believe a Caramel Custard that dreams are made of. Plus Ice Golas and what have you.

But you know what? What floored me was not the range or the quality…I must confess that Chef Keshu’s involvement kind of guaranteed that in any case. And no, it was not even the pricing…Value For Money in another realm altogether.

No, what puzzled me was how this place had escaped the attention of so many of my foodie friends. I mean it’s like a College Canteen for families. A place to just hang out…or drive out from with a party in your back seat.

And one of the few places that remain open after a late night show.

And a place that proves that fine dining is not about air conditioned interiors and classy cutlery…it’s about pampering a palate and seducing it with sheer good taste.

Thanks Chef! See you again…soon.

 

Just when you think nothing more is ever going to change, something happens…

People who you thought were pure ‘French’ suddenly transform into jolly ‘Germans’. Colours change. Lives change.

Pedhapally Kishan who successfully re-branded himself from Sula Kishan to Charosa Kishan, has now taken the biggest leap in his life.

From sophisticated drinking of wine to a friendlier act of guzzling beer, Kishan is poised to make the change. But the MAN himself remains unchanged, he assures me.

From time to time, we see people changing. Changing their professions, changing their lifestyles, changing their beliefs, But then we don’t pay too much attention to these changes.

But in the case of Pedhapally Kishan, we have no choice but to sit up and take note.

From the rich burgundy hues of wine, he is shifting to the golden glow of beer.

From the 4th of September, Kishan is all set to add fizz to our lives. Good bye to the days of the corkscrew, and hello to the world of cans, twist-caps and fizz-pops.

Is it because wine is a drink of the mind, while beer is truly, a drink of the heart?

Kishan is not saying anything. But you can make out that he is excited. Excited about reaching out to his friends in a whole new way. Excited about connecting with people on a different plane altogether. Excited with the thought of being part of many more lives.

And guess what?

I am sure (like many of us are) that the next stage of Kishan’s journey will be as fruitful as his last. As successful.

As full of challenges met. And as full of opportunities.

Because he so deserves it. Because he is such a loveable person. Because he is blessed.

So what do we call Kishan from now? Just wait till tomorrow to find out.

Cheers!!!