Somewhere in Space

Satya Nadella was not my classmate. I don’t even know him, and frankly I hadn’t even heard of him a few days back. Shantanu Narayen you may not know. I certainly don’t. (But I do know his parents Babu and Leela). He is the CEO of Adobe. Sanjiv Sidhu I can honestly say is a schoolmate I know and have hung out with. And he was one of the early boomers.

What these three guys have in common is that they all have Hyderabad connections. And all of them have at various times in their lives, done well for themselves in the United States. And all of them are from HPS Begumpet.

Strangely however only Satya Nadella’s elevation to CEO Microsoft was greeted with front page frenzy and a sudden, renewed HPS pride. From paan waalas who sold him cigarettes to medical shop bhayyas who must have dispensed him the odd condom, every one is jumping onto a crazy bandwagon. And every connection worth making is reaching out for the benefits of the after glow.

I have nothing against the man but I do think some of us have gone overboard. Satya is not an exemplary student from any account, and he seems to have risen to the top through sheer grit. He’s plodded through a career, not raced through it. He has no top school, Indian or US in his resume. So let’s just feel good for him that he achieved what he did.

And feel proud, just as we should have felt proud of the others. Prem Watsa who’s behind the Blackberry resurrection. Aloke Gupta of the 1972 batch who went on to head Philips in Singapore, CJ Karira who is an RTI activist. RVS Ramakrishna who heads ITW, Talat Aziz who wows the world with his mellifluous voice, Chitrajit Cariappa who keeps people safe in the skies, Avijit Dutt who turned out to be a great actor. Zak Alladin who’s one of the best ‘sound’ guys around. Mani Shankar who’s using all his tech-savvy to help promote Narendra Modi just as he helped Vajpayee and PV Narasimha Rao…oh the list is long. There are enough Hyderabadis and HPS students who have achieved, who have made a mark, who have shown that they have been molded by school and city into something different if not extraordinary.

But while we celebrate all these names, we also have to live with students who disgraced the Eagle by becoming Wimp Ministers. With students who strayed to the wrong side of law. And with students who smoked themselves to oblivion.

So let’s just wish Satya all the best. And avoid placing the mantle of great expectations on his shoulders. He has just stepped into some legendary shoes and he will need everything he has got to help him fit in. If he is blessed, he will outgrow them shoes, but for the moment I am quite sure he will be content even if he manages to walk in those old shoes without tripping.

Let’s hope he remembers that whichever shoes he wears, and however high he flies, it’s the barefoot walks in the park that give us all joy and keep us connected with our roots…indeed with the earth itself.

 

The last few weeks of agonizing about whether the Aam Aadmi Party was a good idea…the last few months of comparing NaMo to a recently christened RaGa…the last few years of wondering whether Chandrababu Naidu could ever hope to be at least a Prime Ministerial candidate…they have all been a total waste of time.

With Satya Nadella (no relative of Nigella mind you) being appointed as CEO of Microsoft, all arguments have been made redundant…all problems have been resolved. And there is jubilation in the country.

And why not?

Poverty in India has been eradicated. And relocated in the Cloud that Satya has spearheaded.

The Water problems have been pushed aside thanks to the many Innovations that Nadella has approved of.

Agricultural Produce has more than doubled thanks to the farmers’ use of MS Excel.

Marriages have rediscovered their sanctity and it has again become more fashionable to have a three child family. And definitely more affordable since the purchase of Mac Based products is no longer mandatory.

Dogs apparently have lost out since the new CEO did not outline a dream that included the canines.

In Andhra University and many other similar such institutions, students who have been carrying papers and have been unable to graduate for a few years are now going around wearing T-Shirts with “I believe in LEARNING” stickers.

In the back streets and alleys of New Delhi rapists are shoving their dicks back into their flies scared not so much of the Nirbhaya Act but of the new task master who is reputed to be a tough nut.

Most importantly in Hyderabad Public School, a reunion is being planned. Of the alumni who had some connection with Satya. The only old student who is refusing to attend is a Paigah descendant who prefers to wait for another ex-HPSite to become CEO of a MicroBrewery.

And Kiran Kumar Reddy who is a personal friend of the chief executive is trying to pass a bill that changes a day of the week into one that’s named in his honour…Satyarday is being considered.

Not since Nooyi became CEO of Pepsi and changed the very texture of global warming has a mere appointment had so much impact on the world.

In the meanwhile I wait patiently hoping that this landmark event may result in the extension of the local Numaish. But that’s the limit of my exhibitionism.

As an avid foodie and an advertising person to boot I am often confronted with questions that really intrigue me. And the questions more often than not, from my restaurant owner friends, take the stance that they do a lot of things for their customers but it doesn’t quite work out the way they had thought it would.

The ROI on any investment they had made doesn’t quite prove to be attractive. And the event becomes unsustainable.

It is on occasions such as these that I am tempted to ask for a brief moment of clarity as we go back to basics. A restaurant (and I am using this animal only for the discussion) is a place designed and developed, conceived and deployed with the sole purpose of serving a potential audience a particular type of food and beverages.

Anything that the restaurant throws in by way of activity or by way of events and strategies designed to generate Word of Mouth are nothing but limited attempts to create triggers that ripple off a wave of activity that results in more people frequenting the restaurant in question.

To a certain extent, and for a certain period of time an event or an activity can take center stage and look like it is the cause for enhanced activity and more walk-ins. But at the end the restaurant finds a place in the mind and hearts of its people only on the basis of its product and its service.

Music…and music of all kinds of genres have for long been a favorite with restaurants. Everything from pop music to jazz, from blues to bhangra and from ghazals to ghetto-rap have been offered as incentives to customers. But the place has done well and cashed in on the additional attention only if its basic product or service…or both…were up to the mark.

And this is more true of specialty restaurants. Those of you who have frequented for instance the old Trattoria at the President Hotel in Mumbai may remember that the outlet was a beehive of activity and hosted not only the early serenades but also perhaps the only Indian version of a genuine Elvis lookalike concert that had everyone in splits and raptures.

But the restaurant was and will always be remembered for the fabulous Pizzas and Pastas that it dished out. Perhaps an exception can be made in the case of activity driven restaurants or bars like 10 Downing Street which may find a Karaoke evening more saleable than their brand of snacks. That admitted, even the Hard Rock Café which is a fairly international icon, has its onion ring reputation more intact than the kind of rockers you may be tempted to associate with.

The lesson one needs to learn is that an event, however special can only succeed in attracting an audience or at least informing an audience that a place exists. Once the audience comes in on the basis of the event’s attraction capability it is the restaurant’s responsibilities that the customer takes home an unique experience that he or she would like to come back for.

If the restaurant owner has not taken special steps to ensure that his new audience gets to sample his ware, he has not only wasted his time and opportunity he has also created a situation where his or her restaurant can be seen more as a venue for the same or similar events than a restaurant that serves a specialty.

And that indeed is a pity.

We need to learn from the Ohris who had, perhaps even today have, a restaurant called Daawat in Secunderabad that was famous for its ghazals and qawallis but more famous for its food and frequented for that reason. The original Fusion 9 restaurant that pioneered Jazz is also an example. How many people remember the Charminar Jazz Collective…but everyone remembers F9 and its food.

And that is simply because the management used every opportunity given to them to cater to varying audiences to pamper them with what was quintessentially the restaurant’s original proposition. Great Food.

 

Can you believe it? There was a time when seeing a Merc on the roads of Hyderabad was a rarity. Those of you who have grown up on a healthy diet of Mercs, BMWs, Audis, Chevvies, VWs, Range Rovers and a host of Japanese/Korean beauties (not to forget the Daimlers, the Rolls, the Jags et al) may never understand the pleasure of spotting one of the few Mercedes Benz’s in town as they drove past you in all their glory. And if you knew one or two of the owners you were certainly a member of the privileged class.

When I was in school, Hyderabad Public School, Begumpet the cars I remember were of the Nizam’s Limousine that I saw a couple of times on Abids, the Gir family heirloom that I used to see at Lekha Singh’s house, my friend Saeed Ansari’s huge white Plymouth and two powder blue Mercedes Benz cars that used to reside in Begumpet.

One car belonged to my friend Aamer and Saad Bin Jung’s father, Basheer Yar Jung. The story was that it actually belonged to the Nawab of Pataudi but because Aamer’s mother, Dimpu Aunty was his sister, the car was left in Hyderabad. And we would as friends of the children often see Bush Uncle (as he was called) and Dimpu Aunty driving round in that car. And what a handsome couple they made.

The other Merc native to Begumpet belonged to the Khans. While my acquaintance with them was marginal, one of the sons Errol, (who was a friend of my classmate Anwar Ahsan) was a regular visitor to my house for the crazy parties we used to have, especially when my parents were out of town. But what made the Merc special was the rest of the Khan clan. Gary and his sister (whose name I can’t remember).

Gary was a good looking guy. Quite the suave, sophisticated, dapper gentleman. And his sister, well she was what this generation perhaps calls eye candy.

So seeing the Khan Merc held more of a thrill for us than spotting the Yar Jung Mercedes with its avuncular and friendly passenger base.

Gary remained an icon of our youth…Good looks, great car…what more can anyone ask for? Then of course we all moved on and dispersed into different parts of the world. One heard that Gary had moved to Europe, England or the USA. Poor Errol died. And the city found a whole new lot of cynosures.

This evening though, at a book reading of Narendra Luther’s new book ‘Legendotes’, I was pleasantly surprised to bump into Gary Khan.

Except that it took me forever to recognize him. The man was still dapper enough. But there was something age had done to him…or should I say youth had abandoned him…and he was but a shadow of his former self. I suppose I was being unfair.

Time has not been very kind to many of us and we have all warped from an idyllic past. But hey, we were, none of us Icon material and therefore need to be excused our changes…but Gary…he was the Poster Boy. And Poster Boys never grow old…never look seeded. But this one had.

As I drove back from Begumpet and passed the very area where the Khans used to live and I used to spot their car I nodded an apology towards the old mohalla and to the old memory. I was being unkind.

And I could only hope that Gary understood. And forgave. I am sure he will. He had that look on his face.

 

I have always believed that as a film maker I have a special gift. It’s not a unique gift, just special. Which means I am sure that many others are blessed with this gift…and I am by no means the only person in the world to have it…but it is special all the same.

And the gift is simple. The moment I write my scripts, choose my models / actors and my location I visualize all my films frame by frame. If there was any way we could take a film output from my brain I am sure that a ready-to-view film print would be ready in a matter of seconds. And yes, before you ask…my imagination is audio included i.e. my visualization is complete with sound tracks.

This perhaps explains why the sound tracks I have used in many of my films are truly brilliant examples of each Music Director / Composer’s talent.

Now before you think that I am indulging in a selfie called bombastic flattery, let me assure you that I am too fat to be anything but modest. What I have said is just a pre-amble to a very nice story that has peppered my life for quite a few years now.

The story involves Surendra, my dear friend and camera person for close to three decades. And a silver screen temptress called Silk Smitha.

You see Surendra, as a son of the late Nagabhashanam garu (Tollywood villain of yore) has been exposed to a lot of the characters who make up the Telugu Film Industry. Several stars, directors and technicians have been house guests in their home in Chennai. Many of the musicians and second rung actors have in fact been his classmates in school or college. One girl who was given sanctuary in his house many years ago was Silk Smitha.

While his claim that she used to sweep their house may be a clear case of exaggeration and I can’t even certify that he actually knew the lady, what I can say is that he was definitely obsessed with her.

And the obsession took a very peculiar shape. He was obsessed with the idea of shooting her for a film. And he was convinced that she would make the best model for any product, service, brand…

And that is where I get involved in this story.

Every time I picked up an assignment to shoot a film, corporate or ad, I’d make it a habit to call for a meeting, call it a brainstorming if you will, and discuss with Suri the shoot I had in mind, the story I had conceived and the brief that I was working on. The idea was to ensure that he was mentally prepped for the task in hand and if there were any techniques to be brushed up, this was a surefire way of making sure he did his homework before actually landing up for the shoot.

Now these brainstorming sessions were and continue to be open, free and friendly. Often they are conducted with some serious help from alcoholic beverages. And invariably they end with Suri deciding that the script I had written was not up to the mark…essentially because I had ignored the potential and talent of Silk Smita.

Now I am all in for healthy criticism and welcome contributions from my team. But with Silk Smitha I think Suri took it too far. Take a look at this…

When we were assigned the task of making a film for a coir mattress I worked on a script that involved a child practicing martial arts at home and his parents quite happy that he was safe…Suri cornered me and suggested we shoot with Silk…

A man will come into frame Sir, he started…and then lie down on Silk Smitha…after a while he will look uncomfortable…and then he’ll shift to the bed…and fall asleep. And the line can say something about the mattress brand being more comfortable than Silk Smitha.

Needless to say I didn’t take the idea too seriously and went ahead with my original script.

The next time we were working on a docudrama to address peoples’ concerns about Electricity Reforms and were looking for a typical housewife Suri again suggested Silk…

…and his storyline was built around the notion that any house where Silk was shimmering, couldn’t ever be in the dark. I fobbed him off by saying the Government (our client) did not have a budget for a celebrity model like Silk Smitha.

When we were looking for a female model to act in an ad film promoting a performance enhancing pill, Silk Smitha’s name was energetically thrust forward. And when the client did not react positively to the idea Suri asked why?

The client said that she did not look homely, not too much like a typical housewife. To which Suri took serious objection and insisted that Silk Smitha was the perfect housewife.

For a jewelry client, his script featured the lady wearing nothing but necklaces, waist bands, bangles etc., and no other clothes…apparently he was inspired by Rekha’s role in some movie.

Luckily the client said he did not have enough material to cover her for modesty. The next film he suggested was a masterpiece.

We were looking for a mother figure who could advise children about their health. Suri’s contention was that Silk Smitha was not just sexy and appealing to audiences, she shared a wonderful bond with children. The client got worried and suggested that I stop dreaming of producing a soft-porn movie at his cost.

These are but few of the experiences with Suri. There are many more in the archives of my memories…nestling there with the raw footage of the Silk Smitha film that Suri had envisioned…so yes, I have shot the lady quite often. And I do have many films produced with her in the lead. And yes, my dreams can be transferred onto film…but shall we let that be…

 

Let’s face it. The awards have become a bit of a sham. And we the people have realized that there is a lot more than performance involved. Sadly the awards have either come down to a recognition of political or bureaucratic connections or of the herd like imbecility of the vox populi…the voice of the people.

This year too, in close succession to the Sachin Tendulkar imbroglio (which naturally set off a chain reaction of demands for PV Narasimha Rao, NTR etc.) the names that have been announced sparked off an immediate frenzy of derision. Initially I was too amused to react but then a few names and the reactions they had invoked prompted me to look closely at the issue…at least from my perspective.

The names that I gave serious thought to were Kamalahaasan, Vidya Balan and Md. Ali Baig. I did consider Gopichand but then I dropped him at the nets. I have not formed any opinion, considered or otherwise, of a man who seems to be in the limelight for more female reasons than the game demands.

Talking of Kamal let me confess I am biased. I don’t particularly care for the man. I deplore his morals and pity his multifarious attempts to always do something different. If you look at his track record as an actor you may notice this trait…he was a dancer in one film, a dumb fellow in another, in one film he played some seven or ten roles, in another he used special effects to the max. So while I accept that he is talented I don’t think he deserves an award. But yes, I can understand why a different mind set may indeed allow the honor.

But when it comes to Vidya Balan I am appalled. I thought we had all gone mad when Sanjay Dutt was recognized as a patriot when he introduced Gandhigiri but awarding Vidya for a big smile of a Good Morning Mumbai or for the depiction of a dirty picture takes the cake. She is pleasant enough. Not really poster girl material perhaps but easy on the eye. She is a competent actor not an extraordinary one. In fact her roles seem to have taken center stage for the courage she displayed in accepting those roles. Well I feel that if courage has to be rewarded, maybe she should have been considered for a Vir Chakra or even a Param Vir Chakra. But a Padma award worthy actor she definitely is not, well not in my books anyway.

At this stage I am reminded of Amitabh Bachchan. He was the keynote speaker at the Advertising Congress held at Jaipur a few years back. In his speech he admitted that he was a beneficiary of the times and the Director/Storytellers who gave him the opportunity. “I was not and am not the angry young man” he said. And explained how he just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Vidya Balan I feel is also in the same category…and the test is simple…if anyone else had done her roles would they have done better, worse or as good. It doesn’t matter, she has benefitted from role picking and that is sad.

The third name Md. Ali Baig is the pleasant surprise. Now if you are in Hyderabad or connected to theatre in some way you would have heard of this name. And of the Qadir Ali Baig Theatre Foundation that he has spear headed since inception and made it a theatre force to reckon with. I am sure you’ve heard comments that suggest that Md. Ali Baig is a well connected, brilliant marketing man…that he is the master of packaging…that his father was an actor but nothing to write home about, and definitely not a doyen as he is projected to be…that Md. Ali Baig should stick to being a master producer and not dare to come on to stage…oh the list of derisive comments is long and confusing.

I for one decided long ago that I would ignore all these comments and avoid getting pulled into any controversy. Not for any other reason but for the fact that I saw something being done for the greater good of theatre and of Hyderabad, indeed India. And I must admit that as an Impresario this man has been nothing short of genius.

The kind of acts that he has managed to bring to Hyderabad and presented to the audiences at home are nothing short of magical. Whether it is performances or whether it is lectures, interactions and workshops we’ve had the best of the best. So my way of thinking is this…if the price we have to pay for such qualitative improvements in our theatre calendar is to accept that while Md. Ali Baig may not be a wonderful actor, or whether Qadir Ali Baig was not really a doyen or even that he is a better marketer than a dramatist, so be it.

But he has done for theatre much that deserves to be appreciated, acknowledged and awarded. And if the Padma Sri gives him joy, let’s just sing the old Beatles number and say…Let it be, let it be…

 

The Hyderabad Literary Festival this year is being celebrated on a much larger canvas. The location has been made convenient and an entire zone in the middle of the city has been demarcated as Literary Street … and Literature and the Arts are dancing to a song of happiness never heard before.

The spirit of the festival is out there in the open for everyone to see…as you walk down a street bedecked with art on both sides of the road…as you listen to strangely intense conversations between the most unlikely of people…as you see the calendar of events that the organizers have put together. But nowhere else is it more obvious and cheerful as it is in Kalakriti, one of the partner venues of the festival.

It is here that the renowned Clay Artist, Potter whatever…Aarti Vir, is part of a day long interactive work shop. The work shop takes the festival straight into the hearts and hands of the people that are attending it as was obvious when I walked into Kalakriti.

The place was choc-a-bloc with people of all ages, sizes, dimensions, nationalities, moods and occupations. Almost everyone was sitting in front of a sheet of newspaper…on which was a small mound of clay. And the brief obviously was, do what your mind tells you to do.

As busy hands translated the thoughts of their minds into hastily molded creations Aarti Vir walked around spreading her special brand of happiness…getting her dose of satisfaction as a young girl put forward something for her approval…advising participants to leave their inhibitions behind…leave their pretentions behind…and to just be.

For there is nothing right or wrong in a translation…nothing wrong in a fanciful flight of fantasy.

And the sounds…oh my God…there was no difference between the sounds that a group of expats were making, sitting casually on the floor…and a group of young students behind a make shift desk…and a group of aunties and grandmothers who must have decided to give adulthood a miss for the day…there were squeals of disappointment, giggles of joy and the oohs and aahs of discovery.

After a while I dragged myself away…thinking how each word had come alive…Hyderabad, because the mood and the spirit was quintessentially Hyderabadi…Festival, because the event was celebratory and Literary, because it was art…even if not in the literal sense.

It was dark. The beginning. They were dark. The images. And in the darkness a dark voice rumbled some ostensibly good poetry with a dark sense of poignancy. And in the dark a stand up audience turned 360 degrees to get quarterly glimpses of images that promised to show visions of a forgotten Hyderabad but instead delivered a dark monotone of predictable locations.

The unveiling of the photographs was an innovative re-introduction to Hyderabad audiences. Never since the original audio visual inauguration of MF Husain’s exhibition at Cinema Ghar (with a lively script by Dr. PM Bhargava, voices by Chandana Chakraborthi and Vijay Marur,lights and sound by Zak and Proxy) has this been attempted. But Cinema Ghar had levels…it had a walk around feel and it had the charisma of the maestro in the lead. And it had a wall full of Husains. So kudos to Goethe Zentrum for having tried out a departure from lamp lighting inaugurals but…

The one thing that the images managed to convey was the timelessness of the city, its topographical facets and its monumental dimensions. But the major dependence on enhanced cloud formations and extra wide lensing left one wondering if memories should indeed be so lifeless, and the triggers so melancholy.

I chose to partake of the orange juice served instead of the wine because I was scared that a hangover from the visual impact of the exhibition may land up making me feel maudlin if wine assisted, and then with a cheer in my step, I bounced off to Lamakaan.

Nikhil Heerekar’s Beer, Smoke and a Lovely Tale

was a collection of three skits, put up with the least fuss in a simple setting. Emboldened by the Lamakaan samosa neemboo paani combination we settled down for an hour long glimpse of some unabashed fun. The scripts were nice, the enactments fairly good…though voice projection could have been improved upon. While Nikhil and Krishna were good, the girl who stole the show was Namita of the gorgeous smile. Inspite of being constricted into playing the role of a beer can chick she let her smile take centre stage and brought the evening to life.

But was it a heady glass of beer? No, it was a refreshing glass of neemboo paani. And it is as good a cure for depression as any…

 

 

 

 

There is an age-old ritual we follow at DCH (Dramatic Circle Hyderabad). It’s nothing unique, nor proprietary, but very memorable, very dear. Before the beginning of any show, all the actors and the Director get together off stage and stand in a circle, hold hands and under the gentle directions of the Director, take a deep breath, exhale…deep breath, exhale…and then hum a long winded OM…three times…starting off with a low hum…till we reach a fairly high pitched crescendo.

I don’t remember when I first witnessed this ritual but I do remember that I used to think that this was a ‘voice exercise’ taken to a stylistic extreme. A bit of a ‘put on if you must’ kind of act. Part of the meaningless, pseudo packaging of theatre that’s an unfortunate by-product of our affair with dramatics.

Then it dawned on me that there was a certain amount of competitiveness involved. All of us started off with an Om…and hummed on, waiting for the others to run out of breath before we did. The gasps for air at the end of it all were funny in a breathless sort of way, but what the hell…it was drama…and we had a show to put up.

Now this is the interesting part…maybe because of my regular swimming or because of some constitutional anomaly, I had deep and powerful lungs…and though I was fat, pot bellied and quite out of shape, there were two or three things I could do that did me proud. For one, I could swim underwater for the longest periods of time…and I could make sure that I could be heard in any environment…using a combination of voice projection technique and brute lung power. And in the context of the Om Ritual, hold on to my Oms for a substantial amount of time.

And this became a part of a silly macho thing. I can hold my breath longest…hum the longest, became part of the game. Only later I realized that there was more to standing around in a circle and humming. There was a sensitivity, there was a connect that made the ritual meaningful.

We learnt to identify the hums of each of our fellow actors…and we learnt how to feel the fusion of energies…realized too that if our humming was harmonious, our show was likely to be successful.

A few years back, when I had some serious conversations with death I felt bad that I wouldn’t be a part of these rituals any more…even when by the grace of God and the blessings of family and friends I stumbled back to life I was quite certain that I would never experience the pleasure of humming together again.

I didn’t know if I could make it to the stage. Or whether I should accept the off stage announcements into the mike as my limitation. And even if I did make it to the circle, could I hold my breath…I was sure I couldn’t.

So what was it in the last couple of days that made it special for me to be part of the circle once more…to be holding my breath, holding hands and exhaling on order…and then humming a deep and resonant Om…

I was horribly out of breath…I couldn’t hold my Om for more than a few seconds…and waited with a silly smile for the others to finish their exhalation…I was shaky on my feet and felt that the vibrations that were being generated were unsettling me…but I was feeling good, I was feeling special…I was feeling connected.

I was confused I admit because there was a side of the brain telling me that I had no place in that circle…that I was a handicap merely being tolerated…but last night it dawned on me that there was something happening inspite of my failings…

Earlier most of my focus would be on making my Om-Hum last longer…and only on the periphery of my consciousness did I see the requisite attempt to identify my team mates individual vibrations take concrete shape.

But now…now that I knew I could only hold my breath for that long, I realized that I now had time to identify the others almost at leisure. So eyes closed, focus on…I allowed my ears and my very being to pick up the vibes…vibes that reverberated long after my projections had ceased…and it was a rush the likes of which I have seldom experienced.

The pleasure I got in identifying the auras of my friends gave me much more satisfaction than establishing my presence amongst them. There was a kind of non-competitive, non-aggressive serenity that enveloped me and the whole evening became warm and caring…it was as if the whole world was now in sync with me, with us. As if God had just  heard a brilliant symphony played out by us…and he was quietly applauding…because Gods do that you know…applaud quietly…

They say India is obsessed with films and cricket. The frenzy associated with these theoretically ‘leisure’ activities is to be seen to be believed. In both the passions, mere men are treated like Gods. And Hero Worship is more than a religion.

So I thought (Yes, I do that too…and quite often in fact) why not look at a situation where each learns from the other and improves life in general. That led to my invention of Cricket + Cinema = CRINEMA.

CRINEMA is the name of a game that I invented and is played between two teams. Each team consists of a Director (Captain), Producer (Wicket Keeper), Cameraman, Script Writer, Music Director, Hero, Heroine and four assistants from the departments of your choice – Lights, Make Up, Camera, Direction, Production, Crane & Trolley or Acting. You can even consider a twelfth man.

One team plays against the other. And the way the game is played is as follows:-

Teams meet 10.00 am on Monday Morning at a convenient place. Depending on the size of the audience they can meet at a conference room or at a stadium. The meeting is attended by representatives of the audience and by the three referees.

A common brief is given to both teams. The target is set. Delivery of a film by Friday 6.00 pm. The theme is announced. And the clock starts ticking.

After the films are delivered, the judges (referees) meet and start giving points (runs) to the teams…6s for outstanding examples of film craft, 4 for the just special, twos and singles for the neat niceties featured or captured. For every ‘fault’ committed the team loses a wicket. If in the exhibition of the film ten faults are spotted before the end, the team is declared ‘out’.

Rules like this can be worked out, improved, innovated etc.as we go on…but I think it makes sense. Cricket has lost its God and Films have too many duds floating around. Some emergency mouth to mouth resuscitation is called for…a kiss of life if I may.

Interested?

In a dramatic shift from tradition we decided not to ‘party’ last night. So we dumped the Club as an idea, forgot about a house party and said ‘no’ to friends and farms. Instead we took the Blue Door’s offer of peace, quiet and a delicious platter to heart and landed up at the Blue Door, a quaint little (well, not so little) restaurant on Street No. 45 Jubilee Hills,

On offer was a quiet, candle lit dinner for two…unlimited wines, beers and white spirits and Greek Cuisine hand rolled by that Big Greek Fellow Stephanos. The place was nice and the pace divine. The chilled night air carried forth aromas of a strung up goat and Stephanos in his never fading desire to do something special for his customers, rustled up something that the waiters began to sell as part of their ‘special’ as Wine Shots. It was later explained that the shots were wine, honey, cinnamon powder and some other herbs.

Post midnight the chairs and tables were cleared and the cozy little balcony bar made way for a makeshift dance floor. The Blue Door had made some entertainment arrangements but the two items that stood out were Miss Long Legs and Mr. Gate Crasher.

Miss Long Legs was the better looking, though I felt bad for her tiny skirt that kept creeping up on her and for the boy who was with her…he just refused to dance and after a perfunctory kiss, just plunked himself down on a chair and continued to air dance with his hands.

But hey, she had lovely legs

Mr. Gate Crasher was the comedy sequence of the evening. A true blue, bespectacled nerd, he came in alone, found a bunch of expats hanging around by the bar and then piled onto them with some rude and crude moves…the highlight of which was the loud clapping and the loud hyena like laughter. His jacket came off soon enough and his tight white shirt look gave him the afterglow of an alien in the midst of Greece.

But he danced like old time movie star Krishna

It was the first time in our lives that we didn’t manage to see and greet both the kids at the stroke of midnight and we barely met them this morning when they returned from a friend’s farm. They were too groggy to accompany us for our rather ritualistic temple visit near Golkonda but I did think they’d join us for the New Year Brunch which we normally plan.

When they said a little later that they couldn’t we changed course from Deli 9 or Ofen that we had in mind and landed up at Kamat Hotel, Next to Ravindra Bharati.

There we time warped into idlis and vadas, crisp dosas and soft, fluffy pooris. And the tamilian exclusive  ‘saathkudi’ juice.

Back home, we found the kids still asleep and skipped the afternoon beer session.

It was only now at late lunch that it struck me that a lot of traditions had been dispensed with today. Will it mean that 2014 will be vastly different from its predecessors? I don’t know…

and I can’t wait to find out!!!

It was bound to happen. If not today, then next year or the next. Like all the others, like Neelamegham and Buni Pillai, Vijay Kumar and Ratnakar…the older generation of advertising stalwarts had to make way for the newer legends…

If you thought some people would be immortalized in their chairs, you can’t be blamed. Those people were special indeed. They possessed character strengths most of the ‘aam janta’ did not have. They had natural charm, poise, perhaps even superior brains. And they had something which is rarely seen nowadays…a rapport with their clients, some of whom partnered them in a relationship for decades.

So what’s so different about Santha retiring? Isn’t she but another unbeaten (can’t say unchallenged I suppose) champion hanging up her gloves? Just a year back Vijay Kumar walked out of Breeze into a white bearded Grandpa role and doesn’t seem to have any regret. Buni Pillai retired to a Hyderabad-Mussourie existence and started a campaign to promote Dhakkai Parothas… Neelu on the other hand couldn’t keep his mind & body quiet and settled down into a consultancy. Ratnakar went a step ahead and took the helm of a television channel.

The first time someone told me about Santha I was told that she had a Ph. D…and I continued to be impressed till the alphabets wre explained to me…something to do with Santha’s ‘pallu’ being ‘heavily dropped’. Then I got angry…how could someone accuse a successful entrepreneur of adopting such unsavoury tricks to improve her business prospects. I saw soon enough that she was completely aware of the wagging tongues and decided to treat them with the disdain they deserved.

Now, after so many years of knowing her, after seeing her in so many avatars, this is where Santha takes a step that puts her in a different plane altogether. And she is flying First Class as usual. She’s going to be a Life Coach…now, while I honestly don’t know what exactly that term means…all I can say is that to learn about life from Santha is surely going to be fun.

Santha’s track record is impressive…she nurtured people like Gnaneswar, Satish Kocharekar, Ayesha, Rohini and Kumar (and many others I am sure)…and each one of them evolved into bigger personalities with bigger roles in bigger domains. She even absorbed a brilliant Anvar Ali Khan and eased his entry into our village (remember he came to us after a successful stint in Mumbai and many other places in the world).

It was said once upon a time that Ogilvy, Benson & Mather (OBM) was a lucky mascot adverting agency. Even the most mediocre of campaigns got away with murder simply because the products or services they represented did phenomenally well.

From FD Stewarts to Sista’s to Word of Mouth to EYW to Mindset and then finally to JWT, Santha too has been responsible only for a few examples of brilliant advertising (that I know of…but then I have been out of Hyderabad for a long while and also only peripherally involved with advertising for quite some time) but she has been consistently at the forefront. Outstanding creatives that I remember for instance include a biscuit campaign where biscuits were arranged to look like a milk bottle, a campaign for a cement that created a character called Damu (no, he was not Rohini’s ex-husband) and a campaign for Tata Cellular but I don’t remember much else.

But in doing this she proved that there was no need to be consistently brilliant while it was imperative to remain brilliantly consistent. And she has consistently been the most successful agency in Hyderabad for a few decades.

Today as she goes to work for the last time in her present career I am sure she has much to look back at and a lot to feel proud about…I for one wish her all the best in what she has chosen to do…and who knows, she may teach me a lesson yet.

And by John…I’m prepared to learn!!!

I don’t know about you but the strangest of things catch my fancy. And this has been characteristic of me ever since my childhood.

Just the other day I happened to venture out of the safe cocoon of Banjara and Jubilee Hills and drive towards Secunderabad when I saw that between the Hyderabad Public School and Aladdin Building the Metro activity had converted the once serene stretch into a hugely dug up, congested traffic jam that was mostly fogged out of sight by the dust of the traffic and the construction activities there. And suddenly my eyes spotted, just away from the road widened nudity, a familiar old landmark…..Dundoo Villa.

Hyderabad in the sixties and seventies was a well spread city. The roads were narrower but the traffic was much less. Speeds were slower, even lazier. But the scene was languorous and laid back. And for a cyclist (in the days before ‘geared’ became par for the course) Hyderabad was a roller coaster. Up Up Huff Puff and Down Down Tired and Drained.

The stretch opposite present day Stopper’s Shop had the Begumpet Police Station, a quaint red colored building and somewhere quite close, a modest bungalow called Dundoo Villa.

Now why that particular building caught my fancy I did not know. But today after so many years I guess I can rationalize. I think I loved the way they had a black slab outside their building and on it were a few silver half balls stuck onto the slab in a random fashion. And the silver circles seemed at peace with the double O’s of Dundoo…apparently the family that owned the property, and had named Dundoo Villa.

Every time I cycled past Dundoo Villa, I used to slow down, perhaps even stop just outside the building…stare at the fascinating arrangement of silver and then with a wistful smile I’d cycle on. I didn’t know who lived there. I never saw them. And many years later, when I was introduced to the owner of Park Lane Hotel who was a Dundoo I didn’t tell him about my childish fantasy.

That depending on the mood I was in, or the book I was reading, the building changed dimensions ever so often. If one day it was a castle with a beautiful princess, it was a smugglers’ den just the very next. And when I imagined briefly for myself a career in photography I thought of shooting a high fashion model standing in front of the silver balls of Dundoo Villa.

Alas I never acted on my urges and the building sank deeper and deeper into anonymity. The city that grew around my memories was full of palatial structures and later apartment blocks. Many more buildings caught my attention. But none has or had the simplicity of the Dundoo Villa. May its inhabitants retain the forgotten landmark.

Almost every time Ratika raised her arms and looked skywards this evening, small leaves fell, as if a shower from heaven. And yes, she was blessed.

It was at LaMakaan this evening, and a performance of Sutradhar’s Mah Laqa Bai Chanda, directed by Vinay Verma. On stage Ratika had no companion but herself and a character out of Hyderabad’s colorful history.

It was a story legends are made of. A Courtesan, a Warrior Princess, a Woman, a Poet…was there anything this woman was not? The evening was a subtle blend of melodies and soliloquies, of gentle pacing and contemplative acting.

I must confess here that I am an ardent admirer of Ratika and think she is enormously talented…just as I must admit that Vinay Verma has always been a Director whose work impresses. Today the duo managed to put up a house full show…with people sitting on the floor and held the audience spellbound for almost an hour. The story was intriguing, the rendition almost flawless and the winter evening setting gently breezed the audience into a trance.

If there was a discordant note, it was the way Pallavi Varma set up her laptop…the glow from the monitor was a rude distraction.

And the other, an observation that is purely personal…I got the feeling that the layout of the stage, the moves planned and choreographed for Ratika, all had an excessive hangover from Vinay’s other popular production MAIN RAHI MASOOM. And while Vinay has the personality and the voice to carry off a slow, deliberate, somber portrayal…Ratika is still a gazelle obviously bridled…stretching her limits a couple of times but otherwise tethered to center stage where she uses both cushions to a very fashionista kind of effect.

But that I think is me being picky…it was a wonderful evening. And as Vinay said…this play and others in the same genre if not timeline, are essential for us to watch and propagate if our rich culture and heritage have to survive. All the Best. Amen.

  I guess telling you at the very outset that I am a bit of an idealist is kind of like stating the obvious. Adding that I am sentimental, will I suppose amuse you. Everyone I know, knows this about me. But hey I am entitled to think you don’t know, right? As the saying goes, what’s the point of being a fool if you can’t find opportunities to prove it.

Okay, I have a confession to make. While I was growing up into manhood and coming to terms with the fact that I would have to, at some stage, tie the knot with some young girl or the other, I was fantasizing with a difference. Most of my friends and surely most of the ‘boys’ you may know would also fantasize, but then the object of their fantasy was the girl they hoped they would marry. My fantasies however hovered around an image of my father in law. I don’t know why, perhaps some movie influenced me or perhaps it was because both my parents did not have a father in law who I managed to see, I don’t honestly know why…but HE was a definite fantasy. I didn’t dream of how he would look…I wasn’t that bad, but I did dream of how we would be…pally for sure…a man I’d love to have a drink with…a gentleman who could tell a tale and hold his own in any joke darbar…a man who welcomed me into his daughter’s life as a friend…I hope you get the drift. I even used to dream of situations where I’d argue with my wife when she complained that I was spending too much time with my father in law.

Anyway, to cut a long story short…when I finally met my wife to be, her father had already passed on. And in fact I am reminded even today that had he been alive, we would never have been married. Apparently he was too seedha-saadha to have appreciated my peculiar brand of insanity. I was obviously disappointed and if I remember right, I even voiced my disappointment that I was marrying a father-less girl but I don’t think anyone took me seriously…if they heard me at all.

A few days into our marriage however my disappointment found reason to vanish. My wife had a few older gentlemen, friends of their family and her father in particular, who were father figures to her.

The first of these venerable gentlemen that I met was Ramaih Chowdhury Uncle. And what a man he was. He actually spent some time with me and almost made most of my dream come true. But alas, he passed away soon after and I was back where I started. The son-in-law of a fatherless family.

The second of these gentlemen I had the privilege and good fortune to meet was Rama Mohan Rao Uncle. The first time I met him, he addressed me as ‘alludu’ (son-in-law). He was apparently my late father-in-law’s close friend, colleague, confidante and drinking buddy. And he was ever willing to chat me up, sit over a drink and tell me cute stories about my wife’s childhood.

The fact that his wife (who too called me a son-in-law) was my old theatre friend Shankar Melkote’s sister-in-law made the whole setting very pleasant…and when Rama Mohan Uncle and Suguna Aunty became regulars at our Little Theatre readings, I found myself reliving my fantasies…having a drink with this stately old gentleman…cracking a joke or two with him…waiting for him to reassure me that I was doing okay by his ‘girl’…

The years passed…I met Uncle and Aunty often…they worried about my health…they professed their fondness for me…and of course my wife…and while I couldn’t really say that he became my ‘father-in-law’ he did become the closest I could imagine to that label.

A few years back he lost his wife…a wonderful lady, God Bless her Soul…and I could see the man slipping. His health failed him gradually…and today I hear, peacefully and in the morning, he passed away in his sleep.

A chapter has come to an end. One dream has ended. Just a few weeks back I had my last drink with him at Shankar’s house when he had come to celebrate the ‘younger’ Melkote’s 75th Birthday. The last word I spoke to him that night was…cheers!!!

I wish I had thought to say Thank You.

I am an old school omeleteer. You can’t blame me. My mother taught me how to make omelettes when I was very young. And she, a hard core Brahmin learnt the art from a chef in Calcutta. She learnt, and therefore taught us, how to beat the eggs into a fluff. Which meant separating the whites from the yellows…painstakingly beating the egg into a texture that allowed the yellows to be folded in. She also taught us how butter needed to be added into the egg to make the omelette tastier.

As I grew up and began to discover other varieties of omelettes…from the Spanish to the Indian…to the stuffed…to the cheesy…I realized that there was a lot of flexibility in the recipe…and it was a dish that was as simple as YOU wanted it to be.

On the Vijayawada Highway for instance I discovered what I call a Dhaba Omelette…in a steel tumbler, crack open a couple of eggs…beat them up briskly with a fork…add salt and chilli powder and whisk them into a pan that has a shallow pool of hot oil. The rather fluffy omelette has a texture very different from the usual. From my cook Amina I learnt the ultimate Masala Omelette…tomatoes, onions, green chillies, half a herbal garden and what not…

But yesterday my kids rustled up a new innovation. Why they did it, I have no idea…and I don’t even know whether it was a planned masterpiece or an accidental one but you need to try this one out.

What they did was break the eggs, whipped them up into a frenzy, salted them slightly and poured onto a lightly greased, oversized frying pan…and pan-handled the utensil into spreading the egg around like dosa batter. This very thin egg concoction was allowed to just about cook…turn gold…begin to crisp at the edges etc. when the pan was taken off the fire. What I got was an omelette with the texture of a phulka, the crispness of a dosa and the taste…man…it was eggs…but it was a different kind of egg. Different…and NICE Different.

It reminded me of the egg coating that a Frankie gets and served very well as a wrap. I can so imagine a conical thin crust omelette pocket filled with masala corn and cheese cubelets…or one where cole slaw flirts with strips of bacon and slices of salami…or even just wrapped around sausages…there is no limit to what you can do.

And you know what…I’d like to invite you…all of you to try your own choice of fillings…after all, as my friend Sanjay Thummala who runs vahrevah.com India's Best Foodie Website says…the pleasure is as much in sharing recipes as it is in inspiring to see one recipe take different shapes and lives.

Many years ago when I moved to Mumbai, I used to be amused when people staying in the ‘suburbs’ would talk of going to ‘town’ for the weekend or for special occasions. For a small town (Hyderabad) boy the concept of people living in one geography talking about the other end as if it was a different planet was alien to me. After all, I knew my Hyderabad from Old City to the New City and even to the depths of Secunderabad having explored almost every nook and corner. On cycle, on foot, on a motor cycle, in a car and yes, actually even in a boat. Later on, even from the air. And I hadn’t ever heard, for example…of someone in Purani Haveli saying “My Hyderabad jaake aathoon” or even “shehar jaake aathoon”.

I used to think that was what defined Mumbai, the city where neighbours didn’t know that they actually lived next to each other, where people commuted as if going to another city. Seriously, I couldn’t distinguish between the people who came to work from Pune everyday and those who commuted from Goregaon. Both of them had the same train tales to tell.

When I came back to Hyderabad and started what is characteristically called a ‘family’ I was mildly surprised when I saw that my in-laws were essentially babes-in-the-woods as far as Hyderabad was concerned. Their sphere of knowledge began with the Musi and ended with the Hussain Sagar. In all fairness to them they were of recent Hyderabadi origin so I decided to be kinder in my evaluation of their geographical intelligence.

But soon I realised that my children would never discover the parts of my great city that I had…that I liked. Simply because they were ‘girls’, simply because they were pampered with automobiles since birth, simply because it wasn’t quite ‘safe’ anymore but most simply because they discovered a world their very own.

They knew Banjara Hills and beyond…pockets of Secunderabad near the club for instance…and had heard of Moula Ali and Golkonda but had never felt the need to remember the routes. But this phase too was short lived. As they became teenagers, wanderlust in the shape of ‘away from home’ soirees took over and they too began to talk of Dhabas in Medchal and Thupran and breakfast in Gachibowli and Nanakramguda.

And then I realised that my Mumbai nightmare had come true.

We now live in a Hyderabad that is already bifurcated. And the bifurcation is almost as if done by age. Just as we of the 50+ middle age think that the old fuddy-duddies live in Ashoknagar, Chikkadapally, Ameerpet and Malakpet etc., there is now a generation of 20+ migrants who think Gachibowli and Madhapur are the real Hyderabad and Charminar is an ancient monument in the outskirts of their city. And Banjara & Jubilee Hills are where the older generation lives…in a retirement home of sorts.

For years now I have been hearing of jokes that required Sainikpuri residents to carry their passports when they travelled to Hyderabad. Now the visa requirements have become wider. There are parts of Greater Hyderabad that even I have not seen from ground level…I have been fortunate enough to be given a few helicopter tours of the ever expanding city so I know where the boundaries are headed.

I know too that the time is not far off when Shamshabad where the Hyderabad Airport now is, will become an integral part of Hyderabad. Already the transition from city to town is seamless on the Airport Highway if you avoid the Flyover. So how long before people living in Katedan think of Jeedimetla as another world…even if connected by the ORR (Outer Ring Road)?

When I laughed about terms like New Delhi and Navi Mumbai I didn’t realise that I was already living in a naya shehar/purana shehar imbroglio. And now with Cyberabad well and truly established it seems there are going to be more and more ‘abads’ to contend with.

Hey, I am not complaining. I guess I have learnt to accept this metamorphosis. But amused I still am…when for instance I hear about political parties demanding that Hyderabad remains a common capital for the bifurcated state or becomes a Union Territory. My question is …gentlemen, which Hyderabad are you talking about? Just as my reminder to the people who are against the bifurcation…the city is already a collection of separate townships…and there is nothing wrong with that.

Oh my God…the sound of the weeping willows!!!

And behind that harsh banality is a nation milking its eyes for those last tear drops of joy…’cause the Master has stepped out into the ring for the last time (officially) and who will author masterpieces after him is a question that no one dares ask just now…

When Shakespeare died, no one asked who would be the next bard…when Tagore went on, the Bengalis didn’t wonder about the next Gitanjali…when we grew up and stopped playing ‘gulli’ cricket with ‘tennis’ balls we didn’t for a moment think that our youth had died…

Then why this hysteria? Of course I excuse all those who will be directly affected by Sachin’s retirement. The chaps he kept busy all these years, collecting trivial facts just as their Icon collected runs. The fellows who studied a subject called Tendulkar because they had failed in Commerce or Engineering or whatever. And for sure those lazy lards who just grew fatter while Sachin went out there and won matches for them…or lost as the case may be.

Come on. The man has been playing with a nation on his shoulders for a few decades now…let’s give him some space. Hello, the amount of time his groin has spent guarded must have given his genitals chronic claustrophobia. Time for him to let his hair down and let his @3@$$ loose.

Now is the time to calculate how much time and money this man has singularly caused the world to lose. The number of people who left everything including their wives just to see this man stroke-playing an opponent into submission. The number of man hours that had to be written off just because he hit a century. Because remember, while he was going collecting accolades and wasting all our time and taking up significant chunks of our built-in RAM he also had a family.

Now how long has it been since he just sat in front of a TV and cuddled up to his wife? Has his son ever had the courage or the liberty to chori-chori take the Ferrari for a spin? How many years since he and that dark friend of his…Vinod Kamblee or something…how many days since they walked out onto Juhu Chowpatty and dug into some typical Pav Bhaji?

Forget it. In the lonely mission of creating records and carving out niches for himself, the man has had to make do with much less than his more humble friends. Now he wants his time off…and he is demanding it. Oh come on, he deserves it.

So let’s leave him be. Let’s just thank the real God that he gave us a chance to see this marvel…and thank Star Sports for making his matches so much more colorful and exciting. And You Tube for giving a whole world a genuine taste of Replays and Rewritten Records.

Let’s just hope there are no more horizons he is set on and that he has reached an end point he had dreamed about…let us hope that he doesn’t become a commentator…because all he would do instead of compering an event is that he would compare his performance with the younger batsman’s…

and that can be a bit of a bore, right?

And suddenly it’s news!!! Sardar Vallabh Bhai Patel is now going to get a big statue…supposedly bigger than the Statue of Liberty. Oh wow!!! Where were we all these days? How did we forget him?

And suddenly the Father of the Nation is no longer Page 3 material. Obviously his statue won’t do. His name you see is a bit of a problem. Because if it is a question of using a Gandhi for statue-tory purposes, which Gandhi will you use?

The original Gandhi’s standard pose of an old, balding man wearing glasses and a stoop and carrying a cane is so servile that today’s generation  will just not accept it.

Indira is a woman…so she’s out. Sanjay’s most memorable feature is that he couldn’t make an ‘emergency’ exit. Rajiv would not like his statue to be so tall that it may hinder air traffic. And a Sonia statue may need more Italian marble than we can afford.

Rahul would have been a good bet but he is under aged. So Patel it has to be…or does it?

Today’s generation recognizes a Tendulkar and a Dravid more. Admires them. Venerates them. Even looks up to them as God. Another tall claimant for the honor could be the Bachchan. Of course if either Katrina Kaif or Deepika Padukone was the chosen model, the statue may at least merit a second look and maybe even a whistle.

So Rahul Dravid has to be content with having been labeled as the Wall…the Chinese Wall be damned to Greatness…and Shahrukh has to console himself with a stammer and a stutter. And Patel (nothing to do with the motels in the US) is by default, the chosen bakra.

Why not PV Narasimha Rao? Why not NTR? Why not Rajasekhar Reddy? Or bloody hell…why not Mahesh Babu?

Is it because none of them can serve the purpose of being a rallying point for an opposition party?

I think a lesson has to be learnt from Andhra Pradesh who to my understanding is the only one state that has idolized its vary thought. The Telugu Talli (the mother of all Telugus) is a borrowed concept for sure…the original was obviously Bharat Mata…but in our projecting the father of the nation for namesake we seem to have forgotten our lady.

I think if we are to make a statue to rival the Statue of Liberty we should work on Bharat Mata…that would be a concept to rival liberty…or have we all lost the freedom to think?

Frankly I don’t think I am much of a Political Analyst. My Political Acumen is suspect and my Analytical. Skills are other worldly. So please don’t look at me like that when I let my jaw hang out when I hear about the state’s latest extravagance…two, heavy duty bullet proof SUVs for a Chief Minister who is about to be let out to pasture.

Bullet proof vehicles and top secret convoys may be a must for a leader who does something…because as I understand it, if someone does ‘something’ he is likely to upset someone else who may want to kill him…but if someone does ‘nothing’ no one gets upset and the only reason they may want to kill this man is because he is frightening the children by going and getting tonsured at Tirupati.

Let’s face it…This one in particular seems to have served his purpose of being a stop gap arrangement for the Congress Party and is now being encouraged to dig his own United Andhra Pradesh grave.

And as I said, in his boring and uneventful tenure I don’t think he alienated anyone to such an extent that they would want to kill him…except perhaps the Secretariat Staff who must have been dying of inactivity these last couple of years.

So why does he want Bullet Proof Cars? He didn’t seem to me a possible fan of Bullet Proof Peach, an underground music group a friend is a part of…nor is he on the Naxal Hit List…apparently even they have a minimum qualifying mark…and our dear CM don’t make it.

All in all, for a guy who at best, perhaps needed groin guards when he was cricketing, he doesn’t seem to be a likely target for sharp shooters or explosive experts. So why all this bullet proofing hungama?

The rumor however shows the CM in better light. Apparently it was not him who ordered the cars, but his detractors. This is because a coincidence has been noticed and acted upon. Three or four Chief Ministers in a row have been losing their seats (in the case of YSR, he lost his life) the moment they ordered cars. So when faced with a CM who just doesn’t take the hint the people of AP seem to be practicing some sort of black magic…

Bullet Proof Cars Orders Placed…Marching Orders Received.

All we can do is wait and see…because Hope is still a Central Subject

A couple of nights back, I went for the wedding reception of a friend's son...

And I saw that half of Hyderabad was there.

The Audis, the Beamers and Bentleys, the Chevvies, the Mercs, the Porsches, the Rolls...the coupes,the sedans, the limousines, the SUVs...

All fighting for turf in the hotel's driveway...and while one growled, the other purred.While one glistened with the sheen of the reflected lights the other bronzed its muscles with the matte black look that menaced the crowd.

Drivers held heavy doors open waiting for their masters...one pathetic Honda...or was it a Toyota...car with a flashing red light on top and a meaningless sign in front navigated through the cobblestones.

The valets were in full attendance...orgasming on the drives of their lives...most of the owner driven cars were but Suzukis and Hyundais...just.

And in the softly lit, shimmering white interiors of the HICC hall, the mannequins preened and turned their heads around to display signs of life. The bank lockers wrapped around their bodies made nary a sound and the textile mills they had adopted for the night swayed in unison.

The air was full of sprayed on fragrances. After shaves, colognes, perfumes...gently sometimes splashing around in the cesspool of scotch vapors...and beery burps.

A thousand stories were told...hundreds of them for the Nth time...snacks were nibbled on and plates served the customary meal.

And I, a bit of a misfit in jeans and a crumpled shirt looked at the changed cars, the obvious affluence and the ever unchanged parade of vapid hens...

Wished the newly weds all the best and made a mental note to myself...to track down the idiot who had first suggested that the men wear suits at such formal functions and made fools of themselves...because quite frankly they would rather have been in pajamas or worse...dhotis.

Eventually…having spent more time waiting for the valet to bring me my car than I had meeting my friends inside…I went back home to a curd rice & pickle welcome…

The Breakfast menu in a cosmopolitan home going through a Dussera induced, pious, South Indian Vegetarian phase is normally limited to idli, dosa, vada, upma, utappam, pongal etc. Very rarely do we at home get a choice. The wife takes a decision, perhaps even the previous day, and we eat what we are served.

So when my query about what was for breakfast yesterday resulted in an answer that sounded like Idli-Dosa, I thought I was hearing double. I repeated the question and was shocked to hear the echo…Idli-Dosa was what she was saying, no doubt about that.

On investigation, and after a certain amount of cajoling, the truth came ‘out’…due to a slight mix up in communication in the wife-daughters-cook-maids chain we were sitting on a shortage of batter. We had a bit of the dosa batter left…and a bit of the idli stuff. Neither was enough to feed the family, but together they stood a fair chance.

So the idea that the soldier ants got was to first serve us a couple of idlis each, and then perhaps serve a dosa or two. Nothing wrong with that idea I suppose, but it sounded boring.

What could I do to spruce up the meal?

I thought a lot about it…I ran through the various dosa options that could be tried…from Ram’s to Laxman’s to Govind’s recipes…but I knew I would face the family’s wrath if I even suggested a buttery alternative like the bandi dosas…being a festival day no egg or meat was allowed into the kitchen so I couldn’t even venture into keema dosa or muttay dosa territory. I suggested a upma filling in a dosa like I had seen at Shanbagh Restaurant the other day but the idea was shot down and it went down in flames.

That’s when I had the brainwave.

So I took a deepish frying pan and proceeded to do the very popular ‘Tadka’ dance. For reasons beyond my ken, the tadka is referred to as ‘popoo’ in telugu. A few condiments and a few green leaves were added to the simmering tadka and then a sprinkling of salt and red chilli powder.

Into this concoction was squeezed a pair of idlis…crumbled mercilessly…and stir fried into the…yeah, you guessed it…the tadka.

Then I started off on a dosa.

A dosa on one pan. Crumbled idlis on the other. The dosa cooked to a softness. The crumbs fried into a crispy scramble. Once the dosa was ready, I took the minced idlis and spread them in the middle of the dosa…like how we put the masala in the masala dosa. Sprinkled some powder and added a bit of tomato chutney to the mix up. Wrapped up the dosa. And we were good to go.

None of the others were impressed so I you’ll have to take my word for it. It was good, real good. Try it

When we were young we used to be afraid of being ‘seen’ with someone. Hyderabad was still a small village in disguise and most people knew the other people, and being caught just when you were up to mischief was a very strong possibility.

But don’t blame me, I actually thought Hyderabad and Hyderabadis had grown up. Even when my phone would ring innocently and see a ‘long lost’ friend suddenly trying to re-establish a connection just to drop the ‘guess what I saw’ bombshell.

As my daughters grew up I was faced with many instances of being briefed about where they had partied…when they had bunked school or college…and so on. But I still hoped that the city and its inhabitants would shed the last shreds of immaturity and accept that anonymity is not necessarily a sin. And there are times that people prefer to be left alone.

As I grew older I also told myself that I was no longer within the purview of the social radar and that my trysts were too boring to be of any gossipy attention. But boy was I wrong?

So here we were…two old beards (if you can call us that with respect instead of using more fragrant terms like ‘farts’)…and we were catching up over a beer or two at one of my favorite places in the world - 10 Downing Street. It was a lunch meeting…with nothing on the agenda except some serious chin wagging.

The afternoon had been orchestrated by a good old friend, a colleague and friend from theatre so he was there of course. And since my friend had traveled from Bangalore to put up a play here on Gandhi Jayanti, he decided to bring along his co-actor, a young man named Sanjeev.

The beer was good and the spirits were sufficiently high. The music being belted out spun us into different orbits of nostalgia…and for quite a few minutes my new friend Sanjeev and I were alone at the table while the others stepped out for a smoke (Funny, how you are not allowed to smoke in 10D during the day). It wasn’t at all uncomfortable to be with the young lad…we shared similar passions and connected at several levels.

My phone was in my pocket and I couldn’t hear it ring or beep…so I missed a message from another friend who apparently was sitting on the other side of the bar. But what got me…stumped me…was the quick and nasty outswinger that called me just a few minutes after we had wrapped up the lunch date and headed back home.

Who was that young man? asked the naughty voice on the other side. Quite naturally I was non committal…and actually quite indignant…but the questions kept coming in repeat mode. Finally, running out of patience I barked out…Sanjeev, from Bangalore…why?

“Groom for your daughter aa?” was the next question…and I almost choked. Very innocently I protested…it was a meeting of actors and theatre enthusiasts…over a couple of beer for God’s sake!!! I said. But the more I protested, the more insistent my caller became. And actually disconnected the phone in a wholly disapproving mood…why was I hiding the truth from him?

I thought about calling him back and clarifying or appealing to his better senses (whichever came first)…but the kids and the wife convinced me to let things go. Some people will never learn that they don’t always have to be idiots, they reassured me.

I went to bed disappointed that my city hadn’t grown…it was still petty…still looking for malicious gossip…still childish in its glee…cheap in its thrills…but I went to bed at peace with myself.

Just as I was drawing my covers and shutting down the book that I had been trying to read, my wife snuggled up to me and asked very softly…very slyly…but did you find out whether he was married or not?

I gave up!!!