A miniature kitchen, with a man's hand showing the size

Irfictionary | Kitchend

An Irfictionary post after a long, long time. Irfictionary? An Urban Dictinary-esque series on my blog. This time’s is inspired by soon-to-be-ready new apartment.

A couple of months ago, I went to check out the apartment in the final stages of completion. It’s a 1BHK, just like my earlier flat in Bombay / Mumbai. However, on seeing it, I realized, Chennai builders don’t know to make 1BHKs like in Bombay. There, due to the space crunch, 1BHKs are most in demand. So, builders there pack in the most into a small area, making it look not so small after all. Here in Chennai, I guess, people are still getting used to the idea of apartments. Here, houses have been the norm for the longest time, but now I guess with many people from the rest of India coming here for work, things seem to be changing. So, the apartment plans are very different from those in Bombay. In fact, there seems to be no plan at all. Yes, my flat’s hall is decently sized, the bedroom and attached bathroom modest, the wash area separate. But the kitchen is a killer. It’s at the entrance and tiny as the keyhole. Why, it’s so small, it gets over even before it started. And so, should it be called ‘kitchend’?

Composite cover pic for this post, with a pic of the Chennai floods on the left and a leopard near a Mumbai residential colony at night on the right, with the text 'Living in Fear... Across Cities'

Ire | A Tale of Two Cities’ Fears

Logo for Ire, the series on my blog for social commentary

My new piece on thREAD, The Hindu’s online segment on perspectives, comment and such, on the fear psychosis of sorts in two Indian cities. Curious? Read on. (Though my blog post has slightly additional content.)

This piece on thREAD

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In the recently released Phobia, Mehak, Radhika Apte’s character, an artist, is molested by the driver of the cab she’s returning in late night from her art show. Resulting from that trauma, Mehak develops agoraphobia, a fear of being in perceptibly threatening places. She is panic-stricken and feels paralysed at the thought of just stepping out of the apartment door. Even when her boyfriend moves her out of her home to a rental, he has to drug her to do so. (Mahek is compelled to move out as her sister, who she is living with and is married with a son, begins fearing for how Mahek’s mental state and her resulting actions will affect her child and thus also begins getting exasperated with Mahek.) However, her condition doesn’t necessarily improve in the new place, and she sweats and palpitates like, um, crazy for a simple activity of putting out garbage bags.

Chennaiites seem to be in the grip of a similar fear presently. That of the rains. The moment they feel the drop of a drop (for the past few weeks, the city’s been intermittently receiving off-season, convective showers), images of horror and feelings of misery rush into the collective psyche. Thanks, or rather, no thanks to the floods of last year.

People walking to safer places during the Chennai floods of December 2015However, as someone who’s stayed here only for a few years, my reactions – and I don’t mean to be insensitive in the least bit – seem to be more like those of people around Mahek: puzzled at the mass fear, so to speak. During the rains / floods too, I was baffled first by the amount of rain the city received (a city that I had heard has only one season, hot, or three: hot, hotter, hottest) and then by the reactions of both the city and the people: anguished, broken, crushed. And this isn’t because I stay in a part of the city that seems to have better civic amenities. Or because I wasn’t able to see the effects in the other parts; when the lights came back two days later, on TV, we finally got a sense of the plight all around. So, before you seem baffled in turn by why I was bewildered by the city’s and the citizens’ what-I-initially-considered “magnified” responses, and therefore come across as callous and uncaring, let me share why.

I have stayed in Bombay / Mumbai for the longest time, and before that, in Calcutta / Kolkata or pretty long too. Two coastal cities, just like Chennai, but that receive a lot more rain than Chennai, so much so that in both metros during monsoon, there are occasional floods, or at least regular water-logging.

In Mumbai, people’s reaction to the rains moves along with the months of the monsoon. May end, when people have been burnt to the bone, but sense the first rumbles of the clouds, hearts begin fluttering in anticipation, much like the office-goer’s at Friday 4pm. When the first rains hit (usually around end May or early June; this year, they are set to debut around now), those hearts, and people to who those hearts belong, begin dancing. They rush out, drench in the first rain, on Marine Drive, at Juhu, or just in the compound. Everyone feels like a merry Bollywood couple. Young, old and wet alike, they hum classic rainy songs, brim with poetry, and talk of quaint things like “the redolent petrichor”.

A month later, the mood is, well, May-December. After four weeks of grimacing through slushy streets, wet clothes, wetter shoes, soaked shirts and skirts, sitting or standing next to other soaked shirts and skirts in the local or metro, the Mumbaiite is already begging for a reprieve. And Nature responds in true Nature-ishtyle, by giving them… July. When the rain is at its most belligerent and leads to the breakdown of most civic machinery, especially on one day Made in Hell. This is either mid or late July; 26/7 is another beleaguered date in Mumbai’s long list of such dates, and similar to Chennai’s 1/12.

A local train and people in deep water during the Mumbai floods of 26/7 2005Train services and trees collapse, people are stranded in offices, on roads, at stations. Or take hours to get back home. When they finally do, all they want is a comforting hot bath. Only to find there’s no electricity. By which time, they are cussing the corporation in ways that would do the Delhi Sardarji proud. The next day, of course, everything is considered off: offices, schools, colleges, services. Sounds the same as what happened recently in Chennai, right? (See, I told you I wasn’t being insensitive.) And this occurs year after year, without fail. In fact, if it didn’t, people would think something was wrong with Mumbai, or with Nature. But the next-to-next day, the city, as has become hoary to say by now, “bounces back”. Everything is back to normal, or some semblance of it.

Before the puzzled Chennaiite wonders how, this isn’t all because Mumbai really has some “never-say-die” spirit (in fact, with all that the city’s endured over the years, Mumbaiites feel that statement is a cruel irony), but also because, due to its location on the country’s west coast, which receives the south-west monsoons, the main rains in India, it has built a largely decent and decently working drainage system, despite the burgeoning population. The lack of which, many admit, did Chennai in during the Rains from Hell. As also the unmindful construction of buildings in low-lying areas and marshlands. And of course, faulty coordination and decision-making when it came to the matter of that dam-water release. All of which have given many a Chennaiite many a horror for many a month at the sound of not many a rumble.

So, does Mumbai have nothing to flinch about then? Nope, many a Mumbaiite has a phobia too.

If Chennai has been witnessing large-scale unauthorised construction due to its emergence as a software and manufacturing hub, its firm position as the South’s film capital, and thus the constant influx into the city, and therefore the need for massive new commercial and residential spaces, Mumbai’s tale has been no different. After it finished reclaiming land from water (the city was built from seven islands and now even has a sea link connecting some of them) and then claiming the air (high-rises), the city, due to similar reasons of being a financial, marketing, and glamour capital and thus having non-stop immigration, has been devouring land, like a super-starved T-Rex. And after eating up most of legit land, it’s been turning its attention to… the forest.

Builders, unscrupulous and unknowing alike, aren’t just building close to forest land, they are also building on it. I myself have stayed in a few such places. One complex, built on official forest property, had a long fence put up by either the builder or the residents, demarcating the “residential space” from the “forest land”, as if to give the complex legitimacy. (After a long-drawn-out proceeding, the owners – mercifully, I was a tenant here – had to pay compensation to prevent their flats from being razed. And this is proving to be more the norm.) Another area, very rapidly developed, where I actually was an owner, has been created by carving a big, long road through what was earlier considered a jungle and enveloping the city’s national park. It still has signposts urging people to watch out for crossing animals. In other areas, buildings and complexes are coming up either on hills or by breaking down hills. At this rate, Mumbai may soon need another mode of transport: ropeways.

Now, when you build on land that was earlier the animals’ and thus enter what was their terrain, the animals, devoid of an exclusive territory, are (apart from many dying as a result) forced to enter what is now “your terrain”. And I’m not talking wild pig, snake or fox here, but… big cat.

A leopard photographed at dusk, with the lights of a Mumbai suburb in the backgroundSo, if every year, the whole of Mumbai has to bear the brunt of brutal rains for one day, every two-three years, for a month or so, the people living in these encroached areas are seized by big-cat fear. One day, someone spots a leopard, or worse, claims a leopard attacked and killed a child or small-sized adult, and everyone, obviously, begins panicking. Wildlife authorities are called in, people are warned not to go out alone in the dark, residents are advised to keep their surroundings clean (the big cat comes for street dogs, who are found near dumps, as its food source is getting rapidly depleted in the rapidly disappearing jungle), banners with messages on reaction and action points are put up. When the fear reaches crippling levels, typically with numerous sightings (though many of these might be unfounded), there is pressure on the officials to “do something”. What they typically do is set a live-animal trap for the cat. If it works, they go release the animal into deep jungle or a distant forest area. (This typically doesn’t work; there have been cases of leopards that have made their way back 100+ kms, as they are known to be the smartest of the big cats and, like all beings, prefer their own territory.) The people seem satisfied though.

During that month or so, though, people are understandably super-paranoid. A former colleague who lived close to my place told me she would jump on seeing a branch shake at night. In the same area, when returning late through a 750-m straight, dark stretch with buildings on one side and forest on the other, I would be nervous myself, not knowing if the two lights in the distance are a small car’s or a big cat’s. And so I would take the auto right up to the building entrance, asking the autowaala to wait until I had gone in. In this other area, when I had visited an animal shelter during the period of a “big-cat strike”, the director told me a leopard had come a couple of nights (smelling potential prey), walked up and down the boundary wall, but had gone away, as the shelter had made sure all the small animals were locked inside. And when leaving my building for work one morning, I heard a clutch of young mothers exchanging fearful notes (at that time, two leopards, a male and a female, had “struck terror”, something like The Ghost and The Darkness), with one lady exasperating, Yeh kahaan se aaye hain??” (Where have they come from??) The animal lover (and somewhat expert) in me retorted, in my mind, ‘The animals could be saying the same thing about you…’

One city afraid of water from above. Another of cats from around. What they really need to fear – in case it isn’t clear already – is rapid, rabid, unthinking, unplanned growth. Mull over that while I go check whether that slow, gaining sound outside is a growing drizzle or a growling feline.

To rest people’s minds a bit, let me resort to the words of several wildlife campaigners in these “leopard-infested” areas in Mumbai, who now rather than aiming to remove the big cat from its territory are attempting to educate residents that it’s possible to “live with leopards”. They say, “If you’ve seen a leopard once, it’s seen you 20 times by then. And yet, it chooses not to do anything (to you).” I can’t resist adding, who really is the better species here?

Check out this link: Living with Leopards in Mumbai

Cover pic for this post, with silver-coated marzipan balls below and the text 'MMMarzipan' above

IrfindingVegan: Mini Marzipan, Mega Magic

IrfindingVegan LogoFor this post alone, this series should have been called Irfvestigating Vegan. Read on.

Nordic Kandie Magic logoOne of my Bombay friends is an associate with Nordic Kandie Magic (or simply Nordic Kandie), makers of gourmet marzipan and luxury chocolates. She had undertaken this association just a bit before I was in Bombay last, around Feb, and has been talking to the Nordic countries and back on how good the marzipan is. I heard her out as a friend, but as a foodie (or rather, voodie, a vegan foodie), I had tuned out. The only times I have been exposed considerably to marzipan is during Easter or Christmas or both (see, I have been that tuned out), when I used to work with this large organization in Bombay and when the sizeable Christian population in the department used to bring this sweetmeat for the rest of the folk. As far as I remember, it would contain egg, and so I wouldn’t have it (while I wasn’t vegan then, I was veg). Sensing my lack of shared interest, she seemed to ease up in her marzipan mania communication to me. And then one day, boom.

A Nordic Kandie Magic mini about to be dunked into chocolate, with almonds in the backgroundShe got back squealing to me Nordic Kandie’s marzipan is very much vegan. Her WhatsApp message came around the beginning of April, so I thought it to be a belated All Fools’ Day prank. However, as the notifications from her continued with more and more exclamation points, I decided to speak with her. She gushed to me. Not wanting to first be elated and then disappointed, I calmly asked, “Are you sure?” She was vehement, “Absolutely!” And then she made me super-proud. Not by the confirmation that it is indeed vegan, but by narrating the tactics she employed to find out it is so.

Edible-gold-covered Nordic Kandie Magic ballsShe asked her boss, the lady who runs the company, whether it’s got egg. No. Milk? No. Cream? Nyet. (Her boss is from an erstwhile USSR republic, and more about her at the end.) Milk solids? Nada. Gelatin. No-no. The lady equally vehemently told her – as if offended that people think she puts these “contaminants” into her fine marzipan (and chocolates) – they use only almonds (and the best, mamra, from Iran) and organic sugar, and where they use chocolate, it’s Belgian and sans lait (without milk). And for the high-end marzipan, silver and gold (yes, thin slivers, and certified from where they buy this precious metal), but I am only Irfan Syed vegan, not James Cameron vegan. In short, she didn’t ask her boss directly, but very directly/indicatively and in various forms, and each time, her boss denied putting any meat or dairy vestiges in it. Time for me, and my heart, to go boom-boom. It was vegan, and my friend had found out, or investigated, indirectly. Just the way I do it. And like it.

Yes, that’s my strategy. When I need to find out whether or not something is vegan, I never use the v-word directly with the attendant/manager. Most folk, especially in India, don’t know what vegan is, neither as a concept nor as a word. At one place, the manager even shot back with a question of his own, “Baingan?” (Brinjal/Eggplant/Aubergine in English.) My friend had done (learnt) well. (She had also learnt to not dislike street dogs with my influence. That’s another strategy of mine: don’t forcefully urge people to be nice to animals; rather, show love to animals in front of them, and they’ll gradually begin liking them a bit, or at least loathing them less. But that is a part of the Irfanimals series.)

It was my turn to do the “inrestigation” – the rest of the investigation. I went to Google and the Nordic Kandie site and social media pages, and found that it is indeed “100% vegetarian and vegan”. And even the images looked good enough to eat. I turned the investigation back to my friend. Why doesn’t the lady say it’s so? Ah, that’s because many folk don’t know what vegan is; when she says so, many still ask her whether or not it contains egg. Villiterates (vegan-illiterates).

Vegan certification over, there was now only one thing to do: sample it. My friend came to my help here too. She said she’d send me some, at no cost. I wasn’t complaining, especially as it is high-end and not something I’d eat on a daily basis. Also, this is one of the perks of being a vegan blogger.

True to her word, though a bit delayed in her word – during the wait, I stopped short of sending her typical jokes like ‘Are the almonds coming from Iran?’ – it came last week, a couple of weeks later than promised.

The box was huge, and I wondered whether the European understanding of ‘sample’ is ‘copious’. But disappointingly or elatingly, it was packed long and hard. There was the outer box, then the bubble wrap (lots of it; bubble-wrap poppers would have been delighted), lots of cellotape, and then… squish. I felt my scissors had made an incision. Some sticky gel began oozing out. (Did some bubbles of bubble-wrap contain something other than air?) However, my mom, who’s apparently more used to packaging food items, assured me, “It must be something to prevent the items’ loss of quality or taste.” To me, it seemed a moat, for once I was through that, there was the jar of mini marzipans, like a fort beyond the water.

Nordic Kandie Magic Minis in the jarI cleared the wraps, cleaned the liquid, and held the jar of joy in my hands. Branding-loving me admired the packaging. The jar made of glass and not plastic, indicating premiumness. The deep blue ribbon, bestowing richness. And finally, the luxurious-looking brand card. I loosened the ribbon and proceeded to the lid. It was tight. I held the jar against the light and saw a vacuum seal. Neat thinking. I held the lid more firmly now and started slowly rotating it. The lid loosened and my senses did too: the aroma of almonds slowly went through my nostrils and then into me. I looked in: from top, the bits looked like billiard balls neatly arranged at the start of a game. I lunged in and popped one. Umm. This should be called mmmarzipan. Then, another. Then, another. And then, started feeling a bit full. But of course: it’s made of almond. I had my lunch (light), and then opened the jar again for dessert. Again, um, two, three. I couldn’t seem to be able to have more than three at a time. Which, come to think of it, is a good thing. It automatically forbids you to have too many at one go and fill up yourself and your hips soon after. Also, you can keep and savour it, even that tiny bit of a jar.

A user photo of a jar of Nordic Kandie Magic minis on a ledge overlooking a beach at sunsetI had the mmmarzipan mmminis over three days. By the second day, I think I had figured out how to have it. Yes, these are foreign, specifically, European sweet-treats, and so an acquired taste. I even devised a small ritual. Open the jar, smell the contents (like they do wine), have the whiff of almonds pervade me, whet my appetite and then dig in for one, two, three, stop. Also best not to mix up flavours/tastes. They come in different colours/flavours such as rose, vanilla, light chocolate and dark chocolate and are coloured accordingly. My favourite was dark chocolate, also as I don’t have a sweet tooth, and not surprisingly saved those bits for the last on all days and for the end. And once there were none, I went back to leching at them on the FB page. And started sucking up to my friend.

Thea Tammeleht, owner of Nordic Kandie Magic, holding an open box of marzipan magicTo tell you a bit about the company, from the investigation I have done, Nordic Kandie is run by Thea Tammeleht, an expat of Estonian origin. She started this a few years ago, after multiple years in the corporate field, to pursue her passion and long lineage of making marzipan. In fact, on further investigation, I found that there is a long-standing war, though not a bitter one (can’t be when marzipan is involved), between Tallinn, the capital of Estonia and from where Thea hails, and a German city with a typical German name: long and pronounced like you have marzipans in your mouth. What’s the war over? Over which city the dessert originated in. I don’t know about that dispute, but over these Nordic Kandie treats there is none: these marzipan minis are mega magic.

Find out more about Nordic Kandie on their site: Nordic Kandie website

Connect with Nordic Kandie on their Facebook page: Nordic Kandie FB

Cover pic for this post with an image of a tuk-tuk speeding by in traffic with the headline 'Geography? Or something else?'

Three-wheeling Culture, Free-wheeling Culture

My latest piece for thREAD, The Hindu’s online segment. After two pieces based around Bollywood, consciously decided to write about something else. And what better new place to do so than with Bangkok, which I recently visited? Find the published piece at the mentioned link and the original piece (with different visualization than on thREAD) below.

This piece on thREAD

When in Bangkok, take the tuk-tuk, I guess.

My friend and I had had a severe day in the sun. (Thailand is at the same coordinates as the southern half of India, and therefore, no less hot.) We had walked around Grand Palace, deciding eventually not to go in as it was swarming with tourists; it felt like a Noah’s ark of the world’s various nationalities, races and skin shades. We did walk all through Wat Pho complex though, which houses the famous Reclining Buddha, viewing almost all the pagodas and stepping into a few of them, and even caught a short documentary on respecting the iconography of the Buddha, mercifully in an AC stall. The iced tea, freezing lolly and cold fruits only offered so much respite. So, after finishing our excursion, we ambled to the nearby Tha Tien pier to cool down, with the water flowing by and the multitudes of boats (literally more Noah’s arks) coasting along. However, the waters too provided only so much comfort. So, clothes sticking and legs shrieking, we decided to call it a day and head to the hotel.

We tried to hail a taxi, in fact, many of them, but to little avail. It’s a very touristy area, and with that heat, all the farangs (Thai for ‘westerners’) had the same idea – be in the cold cocoon of an AC on wheels. Plus, for the same reasons, the few free drivers were refusing to ply by the meter. And then, in that heat-wave, my friend had a brainwave. “How about a tuk-tuk?”

I had thought this would be something I’d do on day four or five (it was only day two), but seized by spontaneity and perhaps a sense of mini-adventure, my eyes widened and my head nodded.

The tuk-tuk drivers though were no less non-compliant than the cab drivers (or Chennai’s in-famous autokaarans), and it took us a while to get one at our price. I think we finally managed only because both parties wanted desperately to get out of the heat and get moving.

As we sat down and the driver fired up the engine, my friend fired me up too, “Oh, this is going to be fun. We’re going to feel like Bond in that commercial.

Well, it didn’t, as Bangkok’s roads are as congested as many Indian metros’ during peak hours, plus the City of Angels kind of lives up to its name: drivers are more disciplined – way more disciplined – than people back home, allowing pedestrians right of way/walk all the time. So, we moved along more like Brosnan post-Bond.

Which actually proved to be quite good. Thanks to the easy pace, we were able to catch several sights and scenes that we hadn’t paid much attention to in the confines of the cab to the Palace. Plus, with the tuk-tuk open at the back too, even as we were cooling off, our heads were rotating avian-like in the three open directions. Corner temples, street-food kiosks, Buddha statues and elephant figures in crafts’ stores, high-rise after high-rise, bikers zipping past, fishermen making their way back with their catch… It was a swift montage of Bangkok. And the tuk-tuk being open on three sides helped: you could catch a complete story, like multiple pics stitched together on your smartphone photo app to provide a panoramic view. Why, just when I was marveling how self-regulated the traffic was – compared with riders and drivers back in India plying across every motorable and creating new ones – a duo zipped past on the pavement… in the opposite direction. They were gone by the time I swiveled around to catch them through the back-view. Turning back, my friend and I exchanged smiles. So, it doesn’t happen only in India.

Side view of a tuk-tuk seen through a car

We returned to the hotel, happy with knocking several items off our Bangkok to-do list (including a vehicular one) in one day, and had a Bond moment after all. Not having the exact fare, we let the driver “keep the change”. He beamed back like the manic motorman at the end of the Bond spot. (Was he the same guy, now 20 years older?)

Easing off in the hotel room, I looked back at the day, especially the scenes and sounds during the tuk-tuk ride. I was particularly fascinated by how the tuk-tuk is open on all but one side, and even on the sides, much more than autos back home. For the rains, it seems they do put on plastic sheets, but these are transparent, so you can still see the outside. Also, I did notice a safety cord rolled up on the embarkment side that could be fastened to prevent passengers from spilling out during a specially hefty swerve and becoming roadkill. I also recalled several tuk-tuks crammed with people, something like Chennai’s share autos. (These were all Thai folk; the farangs preferred to hire the tuk-tuks only for themselves, just as friend and I.) So, I guess being so open is a practical thing – to allow air for all the passengers when it’s packed. Or on similar lines, a geographical consideration – with so much heat around, you don’t want your commute to become hot too, so to allow criss-cross-ventilation. Or maybe even a tourism thing – enable visitors to catch a grand sweep of the surroundings, both horizontally (shops and stores) and vertically (skyscrapers), without the need to crick or crane their neck. Sweet.

I then started thinking of tuk-tuks, or autos, back in India. The way they are designed according to the geography and climate of the place.

A Chennai autorickshawIn Chennai, autos are painted a bright orange-yellow (compared with all-black with just a band of yellow in Mumbai, where I’ve lived the longest and “lived in autos”), perhaps to reflect off the city’s immense heat and thus provide additional comfort to passengers. (For the same reason, why can’t they ply by the meter?)

A Bombay / Mumbai autorickshawI also find that the sides of the auto’s roofs in Chennai don’t come down as much as they do in Mumbai (in Mumbai, they come to a bit below the average Indian male’s eye-level), perhaps to allow more air to come in.

I continued exploring in my head. Goa’s autos have a door, possibly to keep out the sand and dust as, I guess, many of them ply to beaches and into village belts, which actually begin soon after city areas.

A Delhi autorickshaw

Delhi’s autos are yellow and green. Light colours, again I guess to not absorb the city’s torrid summer heat. The relatively recent e-autos in Delhi do look similar to the tuk-tuk, but are much smaller and slower. So, razzmatazzy Thai three-wheeler seems to be special in the fashion of being open on three sides. Wow, geography playing a role in product design. Interesting. Though when you think about it, not entirely surprising.

However, it was only when were at Chatuchak market, known to be the world’s biggest weekend market, that Sunday, after soaking in a bit more of Bangkok, when I sought to buy a model tuk-tuk as a souvenir for home, that it struck me, ‘What if the reason (for the tuk-tuk being so open) is not geographical but cultural?’ Maybe it’s open because… the city is a very open city.

Cover of the book 'Ladyboys'The city, and the country, are known as the Sex Capital of the World. (The City of Angels and the City of Sex Angels?) The city that has “happy-ending” massage bars (straight as well as gay) right next to standard bars. The city where on returning from dinner, you see pleasure-girls sitting in the hotel lobby, chatting merrily with the staff while they wait for their customers, and the staff doesn’t snigger, neither at the pleasure-providers nor at the pleasure-seekers. A city where kathoey, or ladyboys (transgender folk), can be themselves openly and hold jobs not just in the flesh and ancillary trades, but even in “respectable” ones such as retail and airlines (the other places I noticed the country’s almost-ubiquitous ladyboys). A city where twenty-somethings walk around with hot-shorts so short they reveal butt-cheeks. Actually, just one. (Or was that because she had got out from the wrong side of a… tuk-tuk?) So, why would the tuk-tuk here not be open? After all, what’s to hide? And who’s judging? At least not, um, openly.

The inside of a Bombay / Mumbai autorickshawAnd maybe the same applies to three-wheelers back home. Maybe Mumbai’s autos are black and the sides of the roof come a little lower to shroud you a bit, like a burqa. The black outside (the burqa analogy again) also makes it a bit dark inside, so that fellow commuters can’t have a proper peer-in, in a city that is high on high-rises but low on privacy. For the same reason, perhaps the sides of the roof are just below eye-level so you avoid making eye-contact with other commuters.

Maybe Chennai’s autos are designed to be, or at least feel, as spacious as deeply-desired thani veedus (independent homes): there’s ample light and air coming through. And people looking in is perhaps not such an issue for a city that has middle-aged men walking around in those veedus in vests or even bare-chested and with veshtis hoicked up much of the time.

Neon sign for 'Mumbai Open 24 Hrs'And what about Goa’s doored autos? That I’ll leave to uncover during my next holiday there, but it does bring me to this question. If privacy is so coveted in a place like Mumbai, how come the autos there are not Goa-style, with doors? Ah, in a city that never sleeps, one that’s ever on the run, in India’s Financial Capital, in time-strapped Mumbai, who has the time to open and close public-vehicle doors, that too when they are in rapid transit? See, it really seems to be a culture thing.

The sign for/outside Pali Village Cafe in Bandra, Bombay/Mumbai

IrfindingVegan: Finding Vegan Food… and Star Kids

IrfindingVegan LogoThe only thing I knew about Pali Village Café (in Bandra, Bombay/Mumbai) before this was that “Ranbir Kapoor goes there”. This from an ex-colleague and FB friend of mine. Ranbir no doubt goes there with his best pal, Ayan Mukerji, I added to myself. (This from a promo of theirs I watched before the release of their last collab together, Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani, where they are shown hanging around food joints in Bombay.) And so no doubt, it’s pricey. Despite this pricey perception (and perhaps because of the film-starry perception), my friend and I found myself in it last Sunday afternoon. After the nearby places she had suggested were too small and thus too full and after I put a stop to any more of her choices with the interventive, “I want a place that’s less claustrophobic and more airy, AC or non-AC is not a factor.”

And so we stepped into PVC. And I found it to be both. But no Ranbir Kapoor. (No harm, no? It was a hot, lazy Sunday afternoon, and he could just be there, drowning his post-Kat-breakup sorrows, with or without Ayan.) It was just after core lunch-time, so we found tables aplenty – people were either winding up their Sunday lunch/brunch or a couple of stragglers were entering. We took a table near the entrance. The setting was a charm. Retro/Industrial, exposed brick wall interiors, which seem pretty much to be the norm in hip, happening eateries these days. Not-too-bright, not-too-hot sunlight streaming in through the glass exteriors. The soft tinkle of glasses, china and conversations in the air. A genial-looking gentleman who seemed to be the owner hovering around gently with a smile.

The interiors of Pali Village Cafe in Bandra, Bombay/Mumbai

We finished going through the menu (it isn’t that pricey), and Mr Genial came up to our table. His geniality was accentuated up by his salt-and-pepper hair (on the scalp and beard), a stand-out thing for me (as I run this campaign on FB celebrating celebs and folks who dare to keep their gray hair gray, with the hashtag #GrayIsYay). In fact, there was much so much salt and pepper on his visage that if our upcoming food had any shortage of the two condiments we could well have shaken it off his face.

The all-day breakfast menu at Pali Village Cafe in Bandra, Bombay/MumbaiMr Genial / Salt n Peppa laughed when we asked him if he was the owner, with “I wish!” He said he was “only” the manager. Pleasantries over, we got down to business. My friend was clear about her order. Me, I was happy to notice there was quite a bit of vegan stuff – from quinoa upma to tofu-and-something salad (after reading ‘tofu’, vegan folk, I guess, just glaze over everything else) to smoothies they could make with soy milk if needed – but was still, or rather, due to this, not sure what to go for. I decided to do the best thing when in a quandary: check with Mr Wish-He-Were-Owner. Mr WHWO (his actual name, from what I remember, is either Vishal or Manish Upadhyay) suggested the quinoa upma (as I told him I wasn’t too hungry) and the cinnamon apple ice tea to wash it down with. The ingredients of a pie in a clear, cold tea? I was intrigued.

Our food came quickly enough, and between bites and conversation bytes, I looked around: a few expats and foreigners enjoying an easy Sunday afternoon – a possibly Korean couple with their baby and a couple of possibly Japanese ladies with a possibly Goan host. And of course, my Armenian friend in front of me. Pali Village was a veritable International Village. But still no desi Ranbir Kapoor.

Ranbir Kapoor in his car clicked by the paparazziWondering if the Ranbir Kapoor story was a myth, I ventured to check this with Mr Salt-and-Pepper Upadhyay. He affirmed that RK had indeed come there, but just once, when it had opened, not after that, but the story had carried forward to “RK comes there”. No problemo. The food was good enough. My quinoa upma (I had finally had ki-noah) was A-fine, tasting like upma-meets-broken wheat and the apple-pie-in-a-glass sizzled too, or rather, soothed. Perfectly light, cool stuff for a warm afternoon. In fact, due to the setting and the conversation and the food, I felt the stirrings of drowsiness, and so asked for a coffee. They couldn’t make soy-milk coffee due to the limitations of their machine, so settled for good old americano; but nothing to review there as you can’t go wrong with that good old black coffee.

Mimoh aka Mahaakshay Chakraborty, son of Mithu ChakrabortyI paid up, thanked Mr Genial / Salt-and-Pepper / WHWO / Vishal-Manish Upadhyay, and got to get up. And in he walked. No, not Ranbir Kapoor, but another star son. Mimoh aka Mahaakshay Chakraborty, s/o Mithunda. Oh, well, something’s better than nothing. Just what you can say about any vegan-friendly place, I guess. No, wait, PVC actually rocks. Thanks to its numerous vegan options, chilled-out setting, and not the least, a genial and owner-hopeful manager.

You can connect with Pali Village Café on FB here: PVC on FB

Logo for Offside, the series on my blog about 'being an "outsider" in my "home town"

Offside: Here’s Introducing…

I’ll get straight to the point. Just the way the baseline in that logo above does. While Chennai technically is my home town, I’ve stayed here for only about three and three-fourth years of my life, that too the more recent ones. I first came to live here in mid-2006, but left in late-2008 for Bombay/Mumbai (where I’ve stayed the most of my life, and can’t easily call ‘Mumbai’) for a more stable opportunity, among other things. Then, I returned early last year and have been here since.

Why all this wandering? Our family’s feet have wheels. My dad’s worked and stayed in lots of places (though, this might surprise you, not in a government job, proving our family indeed has wheels welded into our feet), and we followed him to most of these. I was born in Nagpur, where my dad was based for a few years. Then, I was in Calcutta/Kolkata during my childhood and early adolescence, where my dad was for sometime before he moved to Guwahati. We didn’t join him there. But we next moved to Bombay (it was Bombay then), where we all lived together for some years before my parents finally decided to move back to their roots, Chennai (Madras had become Chennai by then). Whew.

Until then, I didn’t even know, or at least, didn’t feel Chennai was “my roots”. We didn’t speak Tamil at home (my parents didn’t teach my bro and me the language, keeping it as a secret language of communication between them). We made more non-Tamilian food than we did idly and dosa. And we certainly didn’t watch any Tamil movies.

So, when my parents and bro shifted gradually – first bro, then dad, then mom – to Chennai, I didn’t follow them. I had grown up in Bombay, had gone to late-school and all-college there, had been working there, in an industry which Bombay is known to be a mecca for (not movies, the other glamorous one – advertising), and had all my best and close friends there.

But then, each time I’d see my parents during a trip to Chennai or when they’d come to Mumbai (Bombay had become Mumbai by then), I found them having aged a bit more since the last time, and so decided to make the shift. As I’ve already mentioned, I did so twice – for the same reasons. However, the job scene didn’t work out the second time either (my Chennai job stars must be cross with me), but decided to stick around this time, for my parents. My bro and his family stay in Vellore, which is about 100 kms from Chennai. So, me being around is support of sorts. And to not let the stars dictate my fate anymore, I decided to strike out on my own.

In these close-to four years, I’ve learnt the language (reading, writing, speaking, the last to a manageable extent and the first two to an admirable one; I can pronounce the ‘zh’ in ‘Thamizh’ – yes, it’s ‘Thamizh’, not ‘Tamil’ – as well as most Tam folk and better than many Tam folk). I know the city fairly well. I watch Tamil movies (the ones I sense are decent), obviously without subtitles, and have seen a fair number to say I prefer Kamal to Rajini (did I start a war?). I love The Hindu (which, especially its supplements, helped me get the culture here). No, I love, love, love The Hindu (its clean layout and solid writing trumps TOI anyday). So, am I a Chennaite, or Tamilian, after all this?

Fans garlanding a huge cut-out of Rajinikanth from his movie 'Enthiran'

The people here don’t think so. Right from the bank manager who told me “You look like an NRI” to my colleague who, when we were joking about having our own IPL franchises and calling them ‘Coimbatore Chillers’ (she) and ‘Chennai Coolers’ (me), told me, almost as chillingly as her team name, “But you’re not from here.”

Actually, I don’t think so either. I feel exactly like Amit Chaudhuri (one of my favourite authors, but not for this reason), though about a different but shared city. Born in Calcutta, having grown up in Bombay, having lived in London, and returning to live in Kolkata, Chaudhuri declares in his book ‘Calcutta: Two Years in the City’: “I am a Bombay person.”

But I am here now – heat, floods and all. And know and have absorbed a fair bit of the culture. Enough to be able to even write and comment about it. Though not as an insider. Nor as an outsider. But as an offsider.

A note about the logo: The main text colour is that of coffee, which Chennai is synonymous for. The standout F is me standing out (or anyone else in my circumstances, and there are many, what with the number of East and North-East Indians streaming in here every year). That’s also why it’s in red – you can’t not notice it. And when you read the text without that F, it reads: ‘Of side.’ Sides are what those lines represent too. And me somewhere along those sides…

Logo for Offside, the series on my blog about 'being an "outsider" in my "home town"

Cover of 'Calcutta', Amit Chaudhuri's book on two years in the city

Irficionado | Book Review | ‘Calcutta’

Logo for Irficionado series

Toward the end of his books, Marquez typically reveals the message of the book, either in a subtle manner, as in No One Writes to the Colonel, or spelt-out, as in Love in the Time of Cholera. (He perhaps does this to reward the reader, for having stayed the course and waded through the stream of magical realism – not that you need this, if you’re a Marquez-lover.) In No One Writes, he leaves it to the very last line. Downhearted over their last-remaining scrapings and savings in their old age, the colonel’s wife fears to ask how they’ll now manage, what they’ll eat. The response, in a mix of anger, vehemence, and pride, and coming at the end of a volley of words: “Shit.” In Love in the Time, it’s suitably more romantic, though excrement does make a reappearance: “They had gone past the shit of marriage and family and kids, and went straight to the heart of love.”

Amit Chaudhuri, another of my favourite authors, seems to have done something similar in Calcutta, observations of two years in the city (2009-2011). On the second-last page of the second-last chapter, he keenly observes, “I realise this notion of ‘home’ is an invention: that, though I was born in Calcutta, I didn’t grow up here, and don’t belong here. Each year, I suspect I’ll begin to understand this city better, be more at ease with it: and every year I find this is less true.”

Writer Amit Chaudhuri against the backdrop of an illustration of old Calcutta

Calcutta seems to be an effort by Chaudhuri to not just understand the Calcutta/Kolkata he came back to (after studying and living in England and growing up in Bombay/Mumbai) but try and adopt his ‘home town’, make it his again. He embarks on this journey in typical Chaudhuri style – warm, moist, and writing non-fiction that’s like fiction (just as his fiction is like non-fiction) – with the delectable and perfectly paced and sized A Purchase. The 19-pager (one of the shortest chapters) draws both Chaudhuri and you into his again-new world, where he ventures to save a vestige of a time fast going by – a French-style slatted green window of a British-era house. Finally getting it into his modern-day apartment in an upmarket area in the heart of the city, he seems happy with the endeavour, like he’s again become a part of the metropolis.

Calcutta_OldBuilding

Seemingly buoyed, Chaudhuri goes forth to cover more ground, literally, in the ensuing chapters: traversing and striking up conversations with people on the ever-popular Park Street, the iconic and revamped Flurys, the mansions on Park Street with their street economies… It’s typical Chaudhuri celebration of the everyday, and it’s comforting.

He then steps into more intellectual territory, with discussions of the elections, the change of guard in the state after several years and the people’s feelings about this; he actually goes to several booths, during the actual voting, to speak with voters, campaigners, officials and politicians alike.

He then switches to humanistic ground, with detailings of a middle-aged couple who have seen better days, both physically and financially; of his ageing, ailing father; of foreign chefs who join the city’s hotels/restaurants, and leave soon enough, not being able to adjust their dishes to the tastes and demands of the burgeoning (and bourgeois?) Marwaris; of even domestic help; and finally of more ageing, and even, dying relatives.

But somehow, as the chapters progress, you sense Chaudhuri’s developing disenchantment with the city (although he’s not one to write excitably about things), and a sense of unavoidability at his situation (as his wife and he came back for his ageing parents and also not “wanting to die in a foreign land”), and therefore find the writing getting increasingly academic. It’s like he started the journey enthusiastically (by getting something new into the house – the window), and then realised this (the city) is not somehow he likes, or at the very least, gets; so, his mood begins drooping. As if reflecting this, the last chapter is about an exit, something going out of a house – his ailing aunt eventually passes away.

Calcutta then seems to be less about the city and more about the writer and his attempt to make it his own – in vain. So, though you feel the trademark Chaudhuri writing dipping as the book progresses, there’s still enough of it. Which makes you wonder: If Chaudhuri can still manage to write warm and moist and everyday about a city he eventually, plaintively shrugs off as not one he can call his own, what wonders would he weave about the city he does consider his own? Appropriately, at the beginning of the book, he declares, “I could have grown up in Calcutta, and had a very different relationship with it, but I am a Bombay person.” Now, that’s the book you hope he writes next. At the very least – being in a similar situation myself (living in my “home” town, Chennai, for only 3.5 years of my life, the more recent ones, and having lived in Bombay/Mumbai for the better part, 23 years) – at the very least, I do.

Evening shot of Bombay's heritage Crawford Market