tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34092820112130393652024-03-14T00:38:21.308+05:30Madly MalabarAmrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-72431475578706099682011-05-29T10:25:00.004+05:302011-05-29T11:23:11.041+05:30Umm Yaa You Know...<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">The dainty young lassie gives an affected wave with her skinny hands, exhales a mini-sigh of uber-chicness and in the poshest of posh accents, says, 'It's like, you know, such a drag!'</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">She regales me with cache of stories about the latest art 'do' making waves in London and the best caterer of petits-fours the haute Paris-returned Mumbai divas are serving for their coffee get-togethers. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">'Where did you study?' I ask, thinking Sorbonne or Warwick or Wesleyan. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">'Jai Hind', she replies, smiling pertly and prettily.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">'Then you went overseas?' I rally on, intrigued by the airy accent and throaty hesitations, this constant reference to London and Paris and New York. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">'Summer program at LSE, you know. Just to get a feel for it!' She gives a shrug, her bony shoulders forming inverted Vs in the air briefly, then falling back to their lackadaisical stance.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Huh? I goggle.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">'I got picked up by this investment bank after my summer program, you see.'</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">What? Move over brainista, move in fashionista. All it takes to woo high net worth lads to entrust their hard earned millions to an i-bank is a breathy, airy, babe-licious relationship manager.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">'Overseas?' I ask, clearly flummoxed, trying not to show it.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">'Oh here, in Mumbai', she trilled.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">'My boss was so impressed with my work, I moved into the hedge fund side within the year. The hedge fund was based out of New York, of course.'</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Oh, it gets better. No need to spend a lifetime of excellence preparing to get to Harvard or Wharton either.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">'So you went to New York?' I ask, now needing to understand the genesis of this faux-phoren style.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">'Oh no, I was in Mumbai, working with the team in the US. I am such a South Mumbai gal! I like it here.'</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">OK!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Blame the accent on pappa-sponsored summer holidays to London and DC, then! Or may be the gaggle of SoBo girls-school buddies.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">'I did really well, got promoted within the year. But discovered I really liked marketing.'</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Clearly, no one could ace the lass in self-marketing. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Who needs a two year grind at IIMA? What does Kotler teach, anyway, other than a load of bisecting and dissecting segments. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">The real art of marketing, presenting this sublime vision, articulating with such affectation, clearly does not need PPPP mumbo jumbo.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">She flashed perfect white teeth. 'So, umm yaa, here I am, you know.' </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">No, I don't know!!!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div></div>Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-19364076671630786942011-04-08T22:07:00.002+05:302011-04-08T22:18:35.143+05:30Spidering in SoBo style<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Just a delicate weave of the web, darlings, the connectedness and interconnectedness of folks, just an everyday moment of linking people, muttering through the who's who lists, mapping the dots and dashes... </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Spidering... Tara mused</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Forking out that scrap of white, that slip of heavy gsm, giving with one hand, receiving with another... mapping, jotting, chatting, sipping, flitting, flocking... Ah, another Mumbai day (or night)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Spidering... such a desi thing, darlings</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Trotting out your wife's uncle's nephew's name or figuring out Mrs. Who's Who's friend's boss's ex-girlfriend and striking up chitter-chatter</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Spidering... such an endless spate of it, babe</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The automatic teller machines, the quick card Murugans, the weilders of imagined power, the flippers of the business card</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Spidering</span></span></div>Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-30624417391424470102011-04-08T21:54:00.003+05:302011-04-08T22:19:51.241+05:30Blues Clues<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The clue's in the color... from corporate czars to media honchos, everyone's seeking the success mantra in those that don blue. Valiant attempts at linking run getting to deadline management, avid fielding to stopping outflows from corporate coffers, and on and on... from starry eyed giggles of the gals to the fusty hot air squiggles by the lads. That's where all the clues lie, in the color blue.</span></span>Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-16694438349507595762011-04-08T21:44:00.003+05:302011-04-08T22:24:43.478+05:30National Obsession du jour<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Move over Edward Cullen, the Mumbai diva and her tots have found a new heartthrob... move over the Khans, major or minor, and the one too many six-pack brats... the man of the moment, the new LSD of the nation, not the love-sex-dhoka variety, but that wonder chemical inspiring obsession... from giggly college girls to starry eyed office girls to oomphalicious glam girls, cup "sakshi" hai, everyone's bitten by the madly-devastating D bug... the dhania makkhan, as the Amul ad says!</span></span>Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-49640225337153856772011-04-07T09:41:00.004+05:302011-04-08T22:21:35.244+05:30Munchkin Travelers<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">T</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">he South Asians have arrived, claims Pico Iyer, exemplifying Little Zara, who at ten months old had traversed the world and travelled to some ten countries, seen oceans and mountains and cricket matches and soccer finales.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Very true. Nowadays, the intrepid traveler is not likely to be the loud mouthed, pink faced, mild brained American expressing curious disdain for anything different. Rather its likely to be bhuuja-munching, thepla carrying, Munni-listening desibhai and family, loudly muttering kemchos and kinda sohna ji, carrying Chintu and Pinky and leaving a trail of wrapping papers and salty trail mix of puffed rice and peanuts in their wake. Ayahs, bulters, cooks, et al follow in the cattle class, minding Chintu and Pinky for the duration of the flight. From Anchorage to Johannesburg, desis can be found, with entire clans, enjoying the scenery if not the food. No doubt then that little Zara (or for that matter baby Chintu and Pinky) tend to be well travelled, coke guzzling, video on demand watching brats.</span></span></div><div><br /></div>Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-40929199427592311142010-04-18T22:41:00.004+05:302011-04-08T22:23:06.696+05:30Seekers and evaders...<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">O</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">h, they say Facebook is out... the cool thing, of course, is to commit facebook harakiri. There are sites that will help you commit online suicide, sever all your connections and send them to all your friends and contacts...</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Totally agree. It's fun for a while connecting with friends old and new... </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Then it becomes a game of seekers and evaders... You get invites from people you don't know at all, whom you ignore, or you sent invites to people you barely know yet want to know, who ignore you... All in all an unpleasant experience. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Some wise sociologist (no, not the one who trilled about the six degrees of separation) once calculated that the optimal number of friends and acquaintances a normal person can maintain is 147.8! </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Proposed by Britishanthropologist Robin Dunbar, it measures the "cognitive limit to the number of individuals with whom any one person can maintain stable relationships". Dunbar theorizes that "this limit is a direct function of relative neocortexsize, and that this in turn limits group size ... the limit imposed by neocortical processing capacity is simply on the number of individuals with whom a stable inter-personal relationship can be maintained."</span></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Now what's 0.8 of a friend, who knows... But most of us reached that number on Facebook a while back. Now we're inching beyond our cognitive limits. Time to re-coop and cosset the few!</span></span></div>Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-69280278308835501782010-04-16T08:51:00.004+05:302011-04-08T22:23:35.088+05:306 is to 1<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Well, that's about how many people I need to instruct for one task. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Heaven help me, if domestic help decide to interact. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Or do they? Just not in the way I want. They collude instead, shirking responsibility, claiming the other one knew or was supposed to do something, and in the process, my work does not get done!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">of course, which cyberista will claim she spends any nano-seconds on domestic drudgery worries? Not me... But secretly, sigh... it does make life stop!</span></span></div>Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-14175954651162227992010-03-30T22:40:00.004+05:302011-04-08T22:23:58.266+05:30Love in the Age of Diarrhea<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Summer's sizzling, making leaves fall and flowers wilt. But guess who's proliferating? Bacteria! Festering in the heat, spoiling food, causing diarrhea- perennial peril on Mumbai life. But guess who's falling off like a wilted leaf? Simply the jaded heartthrob, popping off like a yellowing leaf. Summer flowers bloom and as does summer love. Like our fashionista tennis ace... cuddles and carats one day, cross-border conviviality the next! Out with the old, in with the new.</span></span>Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-44887752368564586892009-12-11T09:17:00.005+05:302009-12-11T09:35:04.338+05:30Separatists sprinkled like sequins<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"OMG, Separatists seems sprinkled in our states as plentifully as sequins upon a desi dress", Tara mused.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"Only in the outposts, dah-ling", Lola scoffed, raising her hot pink talons emphatically.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"Really?" Tara sipped her champgane, and the little festive trinket around the stem of the glass glittered in Swarovski shimmer in the dim lights of the trinket laden Christmas tree.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The room around them eddied as usual with Mumbai's best dressed and best groomed. Ananya and Surily dresses her, Wendell and Armani Prive shirts there. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A posh duo moved towards Tara and Lola, the man's broad arm around the babe's tiny waist.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"Hello", trilled the super straight haired babe in skinny spandex dress sewn with sequins. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"How Mumbai", Lol quipped. "But lovely dress, doll."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"Thanks", cooed the babe.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"So where do you live?" asked the man, after introductions were done.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"Malabar Hill" replied Tara. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"Did you grow up there?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"No. I grew up in Bareilly."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"Really?", the man seemed amazed. "Bareilly to Bombay, and straight to Malabar Hill?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"Yeah, truly, you can spot outsiders from afar."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"Manoos and others, you mean?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"No, no. Just all who grew up here and those who did not. I am a Bawa who grew up on Napean Sea Road. I always find it amazing to meet people who move into Mumbai. I find it so hard to relate to. It totally changes the nature of the city."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"There should be a law against it, or what?" laughed Tara, horrified to be hearing this in a posh living room overlooking the Arabian.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"Not a law, dear. But there's more of them in the Western suburbs, isn't it?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"Not quite an outpost, then, Lola, is it?" Tara said, walking away, amused and outraged at this. Separatists can come in all garbs then, she thought. They can be Zegna-suited too!</span></span></div>Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-88851815693773905132009-11-04T00:02:00.002+05:302009-11-04T00:23:38.371+05:30The Mad Birthday Party Dash - all for naught!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">'I want to come look at the paintings in an hour', said the man on the phone, mentioning Mrs. Mewawala, one of Tara's key buyers as his friend. 'I fly back to the States tonight and I want to pick up a couple of pieces before I leave.'</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">'Sure', groaned Tara, glancing at her watch. She had promised Ro to take him to a birthday party. She needed to leave now to pick him up for the party. What with Gul away on travel, Tara was manning the gallery alone and Gul would go into an apoplectic fit if she heard that Tara had closed shop on a prospective client for an afternoon with sugar-high rapscallions. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Instead Tara phoned June, begging her to pick up Ro, guiltily explained the new arrangement to her five year old, and waited for the unknown art lover to arrive.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A broken-toothed lad in a sharp suit arrived an hour later, pledging support to the world of art, something he 'casually picked up' on journeys around the world on business. He toured the hall, admiring the works by the young Baroda school artists, and suddenly went into a lengthy quiz on returns on investment and art portfolios. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Tara sighed. ROI on art, a flaky concept at best was a total black box when considering a young unknown artist. Like betting your dosh on a lottery. Chances are pretty slim. The minute the man started speaking ROI and debating merits of Indonesian painters versus Indian painters, Tara knew it was a lost cause. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The clock on the wall suggested the party must have started. Time to cut the idle dialogue short. Tara hurriedly ended the conversation and madly dashed to her car. By the time she reached the party, after endless twists and turns along clogged lanes, the party was ending. Ro was still mad- that child held onto grudges! A promise broken, and for naught! </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div>Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-27818387148294033942009-11-03T23:41:00.002+05:302009-11-04T00:00:54.669+05:30Fascinated by Fascinators<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">'What the heck's a fascinator?', Tara mulled when she first heard the word fascinator.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Fascinating as the word seemed, it could mean anything. Like in Legal-ese, there could be the Fascinator and Fascinatee, opening up an entirely new dimension of human relationships. It could be a nouveau combo of fascist terminator, like a Chechen or Serbian fascinator. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Maddy came to the rescue again, showing Tara an ad e-tailing the eponymous items. Mini tiaras concocted out of scraps of lace, feathers, sequins, and flowers.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">'What's this- Princess Di meets grunge look?', Tara queried.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">'Oh you American philistine!' Maddy shook her head. 'It's the Princess Di at Ascot look! What you need to wear at the races!'</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Tara shook her head in amusement. She hardly found occasions to doll up in her Indian finery in India. But when it came to the Rock Star look, the Grunge look, the Halloween look, and now even a Racing Day look, she suddenly had options!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The inner shopaholic took over. 'That tiger moth one!' she exclaimed. 'It will be perfect for my beige dress. Or perhaps...', she mused,'that amazing purple one.' </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Maddy nodded at the image of a cascading confection of tulle, feathers, and Swarovski. 'I adore that purple one. I could buy a dress to match that fascinator.' </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">'Fascinating', giggled Tara.</span></span></div>Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-62389137109289573992009-10-27T23:11:00.002+05:302009-10-27T23:24:47.358+05:30The rote at 'Tote'<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">'So, how is your dinner, Sir?', 'So, how is your dinner, Mam?'</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">As the waiter as Tote went around the table, repeating the exact question to each and every person in his sing-song voice, Tara could not help smirking. The Tote School of Culinary Service, was it, memorized by rote and regurgitated by rote. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">In the expansive courtyard, size zero teens in teensy plunging dresses hung onto their mobiles and their spiky-haired guys, while inside the glass-walled party room, in the flickering razzmatazz of disco lights, plump ladies twirled with balding men. The hip and happening of Mumbai out for a typical Friday night. Mercs and beemers queued to disgorge more evening revelers, and somewhere in the distance, from between the makeshift fence of foliage, a slum dwelling teen peeked at its new nightly neighbors. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Still, a walnut-mushroom tiramisu, heavy like a buttery foam cloud, and a plump steak soaked in its jus, were not to be sneered at. Sipping her blue champagne, Tara dug into her food. </span></span></div>Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-86289914218493948952009-10-27T23:03:00.002+05:302009-10-27T23:09:46.752+05:30Dinner parties, such a big no-no!Who wants to go to a dinner party? Not Tara, for sure! Who eats at parties anyway? All the la-di-da glam girls insist on soup and salad before 7m. Even the hubbies and BFs are following the steamed fish and grilled vegies in evening diet. No, the thing to do is to host and attend cocktail parties- appetizers and desserts(well, may be a teeny weeny forkful, ok?), all washed down by a shot of grey goose on water or a glass of bubbly. Didn't you know, dearies, that the fizzy tizzy has fewer calories than vino or that a shot of vodka is better than whiskey on ice? The perfect "Madly Malabar" party!Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-55210213768706138622009-06-26T00:05:00.003+05:302009-06-26T00:55:16.334+05:30Quelle Horreur!!! Going out without a blow dry?!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">"Shit, shit, shit", Tara switched her mobile phone off, hopped off the spin cycle, and scuttled out of the gym into the warm dense morning, up the narrow bumpy path. A breath caught in her dry throat. Sputtering a cough, she blotted her upper lip against the sleeve of her t-shirt and reached her building.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;">Up the elevator, already feeling rushed and late, Tara quickly washed her gym-sticky hair, dressed hurriedly, slid lip gloss against her lips, and combing her hair with her fingers, ran out of the door, to get into the car. She had to reach the gallery in time for an unexpected meeting with a potential client, some Belgian businessman who had a half hour in Colaba before being whisked away to the airport for his flight back home, and business successfully concluded, wanted to buy a painting he had seen in a magazine review for Saloniere Star as his take home memento. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;">With Gul away for family wedding, Tara was alone, manning the sales till at the gallery. Energised by the thought, she kept drumming her fingers against the back of the front seats, muttering, "Faster, faster", to the hapless driver.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;">Once at the gallery, she quickly escorted Herr De Vos inside, while his hotel merc stalled along the road, waiting to take him back. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;">"Prachtige, Prachtige", Herr De Vos kept repeating as he stood in front of a large abstracted village scene, which Gul had been ruing over- would it sell, would it not sell. The piece by Paras Patel had seemed different in digital image, but on canvas the excessive detailing- the scooping and gouging of layers and spattering of shapes and shades- gave it a psychedelic feel in a way that didn't quite work. But, hey, if Herr De Vos liked it, who was Tara to complain.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;">"Its a wonderful piece", Tara chimed in brightly, smiling at Herr de Vos, fingering her wet strands, as she looked up into the large moss-green eyes above the broad flat chest encased in grey suit. "Paras is one of our upcoming stars. Truly experimental, yet he retains the ethnic idiom of India.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;">Herr De Vos had a plane to catch and was already sold on the idea. He simply zipped out a bundle of Euros when Tara told him the price, and walked away, the painting bundled in layers of tissue and brown paper and bubble wrap.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;">"Hurrah", Tara exhaled excitedly. What a wonderful start to the day. A painting sold. One of the not-so-better-ones, that too! Time for some good coffee, then.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;">Locking up the gallery again, Tara clattered along the narrow footpath, towards Indigo Deli only to bump into known faces.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;">"Tara", Maddy called out, hair pouffed into elaborate curls, ropes of funky beads over a skinny dress in palest peach. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;">Tara winced, looking at all the sleek women, with tousled curls and flat-iron straight hair, forgetting that she had spent some ten years in the US never bothering about weekly blow dries. Oh to be caught out in Mumbai without a blow dry!!! Quelle Horreur!!! </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px;"><br /></span></div></div>Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-83483409918280505922009-05-25T12:14:00.001+05:302009-05-25T12:15:08.390+05:30Life- a soap opera for servants<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">One evening, as Raj and Rohan swished Jedi Knights and Stormtroopers in a mock-battle, I watched them, struck once again by the rarity of this sight. So commonplace it had been before, the slow lingering of simple fun in the US. Despite rush hour of weekday traffic on Georgetown Pike and countless errands crowded over weekends, the delicate orb of family life had shimmered like a pearl in the shell of busyness. I recalled walks along wooded trails banking the Potomac, picnics among rhododendrons, the woodsy smell of summer barbeques, the sharp scent of mulled apples and crunchy red-gold leaves in autumn, and the gorgeous fireside chats in winters. I recalled the cosyness of desi parties as families and children gathered in each other’s homes for late nights over homemade gulab jamuns.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Now that seashell was fractured, and the once-beautiful pearl had lost its sheen to salty tides and slimy flotsam. The petty troubles of life dominated, the gauze of glitz suffocated and the joys of stillness were dulled. </span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Even more so, because, intimacy, once a part of ordinary moments- hands held tight while driving some place, an impromptu hug as we dried dishes after a good meal prepared together, unaffected kisses in the park or at my own doorstep- seemed impossible in India. Bedrooms were no sanctum, shadowy presences hovered outside the door, dusting, mopping, listening, and to create that separation, beyond two levels of doors under lock and key, demanded precise plans that became impossible to organise. There were people everywhere, eyes and hands, curious and watchful, tongues flicking like monitor lizards, carrying gossip, currying favours for rumour. My life had become a television soap opera for the benefit of my maids and my cleaners and my drivers. The closest we came to togetherness was in a crowded five-star restaurants, marriage on meal slots. How could, then, intimacy survive?</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-46404661245188221512009-05-25T11:57:00.002+05:302009-05-25T11:59:45.228+05:30Seeing the stars- such a treat in India!<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-outline-level:1;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">'What do you think? Will Muthu sign a deal with us?' Gul asked about the artist we had met today, over the din of families and children at the buffet dinner of the hotel we were staying at.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-outline-level:1;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I had no idea. </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-outline-level:1;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">We finished our dinner, strolled outside the dining verandah, ducking underneath temple bells hung from a frangipani tree, towards the rocky promontory jutting into the sleepy Arabian. Waves lashed against the rocks. We found a stone seat near the boundary wall, and I looked up to see a million constellations shimmering above, sky-confetti, zari fish in the firmament, and I thought amazed, was it really months since I had last breathed in the scent of night flowers or seen the stars! </span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-18193540803718399832009-05-25T11:52:00.003+05:302009-05-25T11:56:21.703+05:30Madam-to-maid manners<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Lunch at Gul's house was a spread of rasam, avial, fish mouli and brown rice. </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">'You have an awesome cook', I sighed, looking at the well laden table. That was yet another thing I would need to watch out. With no incidental exercise in pushing shopping trolleys, wheeling the stroller, taking out the garbage can or even standing in my own kitchen chopping onions, the pounds were piling easy. Low carb, the mantra from Miami to Mumbai, held true.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">'You can take your time to train yours', Gul smiled. 'Beware though. The minute you train your maid, she will run away.'</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">'So how do you keep yours?' I asked Gul, curious. I still had to perfect my maid-handling techniques. I seemed to be too polite and expected too little and my maids seemed to be taking me for a ride.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">'Well, I inherited my cook from one of Pheroze’s Mumbai aunts- she has been with the family for over twenty years.'</span></span></span></p> <span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">You could </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">inherit cooks </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">too? I was amused. </span></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Gul gave me her spiel on madam-to-maid manners. Not too easy. Not too harsh. None of your American easy affability. Just a dash of the good old 'benevolent dictatorship'.</span></span></span><!--EndFragment--></div>Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-32463241415234216682009-05-25T11:48:00.002+05:302009-05-25T11:50:25.675+05:30Baby on the road<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Gul and I were on our way to the bank.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I was lost for an instant as the car braked suddenly near Mantralaya as a little baby came out of nowhere and ran onto to the road. Cars honked from behind. A raggedy young girl ran to pick up the baby and ran back to plonk the baby on the edge of the footpath. </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A narrow shave. For the baby. For Gul's driver. For us. Who is responsible in such a case? There is legal responsibility! Then there is moral responsibility.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">'What is the solution, Tara?' Gul burst out, exaperated.</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-57534492305532837592009-05-25T11:45:00.001+05:302009-05-25T11:46:27.417+05:30Finding household staff<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">In the afternoon, I finalised details for </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Om Deep</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">, from curtain design to supervising painters, and conducted maddening interviews with potential household staff. For all the people power in India, the abundance of cheap labour, the utter lack of good service levels, from the plumber and carpenter to house staff was really bothering me now. Could I ever take anyone at face value? But then, could I ever double check what anyone said? The system was opaque, a colloid of half truths and misrepresentations, murky at best.</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-70177961683335798222009-05-25T11:41:00.001+05:302009-05-25T11:43:54.900+05:30The best way to collect art<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I found myself next to a busty young woman with the most amazing waterfall of diamonds in her ears and whorls of it around her fingers.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">'I cannot imagine being forty.' She sighed dramatically, and I spied at her. She looked well above thirty. Forty could not be so far away. But then, it just might be the weight.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-outline-level:1;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">'Lola has a great taste in art, doesn’t she?' I said conversationally, changing the topic.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-outline-level:1;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">'Oh, it’s OK', replied the busty woman.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><i><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">OK? </span></span></span></i><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I was amazed by the lacklustre response. 'You must be quite a collector then!'</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">'Yes.' She was casually offhand. 'Hussain, Souza, Anjolie Ela Menon, Gujral, Raza. We have them all at our place.'</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-outline-level:1;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Wow, she was some collector. I needed to know her.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-outline-level:1;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">'My grandmother started me off with a few pieces', she said. 'Then I started collecting myself.'</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-outline-level:1;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Inheritance, the best way to collect, for sure! </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-outline-level:1;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Not that it didn’t matter in America if your name had a numeral at the end of it or you had a three generation history with Wesleyan, but here it appeared to matter just that bit more. She was exactly the type of client who I needed to tap into for my art business. I told her about my art gallery.</span></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; line-height:150%"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-43975847837041968502009-05-25T11:38:00.001+05:302009-05-25T11:40:20.550+05:30Friendships don't sway readerships<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-outline-level:1;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Next afternoon, I got copies of the local dailies to check if Rimli's art exhibition got a mention. Some of her paparazzi friends had attended the opening event last night.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-outline-level:1;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">No such luck. These paparazzi pressmen! Friendships don’t sway readerships, faces of society darlings do. So Poor Rimli was given the invisibility treatment. Instead, there were many lovelies gracing the back page, buying Tarun Tahiliani ghaghras and attending Fendi bag sales. </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-outline-level:1;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">In the middle of these photos, I saw a familiar face. The caption read, ‘A</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">uctioneer Roy Jordan with VJ Rinky Dink in a private party at a newly opened South Mumbai night club’</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">. Plastered on him was a gorgeously endowed la-di-da gal in a plunging necked red dress. There was also a one-line item which stated that Roy Jordan was planning a private sale of a newly discovered Amrita Sher-Gil.</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-804613682528111132009-05-25T11:28:00.003+05:302009-05-25T11:35:30.328+05:30Back to 'settle down'...<!--StartFragment--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">I called my mother to tell her I had found an apartment. She promptly enthused about my “getting settled”. Yeah, right! I got maha-irked. Mom lived in hope of our forever-and-ever return to India. By the time I called up my in-laws to tell them the news and heard their glossy whoops and more of you-are-back quips, my irritation was sky high. Barely was the ink dry on our rental contract, and I was already hating the apartment. What signified settling for the moment seemed to have acquired epic connotations.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:verdana;font-size:10px;"><br /></span></p> <!--EndFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">'I am so glad you are back and settled down in India now…', the roly-poly aunty grinned broadly in approval.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">That did it! I am not BACK in India, I fumed inwards. Not to SETTLE down, for sure. This outspoken expectation that our move would be </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">forever</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"> left me uneasy, like a boat adrift upon the nautical highs, its compass broken, unaware of which ocean it sailed upon and should storm clouds gather ominously, unsure of the nearest coast. After years of adopting American consciousness, here back in the land of my ancestors, who exactly was I? What was pretense, what reality, I knew no more.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:verdana;font-size:10px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%"><!--StartFragment--> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-outline-level:1;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">In the afternoon, my mother called and I told her about setting up furniture in our new place and rushing around to get curtains, linens and stuff. </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-outline-level:1;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">'I am so glad you are settled now, darling', she said.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><i><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Settled</span></span></span></i><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">? Why is it such a loaded word in India, what did she really mean ‘settled’? The forever stuff? The lived happily ever after variety? What indeed?</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 22px;font-size:15px;"><br /></span></p> <!--EndFragment--> <p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-87427834107482569222009-05-25T11:24:00.001+05:302009-05-25T11:36:56.446+05:30Electronic documents, anyone?<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Next day we met again with the lawyer to get some papers notarized at the Lower Court, a dusty Victorian behemoth, whose elegant outer façade was totally at odds with its paan-streaked inner corridors and large rooms lined with grimy desks that supported tottering piles of fraying paperwork and small oil portraits past judicial luminaries looked upon us from the peeling walls.</span></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">No electronic records here! The notary, a fat Sikh dressed in white shirt, white pants and a stringy black bow-tie, went through the sequence of multiple signatures in triplicate on stamped papers in utterly listless manner, flicking a finger to ask for some supporting documents and flicking another finger to point to his lackey who was collecting petty cash for this service.</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style=" line-height:150%;font-size:11.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-80448432177613358392009-05-25T11:23:00.000+05:302009-05-25T11:24:37.658+05:30Family time<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">We played for half hour, before Rohan got restless and got into a wrestling match with Raj. It tugged me to look at them together, engrossed in their fisticuffs, Rohan’s big eyes scrunched with joy, laughter floating like confetti upon the gladdened air. For once, Raj was home when Ro was still awake and my little boy was lit up like a Christmas tree.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-layout-grid-align:none"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">How often a scene like this would play out in DC! The ordinariness of it tugged my heart. If not on week nights, then at least the weekend made up for it the rushed week and long hours that America is famous for. But here, even the ordinary seemed implausible, a thing of myths and fables, and Time was like this slippery devil, taunting, morphing flubber-like to expand for those who didn’t value its precision, its finiteness. It was a different system. </span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3409282011213039365.post-29612303146059344292009-05-25T11:16:00.001+05:302009-05-25T11:16:46.336+05:30Sashaying in spotless white<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-outline-level:1;tab-stops:259.5pt 414.0pt"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Gul rose up to give me a hug, ruing about the heat outside.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify;text-justify:inter-ideograph; line-height:150%;mso-outline-level:1;tab-stops:259.5pt 414.0pt"><span style="line-height: 150%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I laughed, amused at the sight of her in pristine white embroidered tunic and white pants, and my own white top and white long skirt. Summer was here, officially. The heat was on. So was the humidity. Clothes got limp and perspiration stained in no time. But, class showed and those who could, sashayed around in spotless and startched white.</span></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Amrita Chowdhuryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11209453935697138133noreply@blogger.com0