Hot Mess
This is the only way to describe the past few days. Sometimes, after you’ve had a long and sedentary winter, and you suddenly find yourself on a sunny island getaway, chances are that you get sunburnt. Your skin turns red and blotchy and it hurts the most when you’re tossing and turning in bed, trying desperately to sleep. Then, it starts to peel off. Little patches at a time, one thin layer after another. You try and prevent it, put oils and creams and rub ice all over. It’s useless. Then, one day, you give in and start peeling it off with your own fingernails. Pulling, scratching, rubbing off the dead skin. Then, it becomes an obsession. Every peeling surface must be scratched off, every hanging white layer pulled away. Then comes a point when you start to enjoy it. You peel and peel and hope and pray that the dead skin never stops coming. That’s where I am right now. And, just to clarify, the dead skin is a metaphor.
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First Day
Today, so so different from the same day a year ago, included the following:
Breakfast by the pool
Long drive back into town
Hershey’s overdose
Glee
The itch to check my non-existent facebook account
Khichdi
No vomit whatsoever
And, giving 2012 the official title of ‘The Year of Fame’.
The only constant thing was that despite serious signs that I shouldn’t, I kept my tradition of not showering on the first day of the year alive.
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New Year Resolution
I have been away from this blog for long enough, wasting my thoughts and ideas on unworthy and transient platforms. Well, no more of that! 2012 will have me back to my blogging best! Happy New Year to one and all!
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2010 Wanderings
2010 will officially go down as the Year of the Rolling Stone. I’m hoping that 2011 will be the Year of Gathering Moss.
Places this stone rolled to this year:
Bombay. Goa. Calcutta. Srinagar. Gulmarg. Bangalore. Coorg. Mysore. Pondicherry. Jaipur. Jodhpur. Ajmer. Jaisalmer. New Delhi. Kullu. Manali. Rohtang. Ahmedabad. Zainabad. Rann of Kutch. Chennai. Karaikudi. Madurai.
Phew.
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Kutch Diaries
My heart was breaking as I left the little heaven I had made for myself in Manali. I had envisioned a whole future there. Shamsher and me, our 3 beautiful daughters and a fat little son, our tiny wooden cottage with a perpetual fire and unending supply of hot cocoa and chicken soup, our chilly mornings and warm nights… sigh. But no. Life had other plans for me. I was to travel for hours and hours and leave the stark white Himalayan mountains for the parched flatlands of Kutch, Gujarat.
We drove three hours from Ahmedabad until the highways and street lights and dhabas disappeared and prickly bushes, rocky patches and passing cows reigned the roads. Soon, they too departed, and there was nothing but a tiny muddy lane and a dusty sign. Desert Courses, Zainabad. I forgot all about my husband in Manali the second I walked into this hidden haven.
It was as though little Gujarati elves had come together in a small gathering in the midst of a beautiful garden, and made little homes for themselves. Earthen huts with charming wall patterns made out of little round mirrors and dried leaves, swings with multicolored cushions hanging outside bright pink, yellow and orange doors, graceful trees hanging low to whisper secrets to the winds… A wooden shack stood in the middle, lit with lanterns, adorned with tribal patchwork daris, delicious food burning on handcrafted stoves, and lording over it all, seated on dried-earth chairs with glittering mirrors on them, sat Dhanraj, Crisp pink kurta, green churidars, pale camel skin jootis, salt and pepper handlebar moustache and a cowboy hat to top it all off. Next to him, in a plain white salwar kameez and a black cardigan, her hair in a simple bun, her eyes sunken and vacant, sat his wife Zyda.
Dhanraj greeted us with loud cheers, Zyda with polite smiles. As I gobbled up the home-cooked Gujju food, he introduced me to Lala, my local assistant. I knew this pimply teenager could never fill Shamsher’s big pahadi shoes. Still, I fixed my first date with Lala to go find shepherds, farmers and little village boys for the commercial at 6am the next morning and slept like a log on my khatiya in my Pepto-Bismol pink hut.
At 6am, I woke up not to my alarm, but to a deep male voice reciting out azaan. My fantasy of being awakened by a sexy Muslim man had come true! It was still dark outside, but I tiptoed my way around my hut and managed to put on a sweatshirt and my contact lenses, amongst intense shivering and shallow breathing. It was colder than Manali! Lala was waiting outside with a hot pot of tea and a plate of crisp cookies. Ah, maybe I’ll learn to love him after all, I thought.
We walked on a narrow dirt road, shaded with trees with the early morning sun slowly beginning to seep through them, and came upon a still lake. Wasn’t this supposed to be a desert? Anyway, surrounding the misplaced lake were tiny little alcoves, some natural and some man-made, where dozens of fluffy white sheep were stowed away. Each alcove had a shepherd, beginning to gather his flock to take them out to graze. White turbans, white angrakhas, white dhotis and big, white moustaches. Lovely old men they were. I auditioned each one of them, trying to get them to look sad, then happy, look away from the camera, smile at the camera, dance to Sheila ki Jawani, etc etc… OK not that last bit, but you get the drift. As I went from alcove to alcove, I started gathering a following of skinny young men and skinnier young children, trailing me and playing co-directors by cheering on the ‘actors’, shouting their own instructions, and being generally boisterous. Lala proved to be invaluable, translating all my instructions in Gujarati and giving them out with as much gusto as I would. ‘Imagine that you’re a farmer, sitting in the middle of your dry field. There has been no rain, and you’re starving and parched. You sit waiting by a water pump, looking up at the cloudless skies. Forlorn. Then! Suddenly! The magic of R R Cables brings out a burst of water from the pump! You’re overjoyed! You thank the lord for his mercy and, in the case of the little children’s part, you break into a water dance!’ Complicated though this scenario was, everyone got it pretty easily. Two interesting tit-bits here. 1) Smiling is not something these shepherds are used to. It comes very awkwardly to them. 2) The Gujarati word for ‘dance’ is ‘disco’.
Once the sheep had taken off and the kids had gone off to school, I found that I had nothing to do for the rest of the day. And so, I boarded an open jeep and took off to see the Rann with Dhanraj and other members of my crew. We drove for an hour, going deep into unchartered terrains, with only a pair of tyre marks as our road. Prickly bushes slapped the back of my head, and the sun became a harsh enemy. We bounced and wobbled and slid and slipped until, finally, there was nothing but an unending stretch of dry, cracked land in front of us. Deep, beautifully etched lines, as though on a poor old man’s hands, adorned the ground till the earth curved down at the horizon. Far far away, there were sparkling pools of still, shallow water left over from the unusually heavy monsoon. My shawl, the shaded blue of deep ocean waters, flew wildly in the dry wind as I sat on the cracked land, feeling the grooves on its body. Just as the unbearable afternoon sun showed itself, we were back at the lodge, stuffing ourselves with delicacies again, before everyone disappeared to hide away in their huts till the sun was gone.
I took this opportunity to take advantage of the brilliant coincidence that had presented itself to me. 2 years ago, my friend Ishaan had come to this very place and had an experience he found worth writing a screenplay about. The script had been on my desktop for a week now, waiting to be read, but where better to read it than in the very place it was conceived? So I sat on my pink jhoola and lost myself in a new and different Kutch. Evening came, with it’s uncanny chill, and I wrapped my blue shawl tighter around me. One of the seven Dalmatians that called the lodge home came and sat next to me. As I finished reading, people started coming out of their huts, still groggy after their afternoon naps and ready for some hot chai. I joined them, warming my hands around the little earthen cups. Tea turned into dinner and I tucked myself in bed, ready for another early morning audition round.
The azaan woke me up again, and I vowed to find its source. As Lala and I walked towards the main road, in hopes of hitching a ride to Mulada, a nearby village and the day’s audition hub, I made sure our first stop was the dargah by the lake. Imagining it to be as lovely as the Ajmer dargah experience had been just a month ago, I was taken aback at the simplicity and harshness of the place. It was a tiny rectangular space with over 15 graves lined up back to back, and nothing else. Lala told me that the first row belonged to a saintly woman and her seven brothers and the second to Dhanraj’s ancestors. Cool, let’s get out of here, I said.
Mulada was one of the best times I’ve ever had. We went from hut to hut, seeking out any old men willing to audition for me, and in the process met tons of lovely, warm people and lots of good sports. I, as usual, had a trail behind me that kept getting longer as the day went. Everybody cheered on as the farmers performed for me with great spirit. Children laughed, women turned away with shy smiles, and young men wished I was auditioning them instead. The smell of cow dung also trailed us wherever we went, and I’m pretty sure I stepped in some every 15 seconds. Later, as I washed my feet in a small lake, I thought- I could do this forever. Go to remote places, meet new people, take their videos and photographs and walk around without knowing what’s around the corner.
Lala and I sat on the dirt road outside the village for a good half hour before a passing truck picked us up and dropped us off to one of the village schools for boys. Dhanraj funds several of these tiny schools, educating shepherds’ and farmers’ sons and daughters for free. This particular school had all of 2 classrooms. 1st grade and 2nd grade. Perfect for what I was looking for. I went in and picked out about 15 kids and lined them up. Then, one by one, they came and did their act and dance for me, while the others giggled nervously as they looked on. Skinny little boys with the biggest smiles and longest eyelashes I had ever seen. I fell in love again and again and again. I gave each one a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the back, and once again, my work for the day was done.
The evening was lulled away in the lodge shack, indulging in girl talk over several cups of hot chai. Heather, a 65 year old travel writer from New Zealand, and Dhanraj’s demure wife Zyda were my companions. And although you’d think, what would these 3 women have in common, well that never stopped women from talking! Co-incidentally, Heather shares my birthday (and one of my dream professions), and Zyda is an embodiment of one of my favorite characters- The Lonely Housewife. As we got high on the tea and the evening breeze, conversation flowed more freely. Heather let her experiences loose, and Zyda her fantasies. Heather’s first husband used to beat her up, and the best sex she’s ever had was with an Egyptian man she spent 4 glorious months with. Zyda feels isolated in her marriage and lusts for Salman Khan. What secrets did I have? I just told them that I wished someone was madly in love with me and I was madly in love with him. They smiled wistfully. We had a lot in common after all.
The next day was shoot day. Bright and early, as seemed the norm of the region, Lala and I got into a truck and went around Zainabad and Mulada, collecting our shortlisted farmers and children from their sleepy beds. Once out on the rann, Shimit (the director) picked a boy and a farmer and we put them in costume and got them all set for their big debuts. Of course, after the first 2 shots, the boy we picked started crying for no reason, and we had to replace him with another one. Mohammed had a lot more gumption and pulled through till the end of the shoot. The weather went from bone-chilling to seething hot to bone-chilling in a span of 8 hours. I walked around with a scarf around my head and a khadi kurta out of the farmer costume options, trying to shield myself in vain. What was worse was the fact that because I was the only woman in the crew, no one had bothered to realize that I might need to pee during the day, which would be quite a task considering there wasn’t even a measly bush for miles around. I just prayed that the sun would dehydrate me enough so I didn’t have to go the entire day. Shoot ended when the sun turned a deep orange, and the cracked land turned silver. With a bursting bladder and head, I sat in the back of a truck, followed by the headlights of 2 others, amidst pitch darkness. Of course, our truck got stuck in the mud. Not once, not twice, but three times. And of course, I jumped off and ran behind a bush to water the dry land while the men pulled and tugged. The weather, the bathroom issue, the Gujarati instructions to the old man and the child, they had all drained me badly. I didn’t even stop to stare at how close the stars appeared in the Kutch sky that night.
When I woke up, 15 hours later, there was some good news. Instead of traveling to the next location, we were all to spend an extra day in Kutch because of a sudden hike in air ticket prices. Yippee! The laziest of days began. I flopped around from one earthen chair to the other, as people came and went. Everything seemed so still and peaceful, I didn’t want to break it by getting up. Then Zyda proposed that we go see the tribal women in their village and buy jewelry from them. Shopping always makes me get up. Gorgeous, striking women, adorned from head to toe in mirrors and colors, ran to us as they spotted the jeep. Immediately, they set up a little street-side bazaar just for me. Of course, I couldn’t insult their hospitality, and had to buy one thing from each woman. Anklets, earrings, key-chains, bangles, whatever I could get my hands on. A skinny little boy ran over with hot cups of goat-milk tea for Zyda and me, to lubricate us while we shopped. We waved everyone a hearty goodbye as we drove back to the lodge, and I once again assumed my couch potato position in the shack.
Then I met the last of my loves from this trip. I never asked his name, because quite frankly there was no point. He was French. From Bordeaux. Like the wine. He had long dark eyelashes and a beauty mark on his right cheek. And he played the guitar. Dhanraj was in a good mood that evening, and proposed a bonfire. Bordeaux serenaded me across the fire, and his silent travel companion played the harmonica. The stars hung low enough to touch and the mirrors sparkled, reflecting the flames and the moonlight. Life can be such a sexy bitch sometimes.
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Manali Musings II
I have three companions in Manali. Well, three flesh and blood companions.
- Shamsher: Tall, fair and uncannily handsome, Shamsher is a god among men. He is also my appointed assistant-cum-bodyguard for this trip. He has been taking me to army camps, police headquarters and local colleges, helping me hunt for other tall, good looking men to play army officers for this commercial. What a chore. Shamsher might physically look like his name, but he is a little lamb on the inside. Soft-spoken, extremely polite and courteous, and a thorough gentleman, he sure knows how to make the ladies melt. What I would not give to have him as my permanent slave…
- Kesar: This little miracle turned all of 4 years old today. She is our local coordinator’s fourth daughter. He just had a fifth one five months ago. 5 beauties in one tiny house! Poor guy. Anyway, I cast Kesar for this commercial, and she made me want to find a semi-attractive guy, shack up with him and get knocked up immediately. Soooooo cute!!
- JJ: Our cinematographer, he can only be described as a mix between Don Cheadle and Prabhu Deva. His British accent and big, easy smile only add to his charm. And also the fact that no matter what you say or do or put in front of him, his response always is, “Sounds good, man!” We’re currently in love.
Apart from these lovely companions I have an array of even lovelier ones.
Yellow leaves. Faraway peaks. Winding roads. Bob Dylan. Rahman. Cat Power. A shaggy poodle I’ve christened Puff Daddy. The fireplace at the inn. Hot chocolate. Leg warmers. The music of the rolling streams. Wine. The afternoon sun. Warmth from rubbing hands together. Purple sunsets. Cheesecake. Scalding hot showers. Tiptoeing on cold floors. Warm smiles. Memories.
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Manali Musings
When you’re lying flat in a car trunk, watching the dance of the passing mountain peaks, you realize something. All you need to be happy in life are three things.
Beauty. A hot plate of food. Someone to cuddle with in the night.
2 out of 3 ain’t bad now, is it?
More later. My fingers are freezing!!
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Car Molestation
It happens. And it happened to me last night. Like getting molested while trying to get into films at the Mumbai film festival wasn’t enough. Just to make it clear, car molestation does not refer to getting sexually molested in a car. It’s when your actual car gets molested.
I was driving back home and rocking out to Led Zeppelin’s Heartbreaker, yearning for a time when I would be known as a heartbreaker myself, when a man stopped my car just as I turned onto Linking Road. He was waving his arms and staring at my car bonnet with great fear in his eyes. Although slightly alarmed, I didn’t stop my car because I rarely stop for things like signals, bumpers, people and animals. Then, within a couple of seconds, another guy stood in front of my car and banged on my window. This time, I figured I should stop and at least listen to what he has to say. “Sparking! Gaadi mein sparking ho raha hai.” And with that, he left.
I pulled over, got out and looked at my headlights. Nothing. Then I opened the bonnet, didn’t really understand what to look for, and shut it back down. Sparking? What the hell is sparking? A man in a shaded pink T-shirt came and stood by me. I should have known then, by his clothes, that he was bad news. But I decided to not be shallow for once and take the helping hand he offered. He asked me to open the bonnet, get in the car and start it. Then he beckoned me to come and look at the engine. Ah. Sparking. Something in the engine was creating a tiny but consistent spark that looked like a little Fuljhadi. Diwali’s here early!
Anyway… He told me to turn the car off because the engine might catch fire. As I was going to get in again, a random autowallah came and whispered in my ear, “Isko bhaga dijiye” and walked away. Was I suddenly in a Ram Gopal Varma film? Something in the autowallah’s tone made me trust his advice and I resolved to send the pink guy away. I called Malika and the Maruti Service number and closed my bonnet and sat back inside my car. Pinky didn’t leave. I told him my mechanic was coming and that he should leave. He didn’t. I told him I didn’t want him to touch my engine. He didn’t leave. I closed my car door and window and shut him out. He didn’t leave. He kept insisting that I let him fix it, that he could do it right there or even take my car to his friend’s garage. I didn’t budge. So then he held out his hand (for some money, but I misunderstood and just shook it first) and I paid him some 30 rupees and he left.
Then my saviors Malika and Ankit came over and we decided to make the most of this midnight tryst by getting some Baskin and Robbins. On our way there, the Maruti mechanic called and a creepy phone conversation followed.
Mechanic: Who told you your engine was sparking?
Me: Some people on the street.
Mechanic: Did you let anyone open your bonnet?
Me: Yes… How did you know?
Mechanic: Did they touch anything in there?
Me: I don’t think so…
Mechanic: Did he ask you to come to his garage to fix it?
Me: Yes yes yes! How do you know all this?!
Mechanic: It happens all the time. People stop your car, tell you it’s sparking and then fuck up your engine.
Me: What? But why would anyone do that??
Mechanic: I don’t have the answer to that.
Hmm. Strawberry and Mudslide scoops were consumed. Sun Sahiba Sun was heard. Hooker Trannies were observed. Then the Maruti mechanic came. He opened the bonnet and immediately saw that a tiny wire called the Spark Wire had been unplugged. I had been had by Pinky and his friends (which sounds like a cartoon show title). Pinky, when he first opened my bonnet, had unplugged it, causing the sparks to be visible. Maruti said I was lucky that he didn’t steal the wire, or fuck up the car even more. It took all of 2 seconds to plug it back and my car was good to go and I was an hour and Rs.200 short. Not bad for a life lesson like this one. I owe you one, Ram Gopal Varma Autowallah.
So ladies, I know I often bring up really important social causes up in this blog, and today is no exception. Please warn everyone you know that there are a group of ill-dressed fiends on the roads of Bombay, who stop unsuspecting women drivers who look clueless and slightly Chinese, and create a problem in their car to get money, steal the car or gang rape the driver. If someone points out something about your car, just don’t stop! Keep driving till you reach your destination. Only then get down and check to make sure everything is fine. And DO NOT let anyone open up your bonnet and poke around your engine. Pun intended.
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The Queen of Khichdi
I firmly believe that if I ever get shot, instead of an explosion of red blood, everything around me will be drenched in a gorgeous yellow. That’s because 70% of my body is, no doubt, khichdi.
It would be easy to say that I make and eat khichdi everyday now because it’s the easiest thing to make as a single woman, cooking for one. However, that would be a falsity. I was born a khichdi-lover. I eat it everyday, sometimes twice a day. When kids ask for chicken, rajma, pizza or cake, I asked for khichdi. My favorite color is yellow. My student film company was called Dal Chawal Productions. I contemplated watching Khichdi- The Movie based purely on its title…
Anyway, these days I don’t really have much else to do besides come up with new and innovative ways to prepare this lifeline dish. I have given serious thought to the matter and am in the midst of prepping for my book “101 Khichdi Ideas: The Joys of Simple Living”. This book will be a boon to people of all ages, classes, nationalities and sexual orientations.
The technical definition of Khichdi is an Indian dish made with lentils and rice. Therein lies its infinite possibilities. I mean just think about how many types of lentils we have. Laal dal, Tuar dal, Udat dal, Chana dal, Masoor dal, Moong dal and so on. Then there are different types of rice too- white, brown, red, kaamini, basmati, mote chawal, etc etc. Just within these combinations you have about 50 types of khichdis. Then there are the additives. You can make it in ghee, oil or butter. You can just do a boiled one with salt and turmeric. You can do a tadka with jeera and laal mirch. You can do a masala with onions and tomatoes. You can add vegetables in the mix- spinach, green beans, gourd, cabbage, cauliflower, peas (gross), the list goes on and on. I think I might have to do a series of these books. One will obviously not be enough…
There it is. My plan to take over the cooking industry in India and become the Queen of Khichdi. Once that is done, I can move on to Plan B. To become the Music Video Queen of India. May God be with me.
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Bollywood Goes Oral
We, here in Bollywood, have always had a curious tradition. We like to say one thing in our films, while meaning something completely different. This tradition has, of course, seeped through our songs as well. Lyricists often use subtle metaphors and rosy references to imply the song’s true essence, which often remains elusive. Also, look how official and polite this blog entry sounds. This is because I’m using formal words to camouflage the fact that it is actually about Bollywood songs that refer to oral sex.
Makhna: Three Bollywood greats, each in their own right, come together for a song. Amitabh Bachchan, Govinda and Madhuri. And what do they sing and dance about? See for yourself:
Mere ‘pyar ka ras’ zara chakhna, Oye Makhna! Oye Makhna!
Tere ‘pyar ka ras’ nahin chakhna, Oye Makhna! Oye Makhna!
Namak: One of the best dance songs ever – written by Gulzar, composed by Vishal Bhardwaj, sung by Rekha and performed by a hot but uncoordinated Bips- seems to be talking about the price we have to pay for love, and how we become indebted to our lovers. What she’s actually saying is this:
Aisi ‘phoonk’ lagi zaalim ki, ‘bansuri’ jaisi baaji main…
Zabaan pe laaga, laaga re, ‘namak’ issk ka.
Paan Khaye Saiyyan: This classic from Teesri Kasam has my favorite goddess Waheeda dancing innocently on stage while an asexual chubby Raj Kapoor looks on. The lyrics:
‘Paan’ khaye saiyyan hamaro, savli sooratiya honth laal laal
Hai hai malmal ka kurta, malmal ke kurte pe cheenth laal laal.
Hoth Rasiley: This one doesn’t pretend to be a clean, deep song. But it’s still embarrassing to see two middle-aged men (Nana Patekar and Anil Kapoor) begging a sexy stretch-marked woman (Malaika Arora Khan) with words such as these:
Hoth rasiley, tere hoth rasiley,
Dil kehta hai mera yeh ‘ras pee le’.
Makhan Malai Hoon: Now this song is a Shilpa Shetty number from a film called Garv. You’d think I must have done some research in this area to come up with such random songs- but actually, I happen to have all these songs in my itunes. Now you know why:
‘Makhan malai hoon’, Dilli se aayi hoon,
Chakhna bhi layi hoon, ‘chakh le’ re saiyyan.
Tu Gandi Achhi Lagti Hai: I can’t find a single other person who likes this song from Love Sex aur Dhokha. I don’t understand why! It’s so good! With or without the reference to oral sex:
Tu gandi achhi lagti hai, Tu bandi achhi lagti hai,
Tu ‘kali se kachchi’, Tu ‘tali si machchi’ lagti hai,
Main saat janam upvasa hoon, aur saat samundar pyaasa hoon,
Jee bhar ke ‘tujhko pee loonga’!
Tandoori Nights: Enough said.
Let me know if you can think of some more of these! They’re out there. Keep your ears and minds open!
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