It's one of those days

When the doctor says there is nothing wrong with your insides.

When an old man says you remind me of my daughter, may you always be happy and do well.

When Mr. Amitabh Bachchan thanks me in a letter to the editor in Tehelka, for my review of 'Paa'.

When we log in to book a train ticket for Teja for the same day and there are several seats vacant on the train he wants.

When Penguin delivers my complimentary copy of the anthology 'First Proof 5' which has my short story 'Your Room' on page 122.

When it takes only an hour to get home rather than an hour and a half.

When Karmickids gives me the superior scribbler award.

When someone gifts us a pack of dark Toblerones.

When I can spend the evening watching the end of 'Dil Deke Dekho' for a few more laughs before I sleep.

When someone quotes his guru to me and says, "Don't renounce what you have, renounce what you don't have" and that gives me a new way to think about my name, which means 'someone who has the potential to renounce everything'.


When it seems to me that it may not be a bad idea to blow the trumpet for a while, even if it means the ones in the vicinity will shut their ears.



Edited to add: Here's the link to Mr. Bachchan's email on the 'Bouquets and Brickbats' page of Tehelka. Scroll down to a box Appraisal.

for those on a diet,

if not candy floss, how about some balloons and glittery swords? No? Bows and arrows, then?

Photo by Dhanno.

If you don't like any of these, or even if you do, you could go read my post on Upperstall Blogs, 30 days in 58 years.

candy floss, anyone?

So I'm going to be traipsing the streets of Bumm-Bumm-Bhole-Land again for a fortnight, going darker and darker in the white glaring heat of October. Thought I'd leave you with a few photos by Dhanno, taken at Juhu beach, a couple of weeks ago.

The header photo is by her, as well.

and you thought all i was thinking of was dhanno

Read my rant 'To Poo or Not to Poo' on Upperstall.

Drums and old Hindi film songs at 100 decibels

It's impossible to think with this din. I feel as if my brain is being battered. One wedding and two days of persistent noise. If the sound blares so on the 13th floor, what is it like for those down there, and how can they tolerate it? How can this be their idea of fun or celebration? I hate these people. I curse them, may their marriage never work.

wrong place, wrong time

I did a series of short films on Mumbai for an internet channel in California, when internet movie uploading and watching was at an experimental stage, and so like a lot of my other work, the films were largely unseen. (My heart wails)

 I used to shoot the films on a small 3CCD mini-DV, sometimes by myself, sometimes with Teja, sometimes with any other cinematographer friend who'd oblige.

This is one of my favourites. I was wandering around Juhu beach on my own, and I could see from the corner of my eyes, these 2 men hovering just outside the edge of my frame. I turned the camera on them, and out poured this:

just nudging

you a bit to go read my post 'Pigeons and Papayas' on Upperstall Blogs.

some memories of August

These are the worst days of the year in Bumm-Bumm-Bhole-Land. Hot, hot, hot in a piercing way. Still, sticky, no wind. The sunlight exhausts your eyes. So, to cool down,  ....

What I noticed only this year, and loved, were the umbrellas and the raincoats used by boys and men. Very few blacks, or khakis, or greys. Out there in all the colors of the rainbow. Very metro-sexual, hey?

alternative modes of transport

I was watching Abhishek Bachchan and Rani Mukherjee on a snow peaked mountain in 'Bas Itna Sa Khwaab Hain', don't ask me why, I wouldn't know. No, wait, it was to do with the Friday release of 'Drona' and I wanted to see the director's earlier film, from an academic point of view. No, really, that's me.

Anyway, suddenly, I got an a-ha moment. Teja and Dhanno will tell you I often get a-ha moments, where I basically realize after a considerable amount of time what most people know from their mothers' wombs. A lot of my a-ha moments are to do with the working of taps, bottle caps, door latches, turnstiles, elevators, tetra-packs and other such mind-boggling things. But that's another story.

Right now my a-ha moment came while Teja said: "Where are they dancing?"

I said: "The Swiss Alps." Though I didn't know for sure, it's good practice to give answers confidently.

Since they had just reached the Swiss Alps via a Film City set just by virtue of singing a song, I said: "I'm sure if we sing a song right now, we could be in the Alps."

Teja said: "Yes."

I said: "We'd have to move our arms around in synch."

Teja said: "We could do that."

Dhanno said: "But both of you will reach there. I'll be left behind. I want to come too."

I said: "We'll sing a family song."

Much singing (completely off-key on my part, perfectly pitched on Teja's and Dhanno's part) ensued accompanied with much flailing around of arms and legs. But we stayed firmly ensconced in Bumm-Bumm-Bhole-Land.

I said: "We need costumes and make-up."

Dhanno said: "We need a camera and lights."

Teja muttered to himself: "Love means doing stupid things together. Love means never having to say sorry (to yourself) when you do stupid things together. Love means ..."

Meanwhile Abhishek Bachchan and Rani Mukherjee had come back to the Alps after a brief sojourn to some grassy flowery meadow in Ootacamund.  They looked at each other, they looked at the camera, they did some posing of the romantic, dreamy kind, you know the arms outstretched, twisted necks variety.

I thought the way they are shot, and their dance steps are, they could well be performing in front of a blue screen in Mumbai. Most songs are choreographed this way nowadays. The backdrop could be Milan, Mauritius, Muscat, or a painted screen in Mehboob Studios, Bandra. How does it matter? The actors don't relate at all to the place they are in, the dance movements have nothing to do with the space around them.

I missed suddenly with a deep pang, the cavorting, rollicking, rolling in snow, sliding down snow peaks, throwing snowballs  - Shammi Kapoor and Saira Banu in 'Junglee', Raakhee and Amitabh in 'Kabhi Kabhi', Shashi Kapoor and Sharmila Tagore in 'Aa Gale Lag Jaa'. I missed the sweaters and the pom pom caps and the woolen mittens and the faux fur collared jackets. Rani was wearing a chiffon saree, Abhishek was wearing something that I forgot even as I looked at it. Certainly not made for goofing around in the cold. Sigh.

Anyway, since the song and dance routine didn't work for us, we'll just drive down to Pune for the weekend.

Traffic Jam

When I say: "I'm sure, there must be a traffic cop ahead, Teja. I'm telling you. They always create a jam."

- Sometimes Teja clenches his teeth and wonders how many more times in his lifetime, does he he have to listen to this statement?

- Sometimes he laughs affectionately and wonders, how many more times he has to listen to this statement in his lifetime.

- Sometimes he replies patiently: "Banno, what has the traffic police done to you? The poor guys stand all day in this noise and pollution and keep things moving."

I say: "No. They don't move their hands fast enough. So they keep one lane going. And all the others block up. Simple."

When we do pass the traffic police performing their antics at a busy crossroads, I smile triumphantly and say: "See, I told you so."

When we don't pass a traffic policeman, but a perfectly legitimate reason for a traffic jam like an overturned truck or a pair of cows confabulating in the middle of the road, Teja smiles triumphantly and says: "See, I told you so."

All said and done, I'm hoping that if Teja draws more traffic jams, he'll be less angry when we are actually stuck in one.

* Drawing by Teja

western express highway

As long as I can wear cut-offs,
and not have wet hems flapping against my ankles,
I am quite happy
to walk in the rain.

Scenes from the making of 'Chaman in love', no, sorry, 'Love 2050'

Mummyji: "Listen, Chaman's father, Chaman is now exactly like Hrithik Roshan. It's time now we launched him."
Daddyji: "Chaman's mother, what are you saying, is Chaman 6 ft, 2" now?"
Mummyji: "That's what I am saying to you."
Daddyji: "Oh, you deserve a diamond necklace for this."
Mummyji simpers: "No, no, what have I done?"
Daddyji: "Why, you have fed this handsome son of ours with milk and parathas, looked after him so well, made him into a strapping young man. Now see what I do. My son will blast this industry."

Dialogue writer: "Sir, I thought this can be his catch-line. 'Karan Malhotra, Age 27, Status single and ...' the last word keeps changing. You know, depending on what he is doing, sitting, standing, whatever."
Daddyji: "Good, good. But make that 'Age 23'."
Dialogue writer: "But Sir, I thought Chamanji was 27. It's there in all the papers."
Daddyji: "No, no, once we say he is 23, he will be 23. Anyway, who reads the papers?"

Daddyji: "No, no, Chaman, please don't act. You must not have any expression on your face. Please. When you make any facial gestures, you stop looking like Hrithik Roshan. So, please, just listen to what I am telling you. No, no acting. You can jump, swing, run, dance. Walk like a stud. Move your whole body, but not your face, please."

Daddyji: "So Chaman, there is this butterfly, who will live through the ages, and show you the way, whenever you are stuck. It works better than the Global Positioning system or Google. So, you never need to take the phone number, address or email id of the girl you love. The butterfly will find her for you, wherever she is. And when the butterfly falters, your Uncle's time machine will come in handy. Isn't it lucky for you that your Uncle lives in the same remote town as your lady love? And that he gave up his job in NASA to work on his time machine? All for you, son, all for you. After all, even God bends his rules for those who love."

Daddyji: "Chaman, Chaman, so what if the country has not changed much in the last 200 years, in the next 42 years, it will jump ahead in leaps and bounds, son, in leaps and bounds. That is technology. But you are the hero, you must not look amazed by it. You must take it all in your stride, shell houses, flying cars, cute robots, androids and all. Please, please, no expression, no expression. Poor people? In Mumbai 2050? Oh, they will be eliminated. Deleted. Maybe, they are underground. I don't know, Chaman. Stop irritating me. This is not a story about poor people. It is a story about love."

Daddyji: "So what, Chaman, if you are in a strange, futuristic city? You are a hero. Of course, you can suddenly become a rock star, and get a stage show at the top place in town. You don't need luck, you have love, after all. No, no, no. Dance as a form never changes. What Hrithik Roshan did in 'Kaho Na Pyaar Hai' is classic dance. It will remain in peoples' hearts forever. Do that, do that, just listen to what I am telling you."

Mixing engineer: "Sir, will you come soon? We have a crisis here."
Daddyji: "What happened?"
Mixing engineer: "Chamanji insists on dubbing in a deep voice."
Daddyji: "I'll be right there."

Daddyji: "No, no, Chaman, please don't speak in your natural voice. You must have a nasal twang. That is what made Hrithik Roshan a star. Yes, yes, slip back and forth from Punjabi accent to unidentifiable NRI accent. Our people love it. It makes them feel as if you are like them, fake accents give you a little-boy charm. No, no, through your nose, through your nose. Please, Chaman."

Daddyji: "Chaman, if only you had had an extra thumb. I did everything I could. But what can I do if God didn't give you an extra thumb. If you'd had it, you'd have been a super-hit, son. A super-hit. No, Chaman, the story has nothing to do with it. Of course, it's a good story. Has anyone else thought of this idea before? Getting back a girlfriend from the future, time machine and all. It's very original, son, very original. No, it's nothing to do with not letting you act. Or your nasal twang. It's the extra thumb, I tell you. That did us in. Chaman's mother, you should have thought of that. Maybe we could have done something about it, when he was growing up."
Mummyji sighs sadly.

'Chaman' is often used as a nick-name for someone who is goofy, a little dumb, a little out of it. Teja insists on calling the hapless hero of 'Love 2050' "Chaman".

Some Tandoori Thai

Loud woman on phone: "Hey, there's this Thai actor, wants to make a Hindi film. We have to first mount 5 action sequences. Yes, those are the highlights of the film. Story - we will think of something around them. The story should be something which is very low-production value. They want to spend all the money on the action scenes. Those will be the high points of the film. What do you think? Should we do it? It sounds very exciting."

So, now you know how films are made here in Bumm-Bumm-Bholeland.

P-Bapu and I were barely able to stop ourselves from choking on the Tandoori Bekti and the Aloo Poshto at 'Oh Calcutta'.

Later, I said: "Isn't this Andheri West culture too much?"
P-Bapu said: " Maybe she was only pretending to speak to some one on the phone. You know, telling everyone in the restaurant, how busy she is."
I said, gloomily: "And maybe, they were really planning a film around 5 action sequences."
P-Bapu said: "Yeah."

All work, no fun

Dhanno comes back home after a 8-hour day in school, lugging her 14 kilo bag in the afternoon sun. She is sweaty, hot, tired, cranky. She doesn't take too kindly to my invitation to fool around a bit.

She looks at me, snuggled up in bed with a book in my hand, and says angrily, "I am tired. I've been working."

I say, "I've been working too since you went to school."

She raises an eyebrow.

"After you left, I spent about an hour and a half, taking care of the plants, shifting them around, and what-not."

"That's your hobby."

"Then I worked on my script the entire morning."

"That's fun."

"Then I cooked some chicken for lunch."

"You like doing that. It's not like you have to do chemistry. Which is so-o-o boring."

"I'm not asking you to study chemistry. I'm not asking you to go to school. In fact, I've been asking you to leave school for the last 5 years."

She looks at me as if I am a hopeless case, and walks off. Nothing can convince her that what I do is work, unless I look more miserable about it.

the rickshaw wala and the city

Rickshaw walas in Nagpur - go home at 8 pm. Have to be called on their cell phones and cajoled into giving up their favourite TV show and bribed @ 50 Rs. per km, to drop you back to your hotel. The fully satisfying dinner your friend made digested by the time you are through kicking yourself for dismissing the production car in a spirit of benevolence.

Rickshaw walas in Bangalore - exhaust you. They demand too much money, they answer you back in a strange language, all through the journey you wonder whether you are headed towards where you want to go. My encounters with all the rickshaw walas in Bangalore redeemed by the one hero who helped me get my snatched handbag back on a dark street, at night. When I screamed hysterically, "He's got my bag, he's got my bag", the rickshaw wala made a sharp U-turn into a No-Entry lane, jumped out, chased the thief, all the while screaming like a warrior, and me following, doing the same.

Rickshaw wala in Chennai - deliberately took me from the airport to the wrong bus stand, where there were no buses going to Pondicherry during the day, and where he could get Dhanno and me to book a taxi instead, with a commission for himself. When he saw us digging our heels in, he disappeared. Another rickshaw wala took us from the wrong bus stand to the right one at 50 Rs for a distance of 1 km.

Rickshaw walas in Delhi - I avoid. I feel very unsafe in Delhi, and would prefer to book a car. Provided I could trust the driver.

Rickshaw walas in Pondicherry - had a standard 40 Rs. rate for within the city, and 100 to 200 Rs. for outside. I didn't even bust my head about it, Dhanno and I just walked, and then took a rickshaw when we were tired.

Rickshaw walas in Pune - are rude.

The rickshaw walas outside my gate in Mumbai - are there 24 hours of the day. I can take early morning flights without worrying who will drop me. I suspect their meters run a bit faster than the standard, even then Mumbai rickshaws are cheaper than anywhere else.

Of course, what I ought to have done is kept a record on the antecedents of all the rickshaw walas I've been subjected to, then this would have been a useful analysis for the MNS.

The General Secretary of the MNS defending her leader's statements with shining eyes and a sincere voice said, he only meant to talk about those people who are arrogant, who don't mix in with society. As a woman, she said, there were so many times she cannot find a taxi to take her where she wants to go, they don't do their job well.

I didn't know that taxi walas take a professional oath to serve the public come what may. Maybe they do, but it gets a bit watered down as they pass along their permits and licenses to each other in shifts.

If we are doing away with (no, oops, sorry, we are not doing away with, just sending back) people who don't do their job well, the city could be cleaned up in no time at all.

In the meanwhile, I suggest the lady take rickshaws instead.

sholay and the art of dramatic writing

Dhanno and I dropped in as guests to a scriptwriting workshop at Kalaghoda. Manisha (good, good teacher) was discussing 'Sholay' with reference to Lajos Egri's "The art of dramatic writing." We had a lot of fun. I showed the songs from my film 'Lilkee', and we all agreed on how we love songs and believe in using them in films.

Zee Cinema was showing Sholay that evening, and Banno, Dhanno and Teja stayed up until midnight to watch it , yet again. Dhanno didn't go to school the next morning, but hey, we did notice some things in the film we hadn't before.

The words "Ramu ki saali" in the Holi song.

The sets of Thakur's haveli are really bad. I mean he's got "purkho ki zamindari" (ancestral land) and a large family, and his house looks like a shoddily put up shack.

What's with the end? Yes, it's nice to end with train leaving the station, as it was to begin with train arriving at the station. But why is Veeru so surprised at seeing Basanti in the train, was he planning to leave her behind and go away, even after she danced on shards of glass for him?

reality tour

"Dharavi has a population of 1 million people living in an area of 1.75 sq. kms. The area generates 665 million US$ after taxed, and probably as much in undeclared income, from the thousands of industries that operate there", our tourist guide, courtesy Reality Tours and Travels rattled off.

Though I have shot several times in Dharavi, it's mainly been on the Dharavi-Sion Hospital 60 ft. road, and general shots. I've been into the tiny lanes a couple of times researching a character. So, I was up for the "Reality Tour" that my colleagues were going to take, prior to our shoot there next week.

The young boy who was taking us around lives in Mankhurd, New Bombay. His father saw the advertisement in the papers, and said he should check out an opening for tourist guides. I didn't get around to asking him why? Perhaps his father thought he needed a reality check, perhaps he thought it would be a good experience, perhaps this boy was not doing anything else. Whatever the reason, our 20 year old guide was as awestruck by his own experience of Dharavi as he was about showing it to us.

We were a little impatient, I confess. Being documentary film makers, we've seen a lot of "real India", and we had more questions than he had answers to. Two of us, who are women, also didn't take too kindly to his notion that his job would be too tough for a girl to handle. Or that we wouldn't be able to walk for 2 & 1/2 hours. We did a full 7 hours of walking yesterday (and me, once again on high heels. What's with me, and wrong shoes? I hadn't been stupid, just didn't know the agenda.)

I was inclined to be more lenient however, just because he was so young, 20. I've reached that age, when a 20 year old could be my kid. And I remember how incredibly silly I was at 20. I lived within the covers of a book, and I thought of my life as a novel. I just thought I had to turn a page, for something new to happen, and that if things got bad, all I needed to do was to close the covers. So when it did, reality hit me hard.

Anyway, it's a decent tour. It's not intrusive, they have a no-cameras policy in a lot of places, and the ease with which the young guide walked in and out of workshop premises, and his exchanges with the people there, reflected a good, friendly relationship between the tour company and the people living and working in Dharavi.

Of course, because since we two women were walking with a Western guy, everyone assumed that we were foreigners, though we look 100% Indian, and I was wearing a salwar kameez. It's only when we answered questions in Hindi, and I showed off my Marathi, that the kids believed that we were from Mumbai. Not many Indians take the tour.

And yes, though Dharavi is an unexpectedly safe place to be in, easier for a tourist to walk around in than Colaba with it's scores of beggars and vendors haranguing you, banks and credit card companies black-list Dharavi residents, and don't give them loans and credit cards that easily. It's the same with film people, so I'm not shocked, though I make appropriate noises of commiseration, when the local cable guy tells me what it's like to live in Mumbai-17.

The best part of the tour for me, was to climb up the asbestos roof of one plastic recycling unit, and see the asbestos rooftops of all the other units spread out, like another world altogether, people drying out plastic pellets, piles and piles of plastic stored for future use. I'd only seen these asbestos shacks with plastic piles on top from the road, but from the rooftop one couldn't see the road at all. I've always been fascinated by rooftop/terrace worlds.

The recycling industry is I think a model of Indian ingenuity. Everything from old drums to CPU backs to shaving creams past their expiry date (recycled into washing soap) is used up. It satisfied my Indian, middle-class soul.

of rickshaws and fate

There are two kinds of rickshaw-walas.

One is the slow rickshaw-wala. He goes through each pothole with love, letting his three wheels feel each and every bump with great delicacy, allowing you to savor every jolt of pain in the small of your back, and every rattle of your skeletal cage. He believes in the importance of the journey, and cares not about reaching. If you ask him to go faster, his eyes glaze over, his shoulders hunch fiercely over his handle bar, his knuckles jut out with grim determination, and his rickshaw makes loud noises, in an attempt to make you believe that he has speed-ed up.

When the hawker boy running beside you overtakes you, and you impatient say, 'Bhaiya, bhaiya, please hurry, I'm going to miss my plane/train/film/boyfriend', he does leap forward with uncharacteristic bravado, but at the first truck/bus/car/cycle that threatens to be left behind by his speed, he panics, brakes, your nose is into his back, which with anyone else, you would consider great intimacy, his rickshaw goes back to its soft rumble, and you make a call to your boss/mate/client/boyfriend to say you are going to be late.

Then, there is the fast rickshaw-wala. He hurtles across every fly-over, confident that he will land just between the bus and the truck, in the tiny space allocated to him by the god of moving things. He takes pride in overtaking the flashy cars, specially if they are being driven by women. He believes not in the journey, but in the ride. He doesn't care about whoever may be in the passenger seat, he is intent on watching how far he can go, how fast, without his rickshaw toppling over.

As your neck jerks from whiplash to whiplash, your hands go numb with clutching the seat, and the rest of your body has become a limp, raggedy doll, you ask him to slow down. At first, he pretends he has not heard you. When you hoarsely whisper again, 'Bhaiya, please, I don't want to die', he turns around without his rickshaw slowing down, looks at you contemptuously, slows down to an almost-halt, plods for a few meters, and as you just begin to straighten out the various parts of your body, comes the top of another fly-over, and there he goes flying again into space.

And you give up all pretense of being mistress of your own destiny, and pray silently for a mercifully swift end.

poetry and theosophy? in bumm-bumm-bhole-land? kidding, right?

Teja was taking a taxi to CST. Well, it always seems a shame to waste a free taxi ride into town. And my friend, Space Bar was having a poetry reading there. But as usual, I dawdled until the last moment.

Having spent years of being there for Dhanno in the evenings, unless I was working, I find it almost impossible to step out to do something on my own, unless it's work. Dhanno said, "You've got to learn to go out without me." Well, well, I guess that's only fair. Seems just a while ago, when I was saying the same to her.

I tried making excuses,
which Teja was inclined to believe,
and Dhanno pooh-poohed,
and a few minutes after the very last minute,
with Teja and Dhanno yelling at me, I put myself together,
leaving odd bits behind,
and chose the highest heels in my shoe rack to venture out into the world.
Appropriate enough with my wonderful sense of imbalance.

The thing about Mumbai is that halfway through wherever you are bound to go, you tend to forget, under the assault of filth, noise, traffic, smells, heat, sweat, why you had set out in the first place. It seems the taxi forgot that too, just as we were about to reach the JJ flyover, and collapsed. Don't blame it, for I was feeling a bit like collapsing, myself.

It seemed to be getting later and later. Space Bar's reading was going to last only 45 minutes, and I was wondering if I was going to hear her at all, and whether I hadn't been foolhardy to make a 2 hour trip for something I was going to miss anyway. After dumping Teja and his luggage, unceremoniously on the main road, to make his way to the train station, I decided to get lost on my way to Theosophy Hall.

Leave taxi at the wrong point.
Totter, totter, totter on high heels all the way up Churchgate Street, right up to the end,
totter back,
ask directions of an incredulous woman, "Where on earth is the Theosophy Hall, and who on earth could possibly want to go there, on a weekday evening" kind of a look from her,
cut through the train station, without a ticket,
grab the first taxi for a half kilometer ride,
tumble up 3 flights of stairs,
and see Space Bar in pink.

Thank God, she's wearing pink. Because it seems, the rest of the place has worn down over hundreds of years to grey, grey, grey. I try hard to listen to Space Bar, but before I can catch my breath, she's done. I look admiringly at the people who seem so much at home at a poetry reading. I wouldn't be surprised to see such people in Pune, or Hyderabad, or Baroda, but here in Mumbai they seem superhuman beings. Madame Blavatsky stares at me searchingly with her grey eyes, and I smile back apologetically, knowing I fall far short of any such superhuman tendencies.

However, there's beer later, at Brabourne, an ancient Iranian cafe, where legends more than make up for it's comfortable shabbiness. Space Bar reads some more poetry, which makes it all worthwhile. Then a train ride home, pretending to the people I am with, that I always take the train. Always? When - since I never go out without a ride? But it seems to be a day for doing things I haven't done in a long time.

Late at night, crossing the bridge, striding along, comfortable now in my heels, the beer does cure my imbalance, not so hot anymore, I feel brave, as if I have done something grand. Ridiculous, after having seen all those women in the ladies' compartment, exhausted, at the end of a long day, doing this day in, day out.

Just as I finish writing this, Dhanno comes in with her friend, Shi. Shi's mother is in hospital again, she had a relapse after a surgery for appendicitis, because she couldn't rest enough, and had to take the train into town, everyday to work.