m a n u s c r y p t s

There is this habit I picked up from my dad – of unfailingly writing down the daily expenses. From experience, it is an excellent way of financially disciplining oneself, and that is my account book’s raison d’etre. But over a period of time, it has become a cherished belonging for a different reason. This December, when I close the month’s accounts, I will finish the book’s 160-odd pages. Each month, on an average, takes about 2 pages, and now you must have guessed why it is special. It chronicles the days of our life – D’s and mine, in the form of expenses, for the past 6+ years.

As I flip through the pages, I can see in my mind’s eye, snapshots of our life , from April of 2003 – our 10 year old Kiney getting repaired, for the umpteenth time, pleading for moksha, the dinners at the now non existent restaurant in Koramangala we used to haunt, the shopping at the then favourite brand Weekender, the old phone booth STD calls, because mobile rates were too high, the jackets we bought for the surprisingly cold Bangalore rains, the much awaited trips to Kerala, the doctor visits in the first December in Bangalore because of a cough that just wouldn’t let go, the Rs.12 haircut, browsing at the nearby internet cafe, the friendly neighbourhood Mallu store, the first visit to Barista and the nervousness due to the unfamiliar surroundings, CDs from the library nearby, Archies cards for Valentine’s Day, and cakes for birthdays. The area around JNC in Koramangala as the preferred cloth shopping destination.

The first mall experience courtesy Forum, end of CD lending, and the rise of PVR. Foodworld – which meant that the local Mallu store was slowly forgotten. Landmark and the continuing era of book shopping, the thrill of owning a computer, of having to explain why it still made sense without internet, floppies, chaats on the roadside, our first Strand book sale, and the joy of having bought so many books. The discovery of Megamart and budget shopping.

The boredom with Barista and the testing out of Coffee Day and Coffee World for a different experience, the discovery of Corner House and surviving a December without the need for a doctor, the ascent of the credit card, the discovery of instant Dosamix, the first digital camera, the Exercycle, the feeling that the Strand book festival was no more really value for money, and the shift to a new neighbourhood, and new jobs. Insurance premiums and mutual funds. The Fab India era.

Vacations. Buses giving way to trains to low cost flights. Making a visit to the Strand sale only because tradition demanded it, and because I had the feeling I would be able to complete my ‘Foundation’ collection this time, Tata Sky, and Thoms bread. The friendly neighbourhood theatre and late night Mallu movies. Broadband at home. Bangalore Central and Indiranagar 100 ft Road as  preferred shopping destinations.

The beginning of the Blossoms addiction, the return to Koramangala, Star Bazaar and the 10 pm movies at PVR. Morning Yoga classes. D’s hep life and the end of roadside chaats. The death of low cost flights. Apollo clinic and the return of the cough. Blog hosting and domain registration costs. Lifestyle as preferred shopping destination. The return of Fab India – for curtains and sheets….. and we’re almost in the present..

These were samples, each date has a storyline, many of them forgotten, some still fresh. An offline lifestream, a treasure trove of memories, that helps me take stock and converts what could’ve been mundane into an important part of life. As days pass into months and years, we have changed, perhaps seamlessly, but with the book, it is easy to see how and when it happened, and when one sits down and thinks, it is easy to figure out the why too.. Gradual changes to set patterns and cycles. I realise I miss many of those things, places and routines. At the beginning of 2010,the vision is still perhaps half perfect, but when I turn back time through these pages, it is good to see the distance we have traveled, and to note the things that haven’t really changed.

I will entrust the book with my other travel companion. They belong to the same category and will feel a sense of  belonging with each other. And as I wrote the expenses of December 31st 2009, and ended the year, I wondered if this dear book, if it could speak, would have something to say like Edie Britt in her farewell episode

As I looked down on the world I began to let go of it……. I let go all those things which seems so ordinary but when you put them together they make up a life.

until next time, figures of speech

And that would explain why, when I saw the invite for a tweet up, it was an easy exception to make to my otherwise steadfast stance against tweet ups and reserve a place to meet the Minister of Status.

That’s in spite of generally having some harmless fun at his expense on a regular basis – from his non-accommodating stance on the 5 star stay to the now famous gaai-rights issue (actually wrote a couple of solidarity tweets on the latter to make up for the others)

He even featured in the Andaman travelogue. The good part – popularity in Andaman, and erm, the bad part. So that roughly explains my attitude towards the politician and twitterer.

The seeming flippancy in that attitude  perhaps belies the enormous amount of admiration and respect I have for the author. The Great Indian Novel is probably my all time favourite work, simply because its satire and humour work on multiple levels. The more layers you can unravel through lateral thought and associations made, the more gems you can find. As my About page would indicate, I love wordplay, jest like that. TGIN, in my book, is THE benchmark, not just for wordplay and humour, but for the sheer imagination and brilliance that connected two seemingly disconnected streams almost seamlessly.

These days, I see around me, in the real world, politicians who can talk drivel for hours, boring the audience to premature death. I also see, in virtual world, authors and celebrities struggling with the expectations raised by their audience on real-time platforms – the result often being repeats of old jokes, terrible wordplay,  banality, and a general discomfort stemming from the heightened interaction.

The tweet up. There was a palpable energy in the place, and the place almost exploded when the organisers announced that the much anticipated message had come from upstairs, and they were ready to start… serving coffee and biscuits. We came back after getting our coffee, and waited inside the audi for Mr.Tharoor, disappointed at not being allowed to bring our coffee in, but then in he came, in black and white, and made our woe seem insignificant, with his coughing. Hmm, I couldn’t be sure, but the front row possibly had coffees. (#9). And so I sat, flanked by two other Mallus – Nikhil, and Balu (who’d made it a point to arrive after Shashi Tharoor, just so we understood who was more busy ) wondering how a favourite, whose work I worshiped, would fare.

As you can see, he was favouring the right, and the centre, until a lady seated behind me forced him to answer a question from our side. I wondered aloud if he always ignored the left thus, but though my neighbours heard it, sadly he didn’t. I’d have loved a repartee. I noted that we had similar workplace issues, as Twitter was banned in the MEA too. Meanwhile, our friend Nikhil, (who claims he was) one of the voters who elected Mr.Tharoor to the parliament, had a political googly question for him. But he managed to answer it satisfactorily too.

He talked about occasions when he was asked to explain Twitter to his colleagues, and the advice to him to stop tweeting if he valued his political career. But as he said, he doesn’t like being told he can’t do something. He explained his twitter habits – following, answering questions on Twitter, and the balance he has to maintain while sharing with the world a minister’s life. He was asked about his writing plans, to which he answered that the current job keeps him too busy to write, and not just to write, but to create that space in the mind, which can be populated with people and instances that have nothing in common with his daily life. So for now, The Great Indian Novelist is reduced to the limitations of a git (great indian twitterer) – 140 char.

And thus, thankfully, he didn’t disappoint, and i sat, listening in rapt admiration, as the man displayed his ease with the language, bringing a smile and making us LOL, with witty answers to even the most banal of questions. Yes, there were quite a few of those too. But thankfully there were the opposite kind too, which got him to talk about the working of his ministry, and future plans. I could throw in erudite, polished, confident and similar adjectives as descriptions for him, but a master craftsman is usually beyond adjectives. (as anyone who saw that jaw-dropping 175 would vouch for)

Though he had arrived a bit earlier than announced at the venue (the twitvite said 3, when the actual time was 3.30, but the reason for that is easy to guess, so I wouldn’t complain), we still had only an hour, and it passed very quickly.  But it was undoubtedly, fun!! So, finally everyone posed for photos,

(guy in grey-blue striped t-shirt, asked the best questions)

and somewhere in between I accomplished the other thing I’d come for.

until next time, end of gushy Tharoor post

(HUGE) UPDATE

ST RTs !!

As I sat in the cafe, I occasionally turned around to watch the Metro construction. Vehicles and pedestrians jostled for space on the ever declining width of MG Road. Just before I got into the cafe, I was part of the crowd – most of which was cursing the mess that the construction was creating, not just then, but in many people’s daily routines, thanks to the regular traffic blocks and detours required.

Detours. I had had a conversation with a friend a couple of days back on how, if I had the perspectives I had now, 5 years back, I might have done things differently then. I might have re-prioritised – things that I wanted to do, goals I set for myself, person I wanted to be,and so on. I said that blessed are those who can turn back, take a look and say that they wouldn’t have done things differently. I honestly can’t. Specific regrets I may not have, but a different set of perspectives, I wouldn’t have minded.

The friend maintains that whatever path one takes, it would be impossible not to have some regret or the other. I can’t say I disagree. But i do maintain that it is possible to minimise. Does that mean that I am not happy now? Of course I am. But to paraphrase the tee that I keep mentioning says, it ain’t about the destination, its about the journey. The possibility of regret minimisation comes from a belief that if you are doing what you are meant to do, then everything else would fall into place. A faith.

Faith. The book that I finished later that day had a theme that mixed faith, quantum physics and parallel universes. It had people with different levels of abilities regarding the different universes. One could sense it, one could travel through it, observing, without being able to alter anything, one could transfer objects through it without knowing where they went, and finally one who could travel through it and control it far better than all the above. It talks about every day being a momentous day when we make choices, which creates ripples across other people’s lives (like a butterfly effect on human destinies). It talks about destiny giving you a chance to set it right again. It takes the analogy of an oak tree for a human life. Too many right choices and you’ll have a trunk with a few branches, risks never taken, adventures never had, a life less lived. Too many wrong choices and you’ll have a gnarled tree, fruits never enjoyed, an existence too scarred, a life too consumed to be enjoyed.

We would like a balance. The friend has made peace with the self on this matter. I need to work on it a bit more, and ensure that I don’t read this post years a few years later and say Oops, I did it again.

Maybe years later, a new generation would thank the decision maker for the metro. Or perhaps they would curse it for being built for a lesser capacity than it should have been. Time, and context, that would form the perspective. Perhaps its too much to wish for the perspective and the destination before the time has been traveled through, step by step, baggage by baggage.

until next time, step up

He was told not to misbehave. He mumbled that he understood the momentous nature of the event. She replied that his behaviour in public was still a matter of concern. He figured this conversation was bound to happen when one was traveling by bus for the first time after six years of life in Bangalore.

until next time, riders

He was humbled by the wisdom of those visionaries – the town planners of the city he lived in. Every time he rode on Bangalore’s roads, he marveled at how they’d managed to forecast the city’s traffic snarls so precisely, and then ensured that the locations were named appropriately – Koramangala 1st Block, Jayanagar 4th Block…

until next time, block aid!!

The driver ahead, talking on the mobile,  was disrupting traffic…irritating him. And then he saw the sticker. At the junction, he knocked on the window and said “Thanks for the warning sticker, ma’am, but your responsibility doesn’t end there. You should also realize that the baby on board is too immature to drive you around”

until next time, hit and run

No one knew how the treasure myth originated, but it spread. And the eyes of men gleamed with greed. They created armies, with promises of the booty’s share. The digging started, and the city was pitted against formidable foes – BWSSB, BBMP. He hoped they’d find the treasure soon, so he could ride in peace.

until next time, the pits!!

Work took me someplace where I normally wouldn’t be found – an AOL (Art Of Living) discourse. While I have nothing against those who choose that path, I don’t see myself there. Standing there, as a non participant while a few thousand listened and performed yoga, I thought I got a few pointers to what made them a part of this movement. One was a feeling of belonging to a community that had the same wavelength and subscribed to the same thought processes and the other was a meaning, a purpose that the movement gave to their life.

Since it was an official event, I got dropped back at home, and in the process got to do something that i rarely get to do – forget the road, the traffic and the world ahead and soak in the effect of humanity passing by. I don’t know if you enjoy what could be uncharitably labelled gawking, but if you pause and consider that each face, and each expression contains a story, maybe you’d enjoy it like you do.

I passed Resthouse Road on the way, and saw Pecos and Guzzler’s Inn, not places I frequent, but places that are ‘tagged’ in my memories of Bangalore from the time I came here. As i proceeded down Brigade Road, i also saw the signage of Vaayu, a lounge bar, and thought I could see a difference in the crowd that each catered to. I realised that after a while, after a few generations had passed, Bangalore’s character most likely wouldn’t include Pecos, although we would, in our denial of mortality, not think of it that way now.

I reached home, and after the obligatory channel flipping settled down to Rocky Balboa, the comfort of a ’seen before many times’ movie that will let your thoughts drift and you still wouldn’t feel left out. I never thought I’d quote from a Rocky movie, but it seemed to fit in

Ya know they always say if you live in one place long enough, you are that place.

It stuck to me when I watched Delhi 6 the next evening. An old woman comes back to her country-city-locality to die in peace, in a place that she’s familiar and comfortable with, and finds that the place has remained unchanged, but the people haven’t. And it took me back to this post that I had written a while back – on Cochin and the cosmopolitan place it was becoming.

So, where will I be comfortable finally – Bangalore, where I have now spent 6 years (almost to the day) and where I will (at some point in time) have lived long enough to ‘be the place’, Cochin, which I refuse to let go of, whose memories I guard like a treasure- the chaotic, humid, gets-on-your-nerves place that I consider my home, or someplace new that the cosmos has in store for me. A place which gives me a sense of belonging. A set of people who matter to me and who I matter to. And that’s where this stream of consciousness ends.

The cosmos is listening. From the list of 143 songs in the list, on ’shuffle’ mode, it has suddenly chosen Daughtry’s Home.

until next time, are we on the same home page?

Sometime back, a work related trip took me to two completely different worlds in the same city – one, a software giant’s well designed campus, and the other, a market area. I’ve been in Bangalore now for 6 years now, but still can’t claim familiarity with a lot of places.

The tech park was exactly as I had pictured it, from the large amount of written matter dedicated to it regularly in newspapers. Large and well laid out, with its own studio, food courts and bustling with activity. The activity is not techies just slaving in front of monitors, though I am sure that happens inside too, but having animated conversations over cups of coffee, cycling between building blocks, discussing a cultural activity happening in the next few days, and some even  watching the world go by.

Gandhi Bazaar isn’t exactly the most written about place in newspapers, probably because its residents are not as appealing to the readers of the newspapers I read. But it is bustling nevertheless – the granny in the bullock cart surrounded by flowers, multitudes of roadside sellers, trading everything from vegetables to fancy jewelry to toys to clothes, a lot of happy, smiling faces drifting in and out of shops. I saw faces that just blended into the surroundings and others that didn’t perhaps belong there. (like me)  From where I stood watching, I couldn’t see any branded outlets around that I recognised, but in the vicinity you could get the best coffee and masala dosa. Pleasures of a different kind, but great ones nevertheless. Anything more would sound condescending.

These are two worlds separated by a few kilometres, but almost isolated from each other, both worlds unto themselves, oblivious to each other, except for the few who occupy both. I can imagine the young local huduga who is now a techie and handles both worlds with ease. I feel happy for him, and hope he realises how lucky he is to be part of both these worlds – one  that helps him stay grounded and the other that helps him fly high.

One planet, so many different worlds, and so many different stories.  A lifetime wouldn’t be enough to experience. This thought created a sense of deja vu, and sure enough, a search yielded this post. I guess the lessons of Nude Ellie are seeing a change of perspective.

until next time, deja view

Lavanya Sankaran

The Red Carpet is a collection of short stories – eight of them, a slice of life of a generation in transit, with its amazing contradictions, all set in Bangalore. Though the different stories are not connected with each other, the characters in most of them (if not all) are recurrent, though not in an obvious way, and usually remain inconspicuous in the stories where they are not the lead characters. Many of the stories feature characters who differ vastly from each other- either by age, or social class, or mindset, but who, despite these contrasts, are still able to connect at some point. Bangalore offers a perfect setting, since it’s a city that has absolutely transformed itself in a short of period of time. But its not exactly a key character in any of the stories, merely serves as a backdrop. Also, don’t expect any Archer like twists in any of the stories. They just flow, and are reasonably good reads. Meanwhile, I’m extremely curious to figure out if the story after which the book is titled (The Red Carpet) has more of the author in itself compared to the others. My favourite happens to be ‘Mysore Coffee’.