Singles in the City

So here I find myself- on the brink of yet another move- back to Delhi this time, to live with the folks. While it's great to be home and not have to worry about incompetent maids, what to do about dinner, and stuff like that, there is a lot to be said for living alone. A lot of stuff that I'll really miss.

So, taking stock of the past year, I thought it would be apt to post this piece I wrote some time ago before I make the move.

Singles in the City
When I tell anyone who’s old enough to be my Uncle or Aunt I’m single and live alone in Mumbai, their brows furrow with worry and their first question is always, “What do you do about food?” And if I confirm their worst fear and say I don’t cook (yes, guys, it is possible to live on "outside food"), they immediately invite me for lunch/dinner/breakfast, pack some sandwiches and cold cuts in a plastic zip bag or wrap up some homemade cake for me, and send me trotting off, clutching my goodie bag.

While I am usually pleased as punch at being on the receiving end of homemade goodies, I do try to tell them that it’s not necessary- I really don’t mind depending on the neighbourhood Subway for late Sunday brunches and the local fast food joints around the corner for a late-night dosa.

Younger people, on the other hand, react in a completely different way. There have been envious sighs, glances of admiration, and yes, on more than one occasion, there has been a subtle, “Is your landlord cool?” which in party-speak means, “Can we have a party there sometime?”

And then there’s the third category- the kindred spirit. This is either a very good friend, or a fellow young single non-Mumbaikar who lives in a rented home like you do, and gets both the raw and sweet end of the deal, just as you do. This one usually reacts with a grin and a nod. The grin which says, “Good for you- you’re really doing it,” and the nod which says, “Been there, done that; I know how it is.”

So we hold hands, form a support group of these kindred spirits and wade through the trials of pest control, incompetent bais, unreasonable landlords, food crisis, broke days and homesickness together. These people exist on our speed dial lists, our weekend plans and forgotten hair clips or T-shirts in our houses.

We also happily make our way through the sweet end of the deal of no curfews or worried parents, having multiple houses to sleep at, depending on which part of town Saturday night saw you, and the freedom to host the sort of parties no parent would approve of, at a moment’s notice.

So while the incompetent bais, unreasonable landlords, food crisis, broke days and homesickness are very real and very daunting aspects of being Single in the City, the upsides more than make up for it.
Apart from the seemingly frivolous freedoms of partying, living alone gives you the very solid lesson of independence. It teaches you that shit happens, it’s not personal and at the end of the day, you gotta learn to let the troubles slide off you and move on.

It teaches you that vada pavs often make a great dinner when you’ve been too lazy too arrange for anything better, that rats climbing up the drainpipe and scampering around your bedroom are VERY scary when you’re alone, that cranky landlords can be Satan reincarnated and that to make it from one day to the next with your sanity intact, you need your kindred souls on your speed dial list and preferably in the neighbourhood.

So while I appreciate the packets of food and dinner invitations, my life-line would have to be the hands I hold in times of crisis and I-don’t-know-what-to-do! The family that Singles need to find away from home to keep their heads above the water.

Women in Bars: Is it worth it?

Today, I was writing an article on date rape for rediff.com, which got me thinking about the subject. Scarily enough, we all seem to know someone who has gotten into some kind of trouble over drinks, with friends or acquaintances.

While I have to admit I’ve been hugely lucky, having side stepped any serious problems, there was one instance when a guy I’d met for the first time tried to drop a pill into my glass. Luckily, I saw him do it, and asked for a fresh drink.
I don’t like to imagine what might have happened if I hadn’t turned in time to see that!

Anyway, as I was writing the article, I was talking to various people to see what they felt about the issue. As people loosened up and started talking about the stories they have witnessed, each one of them mentioned the need for women to protect themselves. To make sure they didn’t go out with people they didn’t know, to stick to public places, watch their drinks at all times…

The more people I spoke to, the more it became evident that women didn’t feel completely safe anywhere. In any setting. With anyone. And in protecting themselves, there are so many restrictions that they place upon themselves, or their parents place upon them, that it almost doesn’t seem worth the trouble to go out!

We women watch what we wear even when we go to a nightclub. We make advance arrangements to get home after a party. And now, we watch our drinks like hawks. Instead of enjoying the party, maybe dancing and having a few drinks, we end up warily scanning the area around us and our drinks to make sure all’s well. We mentally analyse statements made by people we may not know too well. “Another drink?” could just as easily be interpreted as, “I’m trying to get you drunk.” If a woman is forced to continually watch her back even when supposedly having a good time, she is forced to ask herself, “What's even the point?”

Pramod Muthalik thinks we don’t belong in bars. We disagree. But if our men are going to prove him right, it doesn’t leave us with much of an argument.

Lakme Fashion Week: A glamourous circus

So Lakme Fashion Week is finally over and I have heaved my sighs of relief, had my long-overdue weekend and returned to work, glad that it doesn’t involve another designer outfit or impossibly perfect model.

I can also now look back at the excesses that I was buried under during those five days and take stock of some of the ironies I’ve seen.

One of them is always the model-craze. People seem to think that models are drop-dead gorgeous, sexy, and often, snobs. What I saw, however, was a total contradiction to this theory. Most of them are downright ugly, having lost their youth to too many cigarettes and too much makeup, bony and skinny, and far too attention-seeking to be snobbish. There will always be the leaders of the pack, the ones who are so high up in the pecking order that they can afford to toss their pretty, empty heads at the world and take another dainty sip for their wine glasses (but just one, dah-link…and of course no beer!).
But these are few and far between. Far more common are the lesser known faces who make up for their anonymity with the tiniest of shorts and plunging necklines, making sure their tinkling laughter is heard by all those in the vicinity, and hovering around anyone who has a media card. While they are too proud to ask to be interviewed, their intentions are more than clear when suddenly develop an interest in you after seeing you interview another model.

Then there are the celebrities that never fail to make an appearance at the Fashion Week. Perfectly made up faces that reveal very real flaws when you see them up-close scream out their status of being a has-been. But the media, oblivious to the obvious, will scamper up to them, begging for a sound bite, falling over themselves and other media persons in the hope of that perfect smile, delivered charmingly with a one-liner. Of course, these celebs are at an advantage, having rehearsed most of their lines at home, right from the origins of their outfits, to the state of Indian politics.
On the fringes of this activity, side-lined by the commotion and chaos these stars of the yesteryears are creating, are who should have been the real stars of the day. The young models, many of whom are walking for Lakme Fashion Week for the first time. Fresh-faced young ‘uns who haven’t lost their looks yet, enthusiastic, eager to do their best, with heads that aren’t yet swollen with a misplaced sense of importance . But nobody pays them any attention- after all; they haven’t carved a name for themselves yet.
Fair enough- but need we fawn over those who should have retired ten years ago either? So while these young girls and boys watch from the periphery of the action, we choose to pay homage to Preity Zinta’s huge dark circles (that even a kilo of concealer fails to hide) and flabby arms, or Naomi Campbell’s most unremarkable looks, instead of the young lissome lady with never-ending legs standing right beside them.
Ah, it’s the tussle between fame and beauty again- and guess who wins every time!

And then there are the fashion shows themselves. A total flood of outfits, enough to clothe the average young women for a lifetime! Most of them ugly, nearly all unwearable. And the bigger the designer, the more flamboyant his designs, the less wearable his creations, and the more outrageously priced. That’s the privilege of an established designer. He can create a dress made entirely out of feathers, with a huge butterfly perched upon the model’s breast, finished with light bulbs twinkling all over her- and the audience will hoot and applaud loudly, though none of the women clapping would be caught dead in such a hideous number!

While we all enjoy the flamboyance, we are forced to ask, isn’t the point of fashion to create something people can actually wear, and be seen in? Isn’t the point of a fashion show to showcase creations that actually make you want to buy them? Isn’t the point of a model to be, first and foremost, pretty, before all other things? And isn’t the point of getting new talent on the ramp to discover them?

Ah, well, the Lakme Fashion Week has earned itself a reputation- who are we to question it?
Ours is simply to watch and take with a pinch of salt the circus we see.

Delhi cops stumble upon convenience

So they say Soumya Vishwanathan’s killers have finally been caught – and a motive established. The killers in another case (Jigisha Ghosh’s murder) were caught, and the cops soon stumbled upon the fact that the same people were involved in Soumya Vishwanathan’s murder as well. (Am I the only one this sounds suspicious to?)

However, the police claim that the motive behind Soumya Vishwanathan’s bizarre murder on Delhi’s Nelson Mandela Road at 3.30 am one night, was simply road rage. It seems that because Soumya overtook the ruffians’ car, they put a bullet through her brain.
Now while this may not be the most bizarre thing you’ve heard happen in Delhi – the capital is, after all, the most violent city in India – this doesn’t sound right to me.

To refresh memories, let me recap the case quickly. Soumya Vishwanathan, a young journalist with Headlines Today was returning home one September night last year, when the incident occurred. The cops that reached the scene that night say it looked like an accident in the beginning; with the car rammed straight into the divider. Until, that is, they discovered the bullet lodged in Soumya’s head. Strangely, none of Soumya’s possessions were stolen, and the haunting image of one golden kolhapuri chappal by the pedals of the car became the image synonymous with the shocking murder.
Though the matter escalated, with hundreds of journalists protesting in different ways, the police was making no headway in finding the guilty party, or a motive for the killing. Until recently.

While investigating Jigisha Ghosh’s murder (the young Hewitt employee who was abducted and killed a week ago), the police “stumbled upon” evidence that linked the same killers to both the cases. While in Jigisha’s case, the motive was theft, Soumya seems to have paid the price of someone’s rage with her life.

However, this all sounds a bit shady to me. Isn’t it just too convenient that a pending case was neatly wrapped up with an ongoing one? That a bunch of boys are roaming the streets of Delhi, randomly killing young girls for different reasons each time? That having their car overtaken got them so mad that they speeded up till they were carefully alligned beside the moving car, aimed for her head, and shot the young woman driver? That they could even aim, while both cars were moving at such high speeds?

The loopholes in the facts of this case have me pointing a finger at the incompetent police force yet again. Are they hiding behind yet another smokescreen, covering up their inefficiency? Is this another Ansal Plaza/ Batla House? I wish I knew.

Does the fact that I knew Soumya when we were both little girls influence how strongly I feel about this case? Probably. And I don’t want the men who killed her to go scot-free just because the police found it easier to target someone whose neck was already in the noose. And I certainly don’t want another young woman to be found with a mysterious bullet in her skull before we realise that.

In my impotency of being a mere citizen, I can only hope the cops have got the right guys – that Soumya’s death will be avenged.

Stories and their memories

Last week I was writing an article on Hemant Karkare and his family, which required multiple trips to his house in Dadar, where his wife still stays.
As important as the story are the pictures that you run with it, for which I found myself trekking to the house again, hoping to persuade Mrs. Karkare to lend me some photographs to use with the story.

I didn’t think it would be too hard- after all, most people want their pictures in the news, right? However, as we sat on her brown sofa, with old faded photographs littered on the coffee table in front of us, Mrs Karkare was terribly hesitant about letting the photographs out of her sight. While I tried to make her feel comfortable by letting her choose the pictures she wouldn’t mind us using on our website, she kept asking me, “When will you give them back?”

I told her I just needed to scan them, and would return them immediately, but she seemed reluctant to let them out of her sight. “All you press-waalas come and ask for photos, and then you don’t return them!” she said, throwing me an accusatory look. I was taken aback- at the caustic tone, as well as these journalists that the poor woman had encountered.

For what kind of person takes a widow’s only memories and then refuses to return them? What kind of journalism is that, where you forget that your stories are about real live people, and their tragedies? People who you might be hurting when you’re too lazy to return the one thing they have left - their memories?

May we never lose our dreams!

Name: Kokila Vaghela
Age: 12 years
Address: The slums of Carter Road

Dragging along a toy car on a red ribbon, while the other hand tugged at the sleeve of her younger sister, twelve-year-old Kokila Vaghela was humming a tune and sauntering along when we found her around the slums of Khar Danda, Mumbai.

She looked at us enquiringly and spat out the piece of grass she was chewing on, so that she could talk to us. Dressed in a cobalt blue salwaar kameez, this pretty little thing took in all the sights around her with big, sparkling, curious eyes. Eyes that held dreams by the truckload. Eyes that looked at the squalor around her, but didn’t feel a part of it. Eyes that held hope, faith and belief in herself and the world.

This little girl was born on the pavement of Carter Road to a father who sells garlic for a living, and a mother who works at a municipality school nearby. Despite their almost inhuman living conditions, Kokila’s mother makes sure that all six of her children go to school and get an education, in the hope that their lives will someday be better than what they are now. This family of eight live on the pavement of Carter Road. While they have the most coveted of prime locations, and a panoramic sea view, they don’t have a roof…or walls for that matter.

When we asked Kokila what we wanted to be when she grew up, her gaze dropped to her feet shyly, and she mumbled, “Main Miss India banna chahti hoon. Miss India picture mein aati hai, na, isliye.” (I want to become Miss India. Miss India acts in movies, that is why.)
Of course, after she wins the crown, the next step would be acting in Bollywood- not with Shahrukh Khan though, since Kokila doesn’t like him, but with Hrithik Roshan, whom she is a big fan of.

And where one finds such ambitions, the dreams of riches and luxuries are never far behind. When she grows up and makes a lot of money, (which she has no doubt she will), Kokila wants to buy clothes and jewellery, but more importantly, she wants a building, some utensils and a car. She justifies these choices by saying, “Building, kyonki hum log ka ghar nahi hai, isliye. Aur bartan nahi hai zyaada, isiliye. Aur car chahiye, blue waali.” (I want a building because we don’t have a house. And we don’t have utensils. And I want a car, a blue one.)

Her little six-year-old sister and four-year-old brother cling to her legs and giggle when Kokila tells us how rich she will be someday. Older children mill around, and Kokila’s mother tells us how her daughter stays back after school hours to wash dishes, and earns Rs 300 every month. Though she is only twelve, Kokila is an earning member of this household. She doesn’t want to stop studying for a long time yet, saying, “Main bahut padna chahti hoon, achha lagta hai. Aage badhkar kuchh banna chahti hoon.” (I want to study a lot; I like it. I want to progress and become something in life.)

While this girl is still a child at heart and climbs hills and trees with her friends for now, her dreams are very different from theirs. She is not satisfied with the idea of good food and clean clothes, of a roof and a family.
This extraordinary child, hidden away behind the stench and squalor of desperate poverty, dreams of claiming her place in the world, of reaching for the stars, and of bringing them home for all to see!


Name: Kiran Birju Vaghela
Age: 17 years
Address: The slums of Carter Road

When we first spotted seventeen-year-old Kiran Birju Vaghela, he was squatting on the Carter Road promenade, watching the tide go out. He turned lazily to us and looked at us disinterestedly with his dark, passionless eyes. Kiran was born in Mumbai and lost his mother to an illness when he was seven years old. Since then, he and his elder brother have been working, doing odd jobs to support themselves and their father. They live on the pavement between Carter Road and Khar Danda in Mumbai.

“Humara baap kuchh nahi karta, daru peeke pada rehta hai. Aur khaata hai.” (Our father doesn’t do anything- he drinks alcohol and lies around, and eats.) says Kiran, a spark of anger flashing in his eyes. The two brothers had to give up their education when their mother died, and have been the family’s breadwinners since then. Kiran Vaghela works as a helper with a caterer who caters at weddings, a job that’s all right for now, but hardly enough to sustain his family. The fact that his brother also works with the same caterer makes things a bit easier for him. However, both boys don’t draw a fixed income- what they earn depends on how much work there is, and how much they are needed. Often, when business is slow, Kiran and his brother have to forego dinner in order to cater to their father’s demands for alcohol.

When asked what he wants to do in life, Kiran stared at us uncomprehendingly. “Kya kar sakte hai? Kuchh bhi. Ghar mein kaam mil jaaye to achha rahega. Ab padhe nahi hai, toh kya sapne dekenge?” (What can I do? Anything. If I find work in someone’s house, it will be nice. Since I haven’t studied, what dreams can I have?)
While he does feel that being uneducated has ruined his chances of making a better life for himself, Kiran realizes that it’s too late now, and doesn’t indulge in either self-pity or regret. His concentrations are all aimed at one thing only- to get from one day to the next. Between his job and his father’s alcoholism, there is no place left for dreams and hopes in this young heart.

Despite his hard life, Kiran makes time for his one passion- films. He just saw Chandni Chowk to China and his verdict was, “Achhi picture hai. Akshay Kumar achha lagta hai. Fighting accha kar leta hai.” (It’s a good film. I like Akshay Kumar. He fights well.) When asked if he also likes Deepika Padukone, Kiran shrugged off the question, losing interest again.

Kiran leans against a parked auto rickshaw and looks out towards the sea. We don’t know what he sees, but can’t help hoping there’s a dream locked away in those young eyes somewhere, and that the big bad world hasn’t killed his spirit completely.

Christmas in Calcutta

….is something everybody must do once before they die! Park Street was so beautiful in the evenings; I just HAD to squeal in delight! The lights, the little cafes, including the famous Flury’s and the hipper Street Café were enchanting little dots on the landscape of unending culture and history that the city is. All you gotta do is take one look at the wonders of the Victoria Memorial to realize just how much history and culture the city has passed through its hands.

From its Princes to the British, the Babus to their literary achievements, the strong Marxist leanings to the delectable Bong food! Walking around the city is bumping into one cultural mini-explosion after another. The lack of moral policing (at least for outsiders) makes the place a seriously enjoyable one to kick up your heels and yell Woo-hoo in. The nightlife of the city makes me wonder why Calcutta didn’t earn the reputation of “The city that never sleeps” and what Bombay did to deserve it instead!

The people are really friendly, and if it wasn’t for the bloody language problem, I’m sure I’d have tons of stories for this space. Unfortunately, the best I could do was communicate in smiles and waves, which were almost as well received as actual words. The coffee houses with their embedded aroma of age old intellectualism were my personal favorite, followed closely by the deep sense that heritage seeps from every pore of this city.

So after having spent 4 whole days there, I am naturally an expert on the area, thus qualified to have a list of my own.

So here’s my list of must-do’s when in Cal:
Flury’s for brekker. Every single time. Multiple times even.
Tip: Book a table before landing up there.
Street Café. For their lovely desserts and Jenga!
The Park Hotel. Pick from the 4 nightclubs playing different music in the hotel.
A Bong home. For the food, of course!
Mocambo. Finger-licking, lip-smacking, semi-orgasmic fare. Must, must, must!
Victoria Memorial. If it doesn’t awe and spellbind you, there’s something wrong with you.
Just drive around. Keep the drive down Park Street for the evenings when its all lit up (during Christmas)

Sigh!