Great journalism happens

In the pursuit of journalistic excellence, you can often find me willing to go to any lengths to chase a story if the travel is paid for and the food and accommodation are free.

I confess. The only reason I even agreed to cover a car and bike race for an automobile magazine was that the event was scheduled at Bengaluru, where my darling now stays. “You’re coming HERE?” she squealed when I told her the happy news.

“Yes,” I said, wondering if I really was.

“You are?” she said in a hushed voice, wondering too.

“Yes,” I said, but I don’t think I was convincing enough. The husband looked fit to faint when I told him about it, and that I was actually turning the idea over in my head.

“Very good. You should get out more often,” he said sagely.

Hmph. One would think I was pale white from hiding in the house. (If you must know, my complexion is creamy.)

Then I started to think about more pressing matters, viz How, in the name of arse, was I going to cover a bike race?

Some footnotes may be in order at this point:
1. The question (How, in the name of arse, was I going to cover a bike race?) arose primarily because I know squat about any automobiles. (When I say ‘squat’, I mean ‘jack’.) If you asked me to deliberate on the subject, all I could tell you about any kind of automobile was that the buses in Mumbai were red and that my dad owns a Ford Ikon.

2. And also that I think the Tato Nano, in any colour, looks like it belongs in a cartoon film.

3. I cannot, even at my intelligent best, tell one car from another. Ditto for bikes.

4. I can, however, tell a car apart from a bike. I am not a total idiot.

And so I went to Bangalore.

The sister thought I would probably describe what I saw there as, “Some big white car with a green sticker on one side won the race.” I rather think she rolled her eyes when I scoffed at this line of thought. Well, har har. In keeping with my usual work ethic, I was extremely precise, clinical and unbiased while reporting the event. I append a critical paragraph from my as-yet unfinished draft, to illustrate aforementioned precision, clinicality and unbiasedpana:

‘_______ (insert name the moment you learn what it is) won what everyone kept referring to as the Dissel Wopen, and which proved to be, on thorough analysis and much sifting of official documents, the Diesel Open category. The winner was such a show-off about his victory that he came out of his car smirking all over his loathsome face and patting his own back, thereby riling certain sections of the crowd. This correspondent heard somebody on her right say, and she quotes, “Xjuouirljiuon melaiab wandapandi.” Translated from Kannada, this means, “Kitna shaanpatti kar rela hai, gaandu.”’

The hearing has still not been restored in my left ear, which was the ear closest to the start point, since I spent most of my time looking at the racers whizzing past. I keep getting Kannada flashbacks even in my sleep. I do not want to look at another idli for the remainder of my life. And the opening line of my piece really reads, ‘Some big white car with a green sticker on one side won the race.’ But the trip was fun and highly educational. If given a chance to do something like this again, I will certainly take it, provided it is in Bangalore.

And now I must go write the story before the editor decides to remind me. He says December 2 is my deadline, and though that is AGES away, I can see I have lost all my notes. Besides, I have other pressing matters to look into now that I’m back in Mumbai, such as What I should order for lunch.

Did I hear you say, “Xjuouirljiuon melaiab wandapandi”?

Wishes

Jaya wanted a set of gold bangles for her birthday. Sumit thought that was too extravagant.

All day she complained about his lack of consideration. Never once to him, but to her friends at work. "I mean, come on," she said in tones of deep frustration. "I get him whatever he wants before he even says the word. Can't he do this much for me?"

"Men, men," one of them said in a commiserating voice, but the girl quickly flashed a look, part gleeful, part gloating, at another woman in the circle.

"So anyway, nothing for me this birthday," Jaya sniffed. She looked balefully at the sabzi in her lunch box, then said, "Anyway he'll just forget the day. I'm not reminding him again this year."

So in a disturbed state of mind a full three weeks before her birthday, Jaya persuaded herself that her thirty third would be the worst birthday ever. In the history of birthdays. In the history of history, as Po would say.

On the morning of her birthday, Sumit was nowhere to be seen. She called his cellphone, but it rang in their bedroom. Wondering if he'd suddenly decided to get back to his exercise regimen, she glared at herself in the mirror as she brushed her teeth. If her mouth hadn't been so full of toothpaste, she might have screwed up her mouth and howled. My birthday and he's not even home.

Then he returned. In his work clothes. With a bouquet of red roses in one hand and a box of chocolates in the other. And as he took her in his arms and she laughed as he twirled her around the living room in a practiced dance, she closed her eyes and thought, "He really didn't get me bangles."

A story.

I think nobody knows how it started. They say that no partnership is ever equal, especially when one (or both) has dreams and ambitions separate from the other.

How awful, though. One morning he recounted a long anecdote about somebody eyeing his promotion at the end of the month, and not once, not for a second, did he realise that she kept her face hidden behind the newspaper. Not because she was reading it, but because she couldn't let the tears show. She kept saying, "Hmm," and "Really?" at really interesting points in his narrative, a habit born of years of listening on autopilot, and he did not notice even once the inflection in her voice.

What was more awful? That lately he does not even notice that she falls asleep in a second, sometimes too quickly. That she reaches out for a book the moment he sails into the bedroom, that sometimes she's holding the book upside down in what could have been a really funny situation had it not been for the tremble in her hands. That she does the dishes with increased violence each day, that she has less and less to say to him as each week passes on the calender.

He has his grievances, too. But he says not a word.

He does not notice. She does not see a thing. Love blinds.

Nothing matters

And that is scary. At least, it used to be.

I blamed it all on inertia. On the fact that I wasn't as active as I used to be, on the fact that I had quit my job for reasons which seemed lofty at the time. And which seem demented now, but whatever.

There was an inertia phase, but only at first. Then it melted into total and complete indifference. Not a nice thing to have on your slate, indifference. Not healthy for a marriage. Not healthy for relationships. Not healthy at all, for anyone, for anything, for you.

But oh, what shall we do?

Never mind. Que sera sera.

Ye Gods!

Nothing, I tell you, NOTHING fills you with happiness and quiet pride like the glow of achievement, however small and insignificant.

I have been in such a good mood lately, I haven't once yelled at the cat who invades my terrace at 10 p.m. every night, fixing me with an insolent stare before it retreats into the darkness of the neighbouring terrace. May be once my good mood fades a bit, I can go back to kicking at it and threatening it with my mosquito bat, which doesn't seem to impress it much anyway.

I am also cooking more, eating enthusiastically, and my neck has finally healed. Suffice it to say that I am really happy after such a long time.

Also, my husband is the best guy in the world. Smartest thing I did was marry him.

Bye for now.

Wheee!

After two moments of delirious happiness, I am back to the waiting game.

I swear I have not waited for anything for this long. Keep you posted, people.

Once again

My life is on hold. Because I am chasing a dream.

I would like to be braver, but I am not. Very scared, and very humbled by the extent of my fears.

I want to come out of the dark. How long, how long...?

It was Bleeaarrgghh.

If you must know, Rajneeti the film sucks donkey balls.

And because Katrina Kaif's famous speech is being written about for about a year now, (how she took Hindi lessons and insisted on dubbing for it herself yada yada yada) I almost cried with frustration on seeing the speech scene. Katrina Kaif is surely pretty, but strictly teak wood in the acting department. So much so, that you feel like doing even that pretty face an injury after about ten minutes, just to make her more interesting.

The less said about the rest of the gang, the better.

The biggest tragedy was that Nana Patekar was not given more screen time. Please take up more movies, Nana. You had just two releases this year (the Dimple Kapadia coffee shop one being the earlier release) but you were memorable in both.

Most. Awesome. Trip. Ever.

I would not normally have a favourable attitude towards anything that browned my skin to the point of making it a light black, or which involved a horrendous bus journey on the towards side of the trip. But ohmygod, I have just returned from an incredible road trip.

I went to Malvan, Tarkarli, Kudal, Shiroda and Vengurla. Within these five, I went to about more than 40 places.

I actually saw more beaches than I had prepared myself for. More pretty birds than I thought it was possible for god to create. More evidence of how an unsuspecting people, lured by the promise of good money, are about to ruin the Konkan coastline.

More reason to go again.

Plasticated

Every new move, whether for the good of society or for the good of politicians, starts with a deception.

The BMC's rather good idea with regards to the ban on plastic bags in Mumbai, along the lines of Pune, is meeting with a whole lot of sly manoeuvring from shopkeepers. As per the new rule, shopkeepers cannot put their wares in those amazingly thin plastic bags when they sell stuff to people. The bags in question are those that drape themselves around you at the slightest breath of wind, or sink to the bottom of gutters and drains and are so thin that you can't even see them when they're wet.

The BMC is sending out random patrol teams, and the bigger news is, that customers seen carrying the aforementioned bags (or indeed, anything thinner than 50 micron) will be fined on the spot! Shopkeepers can also get off by saying that the customer insisted on a bag, though that should ideally not fool anybody.

Hence, shopkeepers have carefully hidden their carry bags under boxes or behind the refrigerators or masquerading as containers that carry soaps, toothbrushes et al. When a customer asks for a bag, they look left and right, up and down, inside and out, and swiftly whip out a bag. Having dumped all the purchased material in it, they politely ask you to scuttle off and not be seen again.

Other places have come up with their own business take on the matter. Places like Sahakari Bhandar handing out big bags of a thickness visible even to a blind naked eye have decided to encash on the no-plastic bag rule by charging an additional Rs 2 per bag they give. Be warned that bags above 50 micron should be given free with the items you purchase, so if anyone asks you to pay extra for such a bag, tell them to fuck off.