Saturday 12 November 2011

Braggartry

Honestly, there is no reason for me to post this here. A few of us in the team had got promoted and were throwing a party, which had to be postponed. After years and years, this found me delving into my hidden repository of rhyme and...


Ahoy CoE!

It's time once again to dance under the disco light
and sing and gorge through the night!

It's the CoE Promotion Party!!!

<Details on venue, menu etc.>

Voting Button Rules:


While clicking "I'm In" would gladden the heart,
A chance for a negative option has to depart!!

- The Party Hosts



Hi Again CoE!
The sensation of addressing a large group is great
Despite having resulted from a quirk of Fate

That our enthusiasm has not reduced is known
And the party excitement nowhere near gone

But something has sprung up in its stead
And several issues this has bred.

Let us update you on the plans anew:
Travel exigencies have come up for a few.

In Tuesday's plan of being jolly and festive
a change in schedule is hence imperative

Not much is known now of the correct day
But you can be sure it's not far away

Please be assured we shall write to you
As soon as probable dates are reviewed.

Thanks for all the patience shown hitherto
In reading this lengthy excuse and surviving through!

Friday 11 November 2011

If I'm God, save me from myself

Director Bala, in intermittent conversation with Kriti
(because he values her opinion)
Three years back
B: I'm planning to make another film.
K: Sure. Do go ahead.
B: It's about an Aghori who is plucked from his habitat in Kashi.
K: Aghori? Oh, that stuff reminds me of Kipling's The Strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes.
B: Stop pretending to know all about everything. Do you know how the plot is going to unfold?
K: [Peeved] I'm sure you don't either.
B: [Changing the subject] These are abstract ideas - good and evil, life and death, salvation and rebirth. It is for the cognescenti to comprehend all that and present it in a manner a lay person would understand.
K: Highly convenient that cinema is toted to be something everyone easily understands. Anyway, why would you want to take some Aghori out of his Kashi context? Where would you put him?
B: Is that so tough to figure? Obviously interior Tamil Nadu, where I can use my creative genius to the fullest. From my experience I have come to know that urban Chennaiites believe whatever we film-makers portray in our movies about rural Tamil Nadu as absolutely true.
K: I've noticed. Churn out a new concept amidst gory scenes, and rest assured the coffers will fill - isn't that your style? Plenty of scope for your Aghori to turn cannibalistic!
B: Great idea, though I don't think our Censor Board will approve... Sigh!
K: Ummm... I get the feeling you're willing to devote some more time into developing the story. I errr... have to meet someone. Before you ask, we're just friends.
B: [Levers moving furiously in his brain] Aghori shunning cannibalism... Aghori being a cannibal... Aghori saving someone from a cannibal and getting a Man Friday...
Uh, yeah... Carry on...
Aghori falling in love with a cannibal...
Some two and a half years back
B: Which character did you find most striking in Oliver Twist?
K: The Artful Dodger.
B: I've scripted him into my Aghori movie. Him and Fagin.
K: Kewl! I guess it makes life so much easier when well-etched characters are readily available. So, what's the connection between the thieves and hermit?
B: Give me SOME credit! My story doesn't have petty thieves. It showcases the sad plight of beggars, how they...
K: Let me guess - how they have some kind of a monster for a master, but sure enough there is a kind soul in the group who is unfortunately cornered, who is helpless.
B: Wow?! Something told me this is the right thing an Aghori should battle against. Though how these two are to be linked beats me...
K: Oh, it will come along. If you don't mind, I have some recruitment to do.
One year back
K: Beggar cast ready?
B: Almost. Arya and Pooja strike well together, don't they?
K: [Dreamily] "Biriyani-ya kushka-va?"
B: What? Oh! I'm counting on just that effect 
which Arya has on women.
K: ARYA?!!! The best choice to show off a near-nude bod ! You'd have to use dubbing, though. The poor dear has a sad knack of making Tamizh sound so painful... But then, being an Aghori he won't have a lot of dialogues, would he?
B: In Tamizh no, but in Sanskrit and even a little Hindi. I'm leaving no stone unturned to make my story sound credible.
K: Story...???
B: Go away! Get on with banging on your ERP system. I've got loads of work...
Six months back
K: What's with the "Aham Brahmasmi"? If he's Brahma, the Creator, how come he believes himself to be Kaal Bhairav, the Destroyer?
B: No wonder folks call you Miss Curious. Did you enjoy watching Arya?
K: I enjoyed the way his hair magically combs itself whenever his eyes need to be seen.
B: An actor should always look presentable. Or else he would lose his appeal. But I did bestow immense care on his costume.
K: Yeah, I noticed his sandals changed to Fitness shoes when he had to go jumping from rock to rock.
B: Anyway, I've successfully moved the Tamizh cinema-goers away from the run-of-the-mill romances and the humble hero fighting social evils.
K: By getting God in human form to end human trafficking. Tell me, what is it that Pooja was trying to convey towards the end? Do you think talking endlessly was her method of settling scores with Arya for hearing her sing the first time?
B: In case a Hollywood buff didn't realise, Naan Kadavul is the first of it's kind in Indian cinema.
K: I bet you expect an award is not far away - for Best Story!
B: Naah... Awards are not my style.
K: Whatever. People in Europe are waiting for me...
B: It's God's blessings that I seek. Om Aghoraaya Namaha!
Very recent past
B: It feels wonderful that the audience is comparing my film with Saw and Apocalypto... While my only intention was to prove to Surya and Vikram that they have competition!
K: Are you buying them DVDs of Fear Factor? Reality shows can also bring out the actors in people...
B: Eh?
K: Don't bother. I'll go run the payroll. And entertain myself by watching English movies on TV.

Disclaimer:
  1. It pains me to reveal that Bala had never taken any directions from me.
  2. There are those who believe the film is good and hard-hitting. I silently snigger.

Sunday 14 August 2011

How much is €9 worth in terms of Flamenco?

Although I say it myself, I'd planned out my Spain trip well, giving every place just as much time as I needed in it. The only exception was Granada, where had I stayed the night, I'd have been able to catch a Flamenco performance. Actually, the Andalucia area of Spain (Granada being part of it) is where Flamenco is supposed to have originated. To top it all, my Segway guide had shown me Venta El Gallo, saying it was the best place to see Flamenco. Just cause for me to be miffed at setting off to Valencia, instead of spending the night at Granada and going straight to Barcelona the next day? Yes, hindsight made me think so too. But my aim while booking the train tickets was to save the hotel expense for a night. I suppose you could replace that "miffed" with "a tad disappointed".

With Barcelona turning out to be such a bore, and me getting a discount having taken the City Sightseeing tour, what other choice did I have than ending my vacation with a gala Catalan Flamenco?

So when the Bus Turistic stopped near Las Ramblas, I rushed to Teatre Poliorama. By a very sweet lady who spoke great English, I was from there guided to Palau de la Música Catalana, where I could use my discount for the same night. In my mind, I'd pictured a Royal Opera House sell-out show, for which I'd have to shell out €100. If it had been so, I was determined to go the whole hog and get a dress, matching shoes and a trendy clutch-bag from Zara. Well yeah, haven't you heard of "throwing good money after bad"? In any case, one more dress and a pair of shoes never hurt a girl. Agreed that a clutch lying unused would be a shame, but if it was going to be a hundred-euro opera, I had to be dressed for it, hadn't I?

It turned out that a good seat costed €27 (after discount) and a place behind the performers came to €18. I was impressed the way the lady at the counter showed me both the seat as well as the view from there on a monitor facing me. The costlier one was surprisingly good, as even though it was quite a distance from the stage, there happened to be nothing directly in my line of vision. The cheaper was... well, it was behind the stage. I leave you to guess what I went for.

Either way, Zara missed a customer in me and I remained in my cargoes.

Night fell, and I re-entered Palau Música. There was a sharp intake - both of breath and of the modernista (a word that I heard every other minute in Barcelona, thanks to Antoni Gaudí) interiors of the Palace of Catalan Music. As I climbed the steps to the segundo piso, I felt vaguely uncomfortable at not having gone the Zara route. But there was nothing that could be done about it now; I mentally shrugged my inadequately draped shoulders.

The lights dimmed, the singers and musicians appeared, the audience clapped politely. Gradually, the lights on the stage also dimmed and the dancers trooped in wearing unexpectedly simple costumes. They danced quite well and exited the stage. Leaving the musicians to unleash the magic all on their own. There were two male singers, between who sat a female singer. To their right were a percussionist and two guitarists. All three musicians were young and something hot. (They were Spanish - need anything more be said?!) But all said and done, music without dance isn't my cuppa tea. Then entered a solo dancer and tapped her feet and twirled her arms looking, for all intents and purposes, like a gazelle clothed in green, but I still wasn't getting my money's worth.

Suddenly to my (and I think most of the spectators') surprise, the female singer walked into the spotlight, began to sing, and dance! We all know how difficult it is to do both at the same time, but she managed it with élan, and to a resounding applause. For good reason too, as it wasn't just a middle-aged lady having a shot at something practised years ago. It was (from what I could tell) as good Flamenco as the three young dancers' - only it was a much shorter piece ensconced within the larger vocal routine.

After the multi-tasker had returned to her seat, came the other dancer in a dress that must have made the entire female audience swoon with delight. It was pink, had a tail and the way the dancer had it about her, reminded me of a tulip in half-bloom - spectacular! But that was just the beginning. I was wondering how she could possibly tap dance with that kind of a dress on, and figured it would only be a series of elaborate - and slow - steps. But my reasoning was shattered into smithereens each time she delicately swooped the dress away with her leg when it came in her way. Ummm... let me rephrase. Playing with the tail of the dress seemed as much part of the dance as the fan <more swooning!> was. Ooooh, "heavenly" falls meaninglessly short of describing the spectacle! Thunderous applause.

I couldn't help feeling the male dancer was short-changed in his attire. It wasn't even the puffy-sleeved dress that I'd seen in 'Alex & Emma'. A very staid three-piece suit, albeit sparkling, did nothing to match the drama which the gowns of the female dancers thrust upon them. I watched him effortlessly overcome this handicap. You see, the dancers were not standing directly on the stage, but on a slab placed on the floor. When the man danced, we, perforce, had to notice that the whole slab was made of six segments, each of which when tapped emanated a different note. He did nothing much with his arms (I vaguely remember him with just his hands on his hips, at times [un]buttoning his jacket), but somehow got us to focus all our attention on his movements from one slab-segment to the other, producing an effect underlined by the absence of any other music.
Standing ovation - and if it weren't such a posh place, I'm sure there would have been calls for an encore and bouquets flying towards the stage!!!

Another dance with all three of them was the final piece. I need to tell you that when they bowed to the audience, they didn't forget the ones in €18 seats behind them!

It all lasted an hour and a half and I wanted to take a tube back to my hotel. Before signing off this set of posts, I have to share one more incident with you - on How I Lost €1.45 To The Barcelona Metro Because It Thinks Everyone Is A Left-hander. I had bought a single ticket, inserted it in the slot and tried to walk through the turnstile at the left of the slot (which is how gates in London and all other cities with a metro operate). Nothing happened. I then saw another couple facing the same problem. The lady was left-handed and automatically tried the stile on the right. She mentioned this to her husband, who had been doing it my way in vain. Unfortunately, since our single tickets had already been passed through the slots, it would not allow us re-entry. We had to get another one. Pshaw!!

In effect, this isn't just a blog on €9, but €10.45.

Wednesday 10 August 2011

Finding your balance as a valence electron at Valencia

Yeah, I know the title's pedantic, but allow me to justify its relevance. Valence electrons in an atom are those that are free to form bonds with other atoms (resulting in molecules). And, here I was, for all that I could see, the only Indian in Valencia, out to mix with the Spanish junta, probably to create cultural ties. You may snigger at my highhandedness, but that's what tourists do - we leave behind a little bit of our culture and take away a bit of theirs - simplistically speaking, creating cultural ties!

Anyway, continuing from my earlier post, I arrived at Valencia Nord amidst all the darkness that 5 o'clock of an August morning can muster. Thankfully, it's a city large enough to have people mulling around even at that time. So, I started rummaging my suitcase, pretending to be busy, giving anyone who cared to notice the impression that I was in the station only until my train arrived, and would be off in a jiffy. In other words - no mucking around possible - beware! (Sigh, the precautions women have to take...)

But I'd three hours to myself, because you see, the Left Luggage opened only at 8 o'clock. Hmmm... So, I had breakfast. Petulantly, because the guy who came in after I did was served first. And the lady at the counter conveniently assumed I was "with him" and didn't bother to ask me what I wanted. After 5 minutes of banging my fist on the counter I succeeded in making my presence as a customer felt "separate" from the Spanish guy. I had tea and a funny spinach-filled samosa.

I washed up wondering why there are no shower rooms in railway stations (I mean, there was one in Kolkata!) and commenced my hunt for a plug point to charge my mobile phone. The lady at a croissant shop pointed to one. Did you know the mains in Spain are for public consumption, and you're not stealing electricity if you plug your gadget in one? So, I bought a croissant from her, heaved a sigh of relief and sat down with my Lonely Planet in the hope of charting out the day's potential adventures - a mighty boring task, I should say. I didn't get much out of the book and decided to have a second breakfast - the aforementioned croissant.

I then lapped up the remaining few pages of my Agatha Christie, when a stream of people started trickling into the station - hard-working office goers. I must confess the last thought in my head was of office. And right now, when I'm typing this, I'm relieved it was so. At last it was 8, my phone was charged, I deposited my suitcase and set out to explore the city. I find the Tourist Information opened at 9. What do I do but have another breakfast - vegetable sandwich and tea. I don't know why Europe's so big on asparagus (I shudder each time I think of the asparagus in Luxembourg, which I had to deal with using a knife and fork. What the devil is one supposed to spear the fork into, if the dratted thing simply tears apart soon as it's touched?) as the sandwich had generous helpings of the vegetable, but that's the fate of the vegetarian traveller.

You can find out more on the sights in Valencia from my photo album. I'm only keen on telling you how I came to have two lunches. There's this baguette place where a cute guy offered to custom-make a vegetarian jacket potato (Yes Shilpa, jacket potatoes once again!) for me. I was thrilled to bits. And floored when I tasted the first morsel - it was that good. I gulped it down along with freshly squeezed orange juice and was happy as a child given a brightly-coloured balloon. I went out with a smile on my lips but something told me to go back there and have some more. Not that I was very hungry mind you, it had just tasted that great.

What do I do but go and ask for a jacket potato with some OTHER stuffing, "with aubergines this time, please." When my second lunch came, it had aubergines in it all right, but with asparagus not far behind. My life reeled in front of my eyes as I choked on the serpent. I realised I'd not given the hotel address to my family. Who was I kidding - I was not staying at a hotel in Valencia! There was no way anyone would know should I pass on in Valencia!! With supreme willpower, I swallowed the slimy monster and resolved never to have 3 breakfasts and 2 lunches again. And certainly have nothing more to do with asp(aragus).

Sunday 7 August 2011

Acquaintance from Canada

This was my first time in a night train in Europe, and the name of the train itself was Trenhotel. I couldn't wait to see how it would be. It turned out all right. Each couchette is pre-designated for either men or women (berths being allotted at the time of booking based on the sex of the passenger). This carried a lot of oomph for me seeing as I was used to sharing the bay with पराये मर्द (Oh, to even think of such a thing anymore :P !) in Indian Railways. A hand towel, a 500 ml water bottle, a toothbrush (foldable, complete with plastic case), a set of ear plugs and a coat hanger each were provided for all four of us. All this, and a sink within the "roomette". Whistle whistle! Clap clap!! Unfortunately, it was central air conditioning (not air cooling) in the Tourist class, which meant the temperature was well up there - centrally.

An elderly lady was already occupying a place when I entered. She began to speak to me in Spanish, but soon as she realised my ignorance of the language, contented herself with eyeballing me. Throughout. Even as I was lounging with a borrowed Agatha Christie in hand. I tried startling her with a sudden smile, which did nothing to relax her stare. And I fervently began to hope she wasn't one of those who slept with their eyes open.

One of my fellow-couchettes was thankfully a 23-year-old backpacker from Montreal. The fourth passenger was a nice enough old lady, who was very merry about the fact that there were two who spoke only Spanish and two who didn't - like I said, a nice old lady.

Out of the blue, the grumpy one cornered me with a question that totally stumped the Canadian. She asked if I spoke Catalan. How on earth would I? I understood her import a day later when I was in Valencia. The thing is, I seemed to be the only brown-skin in Granada and Valencia. There were a few blacks yes, but mainly Caucasians. So, finding a foreigner who looked like me must have been like being stuck with an alien. I wasn't sure if I should have been flattered.

The other holidayer and I struck up a conversation that started with her being paranoid about ensuring the door's locked, but went on to travelling alone, old people, disabled people, abortion, religion, well-knit families - DEEP topics, as you may have gathered. The conversation was nice while it lasted, before we were shushed by one of the old women (who by the way, had turned out the lights without asking us).

For whatever it's worth, if you chance to come across someone who answers to this description (One defining feature is she was wearing a light blue polo t-shirt and off-white shorts on the night of August 2, 2011), do attract her attention to this blog post. She might wish to drop me a line - you never can tell.

The train was to Barcelona and the scheduled arrival at Valencia was 5:05. At 4:30, one of the staff knocked on the door to wake me up (I still can't get over how service-minded Renfe is!). That simple knock rang alarm bells for the girl and she got up with a sharp "Who's there?" The man's feeble voice must have calmed her down, because I don't know what she'd have done if had been gruff instead. At any rate, I switched on the lights and packed my shoes in a plastic bag with much deliberation and noise (something evil in me was intent on waking up old Mrs Xenophobe), stepped out on the corridor and promptly fell asleep soon as I sat on a chair near the door. (What else, there was half hour more to go!)

The feeble-voiced man was herding all of us bound for Valencia towards one door. All at once it struck me that the day broke very late in this part of the world and I should be in the train station for a greater part of three hours before I can step out and sight see. It was at this stage a Leonardo di Caprio-lookalike spoke to his girlfriend in English. And at that very moment I fell in love with the language. I had only been 3 days in Spain and words uttered by an Englishman were like music to my ears (Errmm... Canadians have a different accent). Spirits buoyed, I alighted from the Trenhotel ready to take anything that the party destination of mainland Spain may throw at me.

Madrid! Err no... Brighton!!

I had planned a 7-day trip to Spain, but ended up spending only 6 days there. This is what happened...

OK, so how did I land up at Brighton, yeah? See, Heathrow and St. Pancras Intl. both have dedicated kiosks for Immigration check, which one necessarily has to pass after check-in. (All right, agreed - you don't have to check-in for Eurostar.) Gatwick doesn't. It is mentioned in the Ryanair boarding pass (Yes, you can directly print the boarding pass out after online check-in.) that non-EU passengers have to get their boarding passes stamped. But if you don't encounter a passport check on your way to the departure gates, you're bound to forget about it and it's reasonable not to go about asking for things that you have forgotten, right? Well, Gatwick & Ryanair don't align themselves to this simple logic.

The boarding gate opened twenty minutes late and I was going to be ushered in ten minutes before take-off. That's when the lady asks me suspiciously if I had a Schengen Visa. I humour her by turning the pages of my passport and showing her the Visa. She then tells me that's not enough and I needed to have my boarding pass stamped as well.

"Huh?" I exclaim, urgently looking at my watch. She puts on a sympathetic attitude. "It's possible you will miss this flight," she says unhelpfully.
"This is what the stamp looks like." This was from her colleague who, ironically enough, was letting two other Indian girls pass and was showing me one of their boarding passes.
"Yeah thanks!" and I hurriedly retrace my steps to get what needs to be done, done.

You should remember this was 10 minutes before scheduled departure. At the Information Desk, the lady asks me to wait right there and someone will come and collect me shortly. You should also remember that this is the UK. Where people just do not rush. They inevitably end up finishing all tasks in hand (an admirable habit if nobody's desperately waiting for you) and only then turn their heads to the next job in queue. It panned out that a very gay guy came in three-quarters of an hour later, led me to the Immigration Desk (the one that folks go through on landing at Gatwick), through the Customs and back to the Ticket Office. A late night flight by Ryanair was the cheapest option available and I took it (after confirming with my hotel that they're open 24 hours and there will be plenty of taxis available past midnight to the hotel).

Now I'm left with seven hours to while away. I call my friend and she's more than willing to change her Saturday plans so we can meet (Bless her!). But she happens to disclose in passing that Brighton is just a couple of stops from Gatwick. An idea is planted in my head and it only takes a few moments to germinate. I find out it costs just £9 for a return ticket and half-hour to get to Brighton. Crowded train apart, the next thing I know, I'm navigating my way around the wonderful town, its delightful Saturday Street Market, its Dome, the magnificent Royal Pavilion, the jam-packed seafront, not to mention the innumerable cafés - essentially all things "bright" and beautiful in Brighton. (Please excuse the pun! Oh, and more on Brighton in my photo album.)

This was one of the several times I was glad to be travelling by myself. I get asked loads of times why I travel alone. And I retort, a) I don't get company and b) it cuts down on all the time spent arguing and saying "I told you so!" Do you now see what I mean? Going to Brighton was an impromptu decision - no votes taken (impossible when there are only two of you travelling), no helpless acceptance of the most forceful assertion and no egos hurt.

By the time I had checked-in (For the records, I was mildly infuriated by the way there was no signage for Ryanair customers dispelling all doubts that yes, this is the counter where non-EU flyers have to get their visa checked. In its stead, on top of the counters, there is just a marquee element which keeps switching between 'Bag Drop' and 'Visa Check'.) I was too tired to even be excited about finally getting to Spain. All the same, I couldn't help noticing there were STEPS between the gates and aircraft, whereas the walkway was left unused and suspended in mid-air. What's more they have FREE SEATING - no wonder they can afford to issue boarding passes a fortnight before travel. One last thing: their seats don't recline - so much for straight-backed ergonomics! I didn't follow a word of the air hostess' English and before I drifted off to sleep, I spotted her standing on one of the seats to adjust the luggage in the overhead storage area. Phew!

I awoke to the sound of clapping and the now-familiar sensation of a flight landing. My first thought was that the captain had maneuvered around a particularly difficult storm, we'd landed in a farm in the middle of nowhere and that people were just happy at the miracle of survival. I turned to the lady sitting next to me and asked her if this was indeed the case. Her son almost set my mind at rest by letting me know this was a tradition in Spain, before going on to add cheekily that yes, there was a thunderstorm and we all narrowly escaped. His mother laughed indulgently while I resisted the urge to slap him.

But that brat turned out to be quite right. I mean, I exited to the place where near and dear (and very often taxi drivers) wait for the arrivals. And I was greeted with applause. I turned around to see if I was followed by a celebrity with an entourage but no, it was for me that the total strangers were happy - woohoo! I was already loving Spain!!