No forbidden apples

It was our second day in Paris. At least the second full day. The first had gone in familiarizing ourselves with the magical streets and the delicious wine. We had decided we wanted to do more than just Eiffel and Louvre and Notre Dame on our grand 3-day trip. We weren’t going to end up as bus tourists. We were cool travelers of the lonely kind.

We had heard of lovely biking routes here. Where cars weren’t even allowed. We had not biked in at least the last 10 years. Or maybe more. But I’ll try not thinking about that because that would just remind me how old I am already.

So anyway, fortunately for us, we found enterprising hosts who wanted to share the sublime biking experience with us. They asked us to reach Bois de Boulogne. I know enough French to know that means woods of Boulogne. Sounds nice. The word ‘woods’ has such a charming ring to it. We were all set to bike in Bois de Boulogne. The place looked just magnificent. It was a dream. Trees of every unimaginable color. And a path that had been carved out of a fairytale.

We hired bikes at some 5 Euros an hour and 12 for 2 or some such equation. And off we flew. We had just grown wings. The most beautiful, most liberating wings ever. Wings with pedals. What could possibly be better? A fitter body perhaps. Anyhow, let’s not get into that. My mother had very wisely told me, again, unmentionable years ago, when there is a will, there is a way. And here was a way and there was a will.

It was the funnest ride ever. And the final destination made it all the more worth it. We reached an island. This was a fairytale. With no forbidden apples. Instead, there were sorbets. In all imaginable flavors. I particularly miss the lemon one. We languished in the sun. We devoured every moment. We even spotted peacocks. They aren’t much different from Indian peacocks but whatever. After much deliberation and delay, it was time to head back. On the bikes. Uphill. This was the time when my proverbial prince charming should have stepped out of the proverb. To carry me back. Or at least my bike back. But no such luck. My bike and I had to make our way back ourselves. This was a true story and not a dream. Fortunately.

Last Friday

I went for a Euphoria concert last Friday. Mostly because I didn’t have much else to do. It was after work and I was kind of tired. Luckily we had great passes that got us second row seats. My cousins and I perched ourselves and waited for Palash and the gang to start the show. To my mild amusement he made this grand rock star type entry on the stage. Wasn’t he kind of old for all this? Midlife crisis I suppose.

So he started off with the “helloooo Mumbai” and the “Mumbai girls are so pretty” routine. And for the first time I realized I had not attended a single concert in Mumbai. Last I remember is hearing “Delhi girls are the prettiest”. So what am I now? A Mumbai girl? But that can’t be. I’ll always be a Delhi girl. But I consider Mumbai as my city now. But does that mean I am also of Mumbai’s now? Can I be of two cities? Will I have to pick one? Will they stop addressing me as a Delhi girl when I go for the weekend? Rather unsettling.

Thankfully, music cleared the air. I’d forgotten “Dhoom pichuk dhoom” completely. It took me back some insane years. Then he asked everyone to stand up. It was a concert and not a jagrata, he said. He must be kidding. This was after a long day of work. I can’t be jumping to “aage jaane ram kya hoga”. I was too old for this. What the hell! When did I grow too old for this? This concert is turning out to be more and more disturbing. Bombay college girls jumping enthusiastically all over the place. Palash Sen, the 48-year-old man taking his shirt off and acting like he’s not a day over 18. What’s happening to this world?

And then there was magic. This 48-year-old man made every single boring person like me get up and dance and shout and hoot to his songs. Before I knew it, I was jumping all over the place myself. He reminded me how much I loved “Maeri”. I realized I remembered the lyrics of the entire song. Everyone in the audience remembered the lyrics of the entire song. Maybe that’s what was keeping this man so young. One of my confusions got resolved. I’m never going to be too old for anything. As for the other, well, no matter where I am, I’ll always be a Delhi girl!

The life and times of Chulbul Pandey

Chulbul Pandey - That name has a sticky quality. Not sure if it can be sticky enough like a Gabbar or a Thakur but I have feeling it’s going to stick. Salman Khan has a way of sticking around collective memory. For good things and bad, for cult hits and super flops, he’s somehow always there. And with the recent success of Dabangg, he’s just all over the place.

He’s reigning virtually all headlines, the cover pages of all lifestyle magazines. Everyone wants to narrate the ‘success story’ of the ‘man of the moment’. But every time I have the Salman-is-back-and-how conversation, my mind cannot help but wander back a few years.

He rose to the top with the likes of Maine Pyaar Kiya and Hum Aapke Hain Kaun and became the poster boy with shirtless numbers like Oh oh jaane jaana and what not. And then he tumbled. Overnight. He was steeped in controversies, he was the bad guy who killed animals and people. He went to jail. He started losing hair. (and don’t say that’s not as important. Hair is hair.) He was written off. The man at that moment lost all his glory.

But here he is. Back on his feet. Sweeping multiplexes. I might be pushing it a bit if I call him inspiring, but I have to admit he is fascinating. It’s a journey through time. I know it’s not unique. Every one has their highs and lows. And I’m not trying to make common people’s trysts with life’s sea-saws mundane. They’re just as poignant. But this one’s in my face. I loved him, I loathed him and now I lust him again. One could say life gives some people more chances than others. That may be true. He’s rich, powerful, he was famous and it must have been easier for him. But does every one take whatever chances he or she gets? I don’t know if I do.

It is time…

It was about a year ago. I started working with a newspaper. At the news desk. At that time, I didn’t even know what the news desk really meant. But I was thrilled. My motivation matched my curiosity to learn.

I wanted to know everything there was to know about editing stories, designing pages, making layouts, filling empty spaces, cutting things to size, bringing out an edition on time. The adrenaline from the daily deadline was what I awoke for every morning. I looked forward to the midnight chaos when the only thing that mattered in the whole world was to get that headline right. To wonder on my way back home if I missed the ‘l’ in ‘public interest’. Or if I gave the right person the byline. Or if I had indeed replaced the dummy text before sending the final page. If someone, oh someone had read my page at least once. To wait until the wee hours to see for myself if I’d remembered to change the date on the masthead.

I breathed to get all of this right. The black and white of newsprint gave colour to my existence. The repetitive stories of theft, murder, robbery, rape gave meaning to life. The realisation that it could happen to anyone and that it happens to everyone sunk in. That a damaged pipeline and a broken tree can alter lives changed my worldview.

But no longer. No longer will I run for that print. No longer will I fix that caption. No more fights with the reporter. No more sleepless nights. No more midnight rush. The pumpkin’s burst. Cinderella must find another ball.

Home and the world

Home and the world. I read a novel by that title a long time ago. What I want to say has nothing to do with the novel. But I love the title. It divides everything into two neat categories. One that is familiar and the rest of it. One that is mine and one that is not. But one gets its sanctity from the other.

That’s why I like to travel. To reach out to the other. To really know what I have and that which I don’t.

I love the unfamiliar. I love uprooting once in a while and spreading my wings. Not to abandon my nest but to see how others build theirs. Do they use the twigs differently? Do they choose a different branch? Does it make a difference?

Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. But I’d like to know. And I will find out.

Beyond Pyramids and Cleopatra

Synonymous with a civilization so ancient, visit Cairo to discover the myths for yourself and explore the city behind the clichés.

Think Cairo, think Pyramids. It’s only natural. But when you try to go beyond and travel from the past into the present, the city will flout all accepted linear concepts of time. The layers of intrigue that begin from the pharaohs, carry on with the Sphinx, flow from the Nile, will finally stumble you upon the chaotic streets of Khan el-Khalili.

Welcome to the land of Tutankhamen and Nefertiti, and most certainly not Cleopatra, as the locals will tell you, she is a reminder of betrayal and not glory.

There are a lot many other things that the locals will tell you - don’t believe it all. Egyptians are charming, they are flattering, they are engaging and they love Indians, particularly Amitabh Bachchan (and that’s a fact). But they also mean business. So it’s best you do your homework, find a local you trust, practice your bargaining and then hit the road.

Now start from where it all began. Hire a car to Giza. Take a guide, the stories they conjure from their country’s past are worth your while. They will bring the legends alive, especially when they’re narrating them while you’re both on a camel’s back. Take a tour inside the pyramid to really feel the goose bumps. Stare the Sphinx in the eye, try to imagine what they were thinking when they built this magnificent half-beast, half-man. Carrier of secrets, boons and curses, come back at night to see the Sphinx talk at the breathtaking light-and-sound show.

Before you leave, don’t forget to pick up memories from the desert - have your name inscribed in a bottle of colourful sand.

If history is your calling, Egyptian Museum is your destination. Once you are done seeing the relics of ancient kings and queens, you might want to meet them themselves. Yes, go to the section that keeps the mummies. There isn’t much one can say about that experience - you have to see it to believe it.

Time for some indulgence. Find your way into the famous bazaar of Khan el-Khalili. A tourist’s delight - you will find yourself attracted to all the knick knacks of the world. The aromas from different varieties of itr and delicious preparations of food will distract you as you are tempted into buying replicas of the pyramids (they say the three bring good luck when kept together) or papyrus paintings or shiny chandeliers or collapsible camel stools. Then try a few flavours of shisha, sip on some Arabic coffee, taste some mulukhiya and Shawarma but save the epicurean moment for the Nile cruise.

A bit heavy on the wallet, the ride on this river is something you want to spend that hard earned money on. You lose count of the number of courses you have consumed by the time the fifth dish is served. The belly dancers on board add to the feast. The highlight however, is a folk performance that leaves you dizzy on that luxurious chair.

So pack all this and much more and your journey will be graced. Alhamdulillah!

Get set Goa !

I recently fulfilled a childhood dream. I went to Goa with my best friend. It’s the stuff movies are made of. The kind of movies that put you in a life’s-so-fun phase or let’s-just-live-for-the-moment mood or simply give you that woo-hooo high.

After a lifetime of planning, we had finally arrived. With bag and baggage. Full of excitement and of course, the perfect clothes. We had waited for this too long to let it go not-adequately dressed.
We booked a month in advance. We packed a week ahead. And in those three days and three nights that we were there, we lived a teenage worth of imagination.

I’m not exaggerating. All those things they say about Goa - all that jazz about feeling like a free spirit or bird, whichever you prefer - it’s all true.

I don’t know if it’s the sea or the sand or the wind that blows over them both. But watching the clouds swing past each other while you sip some port wine with your close pals, or even strangers, is probably what gives the term exhilarating its meaning.

It’s a dream, it’s a trance, it’s like floating in the air. Where you become one with the birds and the breeze. When you can collect all those scattered selves and put them together once again.