maximum city evenings

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Image credit: Fanil Rajgor, National Geographic, May 31, 2016.

Let’s go. Enough of this.’

So you pack your bags, board a plane

To a city where friends are plentiful

(And by ‘plentiful’ we mean more than 0).

Good times are promised, and so we start;

The thought of pending time-sheets and pesky clients is discarded

For a brief, but not completely reckless, moment.

* * *

We head out, night on the town;

Tonight, we will have so much fun!’

(Why did having fun require such premeditation, so much work?

Were ‘good times’ really good times unless organic, and without any stimulants?)

But you go, you knock back a few;

Do things and say things you ordinarily wouldn’t do.

But it’s not enough. ‘Need more. More!’

More spirits swirl in that glass, and your head swirls too,

In sweet oblivion, mistaken for long-overdue euphoria.

So this is what being 25 means, huh?’

Morning comes, and you hope it is otherwise.

* * *

Today, you stood at the window;

Looking over at lines and lights running back and forth across the sea.

No mist, no fog; the sharp outlines of the buildings

Are blurred by a surreal haze.

Mimicking the scene, the mind’s edges are frayed today too.

A pair of gnarly hands seems to inch closer and closer;

No sleep the night before. ‘This does not make sense!’

Have you begun to wander again? Dread sets in.

But you resolve; ‘not again. Not again in this city.’

Reach out to the last reserves of strength and dignity,

“Write” some transient words, exhibit them to a largely-apathetic world,

And hope, that tomorrow will be kinder than today.

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not a bibliophile. deal with it.

Reeling from the aftermath of an unsurprisingly terrifying fourth year in law school, i turned to books in the summer vacation of 2015. Reading books, whether they were comforting romances or non-fiction that i plodded through in hopes of “improving my mind”, was a pleasure i had mostly forgotten, since hours of mindlessly watching TV shows and movies on end had reduced my attention span to levels that a two-month old baby could easily exceed. The fact that my house was brimming with relatives and my little cousins used to happily sit on my lap and fart, meant that i was desperate for a distraction.

The books i read in between June and September are not impressive in quality or quantity. This is not a post to show off how well-read I am. I read a lot of crap. I hate people who presume they’re superior or smart because they read a book and won’t shut up about it. I hate the word ‘bibliophile’ (or any word that ends with -phile). That word has been used so much, it has lost its meaning. I’m just glad i read, and i’m simply trying to articulate my experiences. I haven’t written in a long time either. So far, the last year of law school hasn’t been all that different from the last four. While my batchmates’ idea of YOLO is making spontaneous trips, mine is buying nachos, drinking Tang and watching 30 Rock for the fifth time. Crazy, huh? I am bored, and everyone must know that i am bored. So feel free to close this tab and catch up with The Walking Dead or whatever.

Off to an ambitious start, i began with the classic ‘Lord of the Flies’ by William Golding. While i liked the premise of the book, somehow i lost interest very soon. (Was it the other bright, shiny, colourful apps on the iPad? Was it the fact that i was home for the holidays and stuffing my face with home-made pizza? Guess we’ll never know.) The next was then-bestseller ‘The Girl on the Train’ by Paula Hawkins. Hot on the trail of flawed female protagonists à la Amy Dunne from Gillian Flynn’s ‘Gone Girl’ (plug: see my previous post on the book and the movie), this thriller was lauded for its pace and depiction of the jilted, alcoholic ex-wife who pries too much. I am clearly in the minority here, because i found the book extremely slow for a thriller, since the protagonist spends much of her time simply conjecturing what might have happened, while the plot doesn’t really move forward. I lost my patience with the book soon, and gave up midway.

Now it must be known that ‘Pride and Prejudice’ was the first real novel i ever read, and that has pretty much defined what i now read or watch. So to fill this void of a satisfying romantic comedy, i next decided to read ‘The Zoya Factor’ by Anuja Chauhan, the ad-woman behind the Pepsi, Lays and Kurkure ads that everyone remembers. I had wanted to read this book for ages, and boy, was i entertained! Once i came back to college, i read ‘Those Pricey Thakur Girls’ and ‘The House That BJ Built’ too, lapping them all up in the space of a few hours. I read greedily, following the romantic misadventures of the clueless heroines of these novels, as they sparred with their drool-worthy heroes. What i love about Anuja Chauhan is her grip on North India’s language (see ‘incomepoop’) and customs, her knee-weakening descriptions of the fairytale heroes, and just how nice everyone is. Once in a while, it’s very comforting to read an unpretentious romance which makes you giggle like a twelve year-old girl. There is a very typical, north Indian twang to the English she writes in. Little things struck a chord with me, like the family gathered together to watch award shows on TV with home-made aloo tikki burgers and cold-coffee, the taste of mangoes when cut with an onion-knife, masala Maggi for Sunday breakfast with lots of peas (crying while typing this today), the night-markets in our towns, neighbours who came over for endless cups of tea, marie biscuits and gossip, sitting on the verandah in the winter sun. (Did you notice all my memories are food-related? Yeah.) My favourite was ‘Those Pricey Thakur Girls’, not least because of the swoon-worthy Dylan Singh Shekhawat. Half of my excitement for the Jaipur Literature Fest 2016 is for Stephen Fry, and the other half is for Anuja Chauhan. Can’t wait!

Continuing this streak, David Nicholls’ ‘One Day’ was similarly consumed within three days. Think of this book as a When Harry Met Sally… set in 90s Britain, with excursions to Greece and Paris. The book is funny and endearing, and the dialogue is sparkly and witty. Looking forward to reading ‘Us’ by the same author, which i hear is even better. I didn’t know that Nicholls is also the author of ‘Starter for Ten’, whose film adaptation i quite like. As for ‘One Day’s film adaptation, the same can be safely skipped. Though very pretty-looking, the film lacks the spark and charm of the source novel.

I found myself in Bombay in July, and realised that i really, truly hate the city. I choose Delhi. Yes, you need to get home by 8 PM, but i like open spaces, real north Indian food, the momos and egg-rolls and aloo-tikkis, the greenery, shopping and haggling at Sarojini Nagar, proper winters, the beauty that is the Delhi Metro, and getting my money’s worth. No offence to Bombay-ites, of course. Anyhow, i bought second-hand books at the Flora Fountain market on my last day in Bombay, then shot off to Theobroma’s for cheesecake, and walked to this tiny place called Alps for a beer. (I’m sorry i’m describing food again. I’m very hungry right now.) That day was nice and quiet and one of the best i had in the city.

From the purchases at Flora Fountain, i read Upamanyu Chatterjee’s ‘English, August’ first. The tale of an urban young IAS recruit banished to the small, fictional town of Madna, the only parts of the book that resonated with me were the protagonist’s frustration, disillusionment, displacement and his sole desire to remain indolent. When i read a novel, i like reading about characters i can admire. Sadly, that didn’t happen. Next was Pankaj Mishra’s ‘The Romantics’. Another tale of a young man wishing to find himself on the ghats of Banaras while in the middle of an infatuation with a French woman and student politics, this book seemed to be written solely for foreigners who wanted to read about other foreigners in India. I agree that he writes very well, especially when he describes the scenes and sounds of the holy city, but i didn’t feel invested in whether or not the protagonist really found his true purpose. This book was also dropped halfway through.

Slightly unhappy with these two books, i returned to old comforts; comedian Tina Fey’s hilarious memoir ‘Bossypants’, and the classic ‘Gone With The Wind’. ‘Bossypants’ is too funny to put down for a second, and makes for great re-reads. I love 30 Rock and Liz Lemon, and true to form, Tina Fey is on fire in every line of the book, dispensing advice on how to handle growing up, beauty, family, work and success with a sense of humour and a pinch of salt. Sample this – “Some people say, “Never let them see you cry.” I say, if you’re so mad you could just cry, then cry. It terrifies everyone.”

I revisited Margaret Mitchell’s gold standard of romances ‘Gone With The Wind’ too. How rich and satisfying is this book? I remember reading this tome and Vikram Seth’s ‘A Suitable Boy’ back-to-back over the course of one set of pre-board exams in class XII, and did not regret scoring miserably in those exams for one second. This magnum opus traces Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler’s story across the American Civil War, and delves deep into the other characters’ lives as well, fleshing them out with rich detail. Scarlett is not a likable character, but she is an admirable one. Rhett Butler is the original man, and men like him are not made anymore. The book has one of the best endings i have read, and you know that it is the right one. It’s just perfect, and everytime i re-read it, i discover a new depth to the characters that i hadn’t noticed before. Hey, there’s a reason this book is a classic, and why its appeal continues over generations.

From my early introduction to O. Henry, Guy de Maupassant, Saki and most notably, Roald Dahl’s short stories, i have admired writers for spinning a memorable tale over just a few pages. So i quite enjoyed Jhumpa Lahiri’s Pulitzer Prize-winning ‘Interpreter of Maladies’, a collection of stories about Bengalis living and adapting abroad. I read her other collection of short stories ‘Unaccustomed Earth’ such a long time ago, that i can’t remember it well enough to compare the two. I read ‘The Namesake’ while still in school, so i couldn’t appreciate her writing as much back then. The film based on the novel is poignant and beautiful. There is a serenity to Lahiri’s writing in ‘Interpreter of Maladies’, which belies the emotional turbulence her characters are going through. These stories of struggling to adapt in alien lands while pining for home, are universal, because themes of nostalgia, survival and forging your identity are common to us all.

I haven’t taken to modern authors that well. I guess it’s because i started reading with the classics, and i like novels with well-plotted stories and rich characters. I enjoy good dialogue and sharp writing. Stories where i can relate to a character’s struggle when faced with a dilemma, stay with me long after the book has ended. Understanding how characters think and what drives their actions and reactions to certain events in the story is why i continue reading a story. I want to read about characters i can admire (if not emulate). I want a story that i can carry with me, and revisit that place and time when i read the story first, again and again. This quote by Alan Bennett sums up the pleasures of the written word best:

“The best moments in reading are when you come across something – a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things – which you had thought special and particular to you. Now here it is, set down by someone else, a person you have never met, someone even who is long dead. And it is as if a hand has come out and taken yours.”

… which reinforces my suspicion that literally everything that we do is to find a reflection of ourselves in someone else.

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What is a trip to Bombay without a surreal moviegoing experience?


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Ever since i heard about Deepak Talkies in Bombay, a colonial-era theatre renovated by Matterden Center for Films and Creation and bringing back the charm of black-and-white cinema to present-day audiences, i was quite set on catching a movie there. The dream actually, was to watch Casablanca or Roman Holiday. Nevertheless, when the opportunity to watch Alfred Hitchcock’s Best Picture Oscar-nominated Foreign Correspondent (1940) presented itself, i decided to seize it (despite waking up from my customary Saturday sleep-in barely an hour before the show was due to start.) Although i was fifteen minutes late for the movie, the whole experience of watching an ‘old movie’ was worth it.

Foreign Correspondent, one of the first two films the inimitable Master of Suspense made after crossing the pond, was one of his two films to be nominated in the same year for an Academy Award in the Best Picture category, the other being the classic Rebecca. As one of Hitchcock’s first films, his predominant theme (and fear) of a man being accused of a crime he didn’t commit, certain scenes which would inspire Vertigo‘s climactic scenes, and the sexual innuendo in every dialogue exchanged between the romantic leads, all find their origins in this film. Notably, his trademark personal appearance in the film is missing here. While i didn’t find the film too satisfying plot-wise, Hitchcock’s dry yet delicious sense of humour keeps your attention riveted. George Sanders, whose face i remembered from All About Eve, surpasses all his colleagues in his turn as Scott ffolliott (i have not misspelled the name). As you watch Joel McCrea in the lead as a rookie journalist caught in an international conspiracy, you can’t help but wonder the kind of horsepower Humphrey Bogart would’ve brought to the role. The film is littered with the auteur’s typical visual touches, and is interesting if one wishes to trace and identify Hitchcock’s influences.

* * *

What completely mesmerised me, was watching a matinée show, sitting farthest from the screen, feet propped up on the seat in front, right under the projector’s beam, away from the hustle and bustle of the city. For ceremony’s sake, i even put my hand in the projector’s beam, to see its shadow on the screen. My shadow on the big screen! In that sea of humanity, to find an island of peace, to forget your pressing troubles if only for two hours, to feel one with ‘all those wonderful people out there in the dark’, maybe even with those people who must have watched films like this decades ago, is quite something. That is the magic and the charm of a black-and-white film. While watching a film, the entire audience unites in one emotion, together. If that is not a connection, what is?

* * *

Blame this on my tendency to attach overarching, transcendental meaning to superfluous, inconsequential instances, but for some reason, i felt that i could connect this with my overall impression of Bombay. Due to its roots as a major port, the capital of trade, a hub of power, and its colonial roots as a Presidency town, the city is dotted with regal-looking British architecture. With exposed brick, antique balcony grilles and peeling paint, these quaint buildings lend a vintage feel to the city. (Despite our hatred of the Britishers, i think that we Indians really do admire and emulate our pukka sahib rulers, even today.) ‘Retro-hip’ is probably one way i could try to describe the general vibe of the city.

As someone from a small town, in the four short weeks that i spent here, Bombay has been a roller-coaster ride. This is a city that swallows you up ruthlessly, takes you in, and leaves you to figure it out and fend for yourself. Bombay is heady, potent, strange, bewildering, untameable, unyielding and, at least for me, one like none another. Here, extremes coexist, the richest and the poorest man walk together, the old melds seamlessly with the new. An air of desperation, of things moving fast, oh-so-fast, is omnipresent. Big cities have a way of making you feel so grown-up one moment, and so small, so lost in the crowd the next. You are all alone, yet you don’t escape the specie for a single moment.

For me, Bombay is a trippy blur of speeding cars, the tranquil waves of the Arabian Sea flanking a sleepless city, the distinct spit-stained, rusted old metal of the local trains, the skin-permeating stink of fish, the constant honking of vehicles, people jogging with their dogs along Marine Drive on Sunday evenings, the sweet smell of alcohol and tobacco wafting out from one of the many establishments, hawkers selling and yelling their wares, the glitter of trinkets along Colaba Causeway, crowds constantly rushing somewhere, the solo strolls along the cobbled streets of Fort; all seen through black-tinted Lennon glasses.

Just like in a movie theatre, Bombay lets you find yourself in the anonymity of a crowd.

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