There’s big easy on the menu

time 'codding to me, that's attacking the food

first course - souped up bikes

Much inspired by the knife@ http://finelychopped-k.blogspot.com/, I carried my camera to the new Cafe Goa. There seems to be a sudden spurt in Goa eateries around Bandra. The other day I tried some Goan sausages and pao from the place near Khar station. And it was pretty decent. Almost as good as A. Almost being the operative word!

Anyway back to Cafe Goa. It’s opened where Trafalgar Chowk used to be. I liked it for the nice-and-easy feeling. It’s chilled out, the furniture is polished old looking wood, the music is from my time (they just stopped short of playing Do-the-locomotion) and the owners have a pleasant vibe.

Actually since we’re talking about the owners. There is the Voice and the Mac Boy. The Voice does professional voice over’s and talks like the red light’s just come on outside the studio door. But he’s pleasant, even on the eye! Yeah, all the girls that night were a bit pop eyed when he was talking to them, and it wasn’t just the beer.

The Mac Boy is a typical Bandra Boy. We were standing outside staring at some super souped up bikes, when he started chatting with us. Apparently, he used to customise bikes as a hobby. Now he runs an event company, and Cafe Goa.

And oh ya, the food.

We ordered chicken wings. The chicken eaters declared they were good. The vegetarians gave the cheese poppers and the Panjim Potatoes (rather obscene name what) a thumbs up. I tried the Panjim Potatoes myself, and boy they were good, cooked in their own jackets, warm and a happy carb high.

But the piece de resistance was the deep sea cod. It was done to perfection, not too masalaed, and crunchy from the top, fleshy from the inside. And yes, you could taste the deep sea in it.

So maybe, the thing to do in Cafe Goa is try the sea food. They did try selling us the crabs, but no one was in the mood. Though I suspect, the food here is incidental. It’s a place to chill, munch some, drink some and laugh a lot.

And yeah, the first time we wound up from Cafe Goa, we ended up ringing people’s doorbells and running for our lives. (yeah Mentalie!) Which I haven’t done since I was five. Maybe that’s why I’ll go back to CG.

I like feeling young again!

Cafe Goa is at Agnelo Bldg, Off St John Baptist Road, Bandra West. If that sounds like Greek, go straight past Salt Water Cafe at reclamation. Do not take the right at the Barista, go straight. And then after about ten yards ask someone where is John Baptist Road, and sort of walk about till you find Cafe Goa. Or better still call them at 26404115, 26459151, and they’ll explain it to you. And I don’t remember how much it costs. When you call them for directions, just ask them the prices too. And...they do home delivery.

somedays i don't make much sense

I like what I’m wearing to work today.

The top makes me look real good. It adds to parts that need adding (yippee), and skims parts that don't.

Tra la la. It’s nice to come to work dressed killer for a change. Not that there’s anyone worth dressing killer for in office. But still.

That’s the thing. I don’t get those who say but why should we dress for men. What bullshit I say. Of course they also say that you should dress for your own self. Huh? Hogshit!

If I was dressing for myself, it would be a disaster. I wouldn’t bother. Really, why match, why accessorize, why put on make up, why wax…why bother. There’s only you who’s gonna see it. It’s a pretty stupid argument.

And as far as dressing for men is concerned, if it’s of any help I also dress for women. I mean women notice faster. They are more difficult to get compliments out of. And if they do, you know it’s because they really mean it, not because they are hoping to stick their tongue in your ear. Not that all men who compliment you are…but well, men don’t just notice the finer things do they?

They’ll just say, “Wow, you’re looking good.” Whereas a woman would say, “ Wow, that shade of lipstick is fantastic. Where did you get it?” whereby, you can lie and then feel smug that you’ll have something she isn’t going to get... not now at least.

I’m not a nice person.

Anyway, then there’s this thing I noticed today. That I stare more at women than at men. No, really. It’s because I’m trying to see Oh nice shoes, What jeans are those, Oh why is she carrying that sucky bag with that nice dress, Hmm…wonder where she cuts her hair.

Even if the world’s most hot looking guy came and hit me on the head, I probably wouldn’t notice. Because I’ll be looking at the girl with him and thinking, “Are those from Promod…is the sale still on?”

Whew. At least I don’t do that with my girlfriends. Because if I did, I wouldn’t have noticed Farhan Akhtar when S &I were going for our yoga class yesterday.

He was in his car. And the weird thing is he was laughing, head tilted at an angle and looking like a poster of himself at 6.45 in the morning. And there was no one else in the car. I’m thinking, boy, he’s strange. How can he look so perfect, smile and hair intact, head at an angle, full on pose look at this unearthly hour in the morning?

What if he’s always looks like that? Brushes his teeth, grin in place, head at an angle. Poops, grin in place, head at an angle. Drives, grin in place, head at an angle. What if he is Ken?

Bring on the impossible high heels. I’m gonna be Barbie!
By the way I wrote this post with my grin intact, and my head at an angle.

a post in six parts

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BBC bashing

There’s a BBC list of books doing the rounds. The condescending bastards have said that most people would have only read 6 of the 100 books that made the list.

Which of course is the reason why people have been furiously circulating the list, and declaring that they’ve read most of them. 70 percent toh first division and all that.

I went through the list and here are my questions to those know it all folks at BBC.

 

Question 1. Ulysses by James Joyce? Are you kidding me? You mean someone has actually read this book? Like completed it, cover to cover? Not skipped pages, not gone straight from page 5 to page 780? Not fallen down, with glazed eye and numb brain syndrome.

Well, if there is such a person, I’d like to suggest optional jobs for them. A) Proof checker of medieval Indian history textbooks from class 5^th to class 10^th.  B) Curator of national gallery of government gazettes published circa 1875. C) Pratibha Patil’s best friend.

Question 2: Inferno by Dante? The burning question is where would you read this book? If you read it on the pot, it could lead to you falling asleep and the bathroom door having to be broken open, leading to a hellish experience where you are caught with your pants down by the carpenter and your pervert neighbour.  If you read it on holiday, well, all I say is you probably holiday in Meerut Station. Hell, this is the only prescribed cure for insomnia. Why would someone put it on a list and have thousands of unsuspecting people who look up to the BBC falling asleep like dead flies.

Question 3: The bible. The bible? The bible?? Why? Since when did the BBC join the convert the heathens programme?  Good Lord.

However I am willing to forgive those arrogant folks at BBC only because they have added my all time favourite book to the list. It’s called A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole.

By the way, the purpose of these lists is to make the person reading it feel smug if they’ve covered most books in the list. So if you haven’t read A Confederacy of Dunces, in my smuggest possible tone, let me suggest that you do.  

Till then let me raid a bookshop for Wuthering Heights. I had it as part of my syllabus in class twelfth. And the only good thing about it was the yummy looking man on the cover.  

The Bronte babes are pretty over hyped if you ask me. Old fashioned dithering ladies. Anyway let me give it a shot again. If you find a car, with the driver asleep at the wheel, you’ll know where to find me then.

 

yeah. it was money that drove us apart.

He is balding, exceedingly well dressed, and given to laughing in an abrupt shriek.

And he is also extremely suspicious of me.

And I find myself nervously waiting for him tonight. Wondering if as usual I’ll let him down. Or will he be happy when I produce my last year’s Form 16 A with the flourish of a child whose showing her father a report card full of A’s.

He calls. My heart lurches.

“ I’m sending N. I’d also like you to know that N will be handling your case from now.  I will be there in the background, but N will be your contact person.”

My heart sinks to my bangkok chappals. I know what it means. My CA has finally declared open war on me.

It started with the incredulous looks he used to give me.

“ What you lost your form 16? The duplicate copy?”

Then the way he recoiled with horror.

“ You have not made any entries in your cheque book? Not even a single one?” (at this point he dropped his head in to his hands)

Next we proceeded to cold looks.

“ See, without your co-operation it’s like trying to navigate a ship with the help of a camel.”

The fact that I burst out laughing and told him I had also lost my pan card, probably only added to the strain in our relationship.

Of course, I never thought it would come to this. That he would ignore me. And then, just pass me off like some discarded housing society file to N.

It hurt.  But at 10.30 pm on 30^th march, as N chases me to my house to sign my tax return, I suspect our relationship is now beyond repair.

My CA secretly wants to dump me.

my yellow submarine

when you think of a city, specially one inhabitated by a million people, you think of it in colours of smog, pollution, dust.

sweat, hurry, vertical towers, they all have a shade card in my head, that's restricted to dull brown and murky grey.

yet, i find so much colour when i look away from the picture that crowds, local trains, no time to look up at the sky present.

the vegetable stalls that line the roads at khar. i can never pass them without wanting to stop and stare. or breathe deeply. or reach out and sink my hand into the wet sack cloth under which the vegetables gleam.

i've never been inclined towards the taste of red radish. but i can never resist them because i love the way they look. shy, and pink, and young. like a bunch of friends giggling together. then there are the brinjals. shaped like my happy punjabi relatives and clothed in soothing purple kaftans. like they're just back from a satsang with a trippy maharishi. and the springhtly ladies fingers or good old bhindis. fresh green and like PT Usha. Bhindis always look like they are fit and fresh enough to win a 100 meter race.

of course i just love the saag section. all jumbled and entanged. different shades of green, different textures. and once in a while the lal saag that's actually a combination of pink and red, peeks through the jumble.

the spring onions, with juicy stalks, white merging into lushious green. a cut pumpkin, revealing it's orange insides. the fat tomatoes resting on each other, red and confused. the yellow-white cauliflower like giant alice in wonderland flowers.

my,

i get high

just staring at vegetables.

moral of the story: people are weird!

you are invited.

have tried to combine my favourite things - nostalgia, vela giri and design.

and voila.. here's my second blog. it's called dhinchakdesign.blogspot.com.

if you have the time please drop by, and tell me what you think.

dhayawad and all that.

the persistent pursuit of trivial things

Watch MTV roadies auditions.

They are super entertainment, especially for voyeuristic junkies like me. That apart, I’m figuring out that the difference between my youth, and the youth of today, is fame.

Yeah, they will do anything for it. Raghu, the hot guy who’s thought up the show is the guy who interviews these poor suckers. And he thrives on insulting them. You loser. You asshole. Dance for me. You’re a fucking bore. Take off your shirt. You call that a body?

Oh man, it goes on and on. And they just take it. Because they all want the fame. The camera on their face.

I’ve been thinking if anyone I knew in college would take this kind of stuff. Nope. Don’t think so. Maybe we just didn’t know what a high fame can be.

But ya, more than the music, the language, the clothes, the ambition, it’s the hunger for fame that’s been added to the equation.

And oh, the new GQ (not the Indian one), is fantastic. It’s the celebrating 20 years issue and I’ve been trying to finish reading it for the last one week. But it just will not get over.

It’s got interviews with Tony Blair. The Oasis boys. David Lynch. David Beckham. Andrew Flintoff. Eminem. Sir Alex Fergusson. And yoo hoo, Jack Nicholson.

Get your hands on it. If you don’t have to buy it, and can flick it from a friend or office, even better.

And I shall sign off with three things you should know (all dug out from the said GQ)

1.
By 2008 annual production of Havaianas had reached 105 million pairs, with five pairs being manufactured every second.

Well, that’s quite a feet eh?

2.
By controlling the enzyme regulating blood supply, the key ingredient (sildenafil citrate) enabled anyone to have sex for up to four hours. That’s how Viagra works.

Uh... actually I’m sorry I’m late...it was the damn traffic.

3.
Youporn. The youtube of porn. All free, all shaky digicam real!

Hey...why does your fiance look so familiar? Where have I seen him ya?

quantums of sula

So last evening i get a call from z. She tells me “want to do something crazy tonight.”

Now that’s always a great way of getting my attention. So of course i immediately agree. Turns out my instincts are sharp because the crazy thing includes free booze, free food, total timepass and a party where i will not know anyone.

Nothing tops my favourite list like “not know anyone”. I don’t know about you, but i have this thing for parties where i will not know people. Always thrilling. Always brimming with possibilities. Never give your real name. Never state your correct occupation. Talk to only those whose faces you like. No boring polite conversation only because tomorrow you will feel bad that i ignored you. And best of all, you can keep bumming cigarettes off strangers without having to worry about them doing the same to you later.

Anyway so then B calls. And I relay the news to him. He decides to join us too.

The party is being hosted in a lounge bar by the sea. It’s by a company that’s having this splash out james bond party for its super exclusive customers. And the girl who’s invite we are piling on to, only knows z. The stage is set for madness.

Needless to say we are the life of the party. We drink like a small lake between us. I, who have been off alcohol, start with rose, move to white wine and then sometime much later realise I’m drinking the red stuff. We storm the gambling tables. We cadge cigarettes off people. We comment on everyone’s clothes, boobs and wigs.

And then we hit the dance floor.

Well, I’m sure the party was a success. And I was very drunk. Because at some point when I was pleading with the DJ to play “one shong, one laast shong”, some strange men came up to me and said, “ Thank you for the danshing!”

They thought we were being paid to do all that stuff.

Damn. I have a new career.

(PS: too hung-over to tell you guys about the characters at the party. That shall be my next post. Mr ill fitting wig man, Miss can’t keep your boobs in your shirt, Miss nice skirt from lokhandwala, Mr airline guy who’s wearing a feather boa across his neck. And Miss is that a man or a woman! And they thought we were being paid to entertain them???!!!)

damn fool things

or things we can do away with.

1. the indian judiciary.

raj walks away scot free yet again. they can't muzzle him, they can't arrest him. in case you didn't notice we live in a lawless nation.

2. the jumbled words that appear when you write on someone's comment page on a blog.

you have to fill your email id. or your blogger one. you have to type your password in. so then what's the point of having those strange alphabets that a dyslexic like me takes 15 minutes and six trys getting right. this is even when i stick my tongue out and go pop eyed with concentration.

3. hair. on the legs.

i'm sick of waiting for them to grow to a reasonable length before i can wax them, without pulling off some skin. i'm tired of waiting, sometimes for weeks. always having to wear full length stuff. because my hair refuses to co operate. i'm fed up of finally getting sick and tired of the whole thing and using the razor. yuck. i hate bristles.

4. charging.

duhhh. this is when we're cloning stuff and sending random folks to the moon. but guess what you still need to charge your phone and laptop. and if you are like me, who hates putting plug to point, then welcome to the land of beep beep hell. because every time you really need the phone or the laptop, the battery is blinking at you like an evil eyed monster. why? is it that tough to create a phone that charges using the sun or water or my breath or something.

please add shops where you have to show the bill when you are on your way out. this is specially true when your arms are weighted down by bags, and all the bored man at the door wants to do is stamp the bill. for reasons totally unkown to mankind.

there. i feel better for now.

so happy diwali. oooh....also add those mass forward happy whatever messages. darn stupid people who send those darn stupid things.

well, you know who's not getting any messages this year then : )

xs, s, m, l, xl, xxl

i went to the mall today. and i suffered from mall glaze.

it's the state of too many things. clothes. shoes. underwear. underwire. tops. tie ups. someone stop this madness.

really, does this happen to you? you walk in feeling like a kid in a candy store, and half an hour later you're feeling slightly sick and disoriented. like you just ate up half the store.

how many things can you try? how many times can you pull your jeans off? how many things can you lug around in that tie up basket? how many racks can you tug and pull at?

this is what happens to me. after a while i start feeling hypnotised. then everything starts to look the same. then i don't know which aisle to head towards. then suddenly, i don't even know what i was looking for in the first place. then my arms start to ache. then it feels like "why are they playing such loud music.". then finally i realise after four hours all i've got in my basket is a stupid T-shirt.

okay. so maybe it's not that bad. but the point is it very nearly is.

because i'm a child of limited choice. when i was growing up there was just one shop, with one surly shopkeeper. everything was packed in cardboard cases. and everything seemed frightfully expensive. so you tentatively pointed to two, or at the most (gasp, you bold thing) three things. surly showed them to you, you tried them, and that was it. puja/diwali/birthday shopping over.

the only place your eyes threatened to glaze over, was in the sari shop. i remember dreading being dragged on those expeditions with my mom and her sisters. but even that was civilised. once the shopkeeper had sized you up, you were offered bar stool like chairs, cold drinks and water in steel glasses magically appeared, while the obliging salesmen draped themselves in sari after sari.

it was like a fashion show, in drag.

there were other options too. like tailors. so you carried across your cloth or cut piece, usually a birthday gift. and then you pored over patterns and designs. my mom's tailor used to get second hand catalogues from abroad. no wonder i spent most of my growing up wearing prissy high neck blouses with lace and ribbon. like an old british maid. still, it was a world of limited choices. because my mom made all the decisions, the only thing i could choose was the cold drink i could have at the tailors - rasna or campa cola. actually even then my mom would have the last choice, " No ice."

whew. never thought i'd say this. but if i see my mom's tailor now, i'd probably run to him and throw my arms around him, and say, " from tomorrow you will be my shoppers stop, my pantaloon, my inorbit, my oberoi mall, my hypercity....."

booked and hooked

you know that happy feeling? the one when you think okay, i'm still the same. i'm me.

i got that feeling today. found a book, i couldn't put down. ate with it in front of me on the breakfast table. fought the urge to bunk work so i could just loll on the red futon with my legs on the window sill, while i devoured it. had to resist the urge because the red futon lies all rolled out. damn.

took a cab to work. only so i could read the book. kept going to the loo at work, so i could sit on the pot, seat and lid down and read my book. read my book at lunch time. read my book between meetings.

flung myself on the bed and started reading, as soon as i walked in home. and now...just when the murderer is going to be revealed i'm dillydallying. prolonging the moment. pretending i have better things to do. looking for chocolate all over the fridge. sipping water slowly.

and just when it gets too much, like i'm going to burst, which is right about now, i'll jump back into bed and grab that book!

hundred bucks to get high

i just got back from the matinee show of rock on.

i liked the movie. inspite of the predictable storyline. and the obvious resemblance to dil chahta hai. really, in the end, i was hoping they would do something different. anything. like the band gets electrocuted during the final performance. or arjun rampal would get too close to one of the blower fans that were so obviously positioned to make his hair fly. i was hoping his head would get sucked in. and instead of us sobbing over luke kenny, it would be arjun we'd be sad to see go.

but alas, no such luck. though it wasn't that bad. farhan akhtar has hot. steaming hot. so that kind of made up for the thin storyline.

the other good thing was i came out of the movie hall bouncing. now i don't know if that happens to you. but if i see a movie about rock bands, i want to come out, shake my curls, move my head and jump up and down.

i want to leap on to a stage, or even the top of a car, and burst into song. the auto feels like a packed stadium. my elevator feels like a rehearsal hall. and i want to curl my lips, throw my fist into the air, tear through a riff ....

get the drift?

it happens to me all the time. if i watch a movie about racing, i'm dying to get into a car and drive fast. everything feels good. the electric lamps, the snaking roads, i can feel the pedal under my feet, the wheel in my hands.

if its an action movie, i kid you not. i want to jump across aisles. hurl my self off stairs, leap across cars, skid down the hall.

maybe i'm crazy. because this lasts for about two hours after the movie, sometimes even a whole evening or day.

maybe it happens to everyone. does it?