Understanding Mr Kapoor

“There is in every madman a misunderstood genius whose idea, shining in his head, frightened people, and for whom delirium was the only solution to the strangulation that life had prepared for him”
Antonin Artaud

How does one define genius? An individual who doesn’t speak the language of the ordinary, someone whose vision defies stereotypes. Who decides the extraordinary? A bunch of book critics...art gallery owners…stuffy academicians! In a society that enshrines the ordinary, how does one understand a person whose vision is beyond the scope of the ordinary? It takes another man of exceptional capability, to appreciate and fathom a genius. A painter who unleashes his soul on the canvas, a scientist who challenges the conventional, the actor who refuses to compromise, musicians who strike an unknown note… Isaac Asimov, Sylvia Plath, Joyce, Kafka, Bach….the examples are far too many.

Stories of individuals who lived a misunderstood, tortured life, battling polarized opinions and dying in penury. Their work discovered and celebrated later – recognition earned posthumously. It took a Salieri to understand Mozart (and Salieri was Mozart’s most bitter rival). Did you know Einstein won the Nobel not for his path-breaking theory of relativity but for his little known photoelectric effect? Why? Because at that point of time it was beyond the comprehension of many – only two fellow scientists Silberstein and Eddington, understood its far-reaching potential. Ironic isn’t it?

I was going to witness the work of a maverick artiste – revered as God by many and labeled pretentious by a few. It is tough to define Anish Kapoor – an architect, a sculptor extraordinaire, an installation artiste. Hailed as one of the most influential sculptors of his generation, he is unfortunately mostly unknown in the country of his origin. I hadn’t heard of him, till he was invited to exhibit some his iconic work in the cities of Mumbai and Delhi.

It takes time to warm up to Mr Kapoor’s works – you don’t start oohing and aahing instantly. Just like the movie “Inception” where you took twenty minutes before you even started grasping Nolan’s world of dreams within dreams. Anish Kapoor dwarfs you with his vision, it’s so expansive. His architecture defies convention – a foot bridge that looks like a bubble, a subway built like a large bulbous organism suddenly breaking into a void, spirals of nothingness. His work transcends architecture, sculpture and art. A void bored into a mountain, sculpture that blends fabrics with steel, a gigantic foghorn sitting on a coastline. Each piece taunts you with its absurdity. He presents his interpretation of universe through his gigantic pieces. His shapes evoke images of the human body. Illusion is central to his work.

The Big-O Crisis

Pic courtesy:Ifood.TV

The Big-O crisis has sent the Indian junta into a tizzy. The hottest topic of debate, our netas are raising hell over it (Wireless Radia can heave a sigh of relief). CNN-IBN reporters have shifted bag and baggage to mandis, not for their new-found love for subzi but to clandestinely film seedy hoarders spilling the beans. The Onion is now breaking news. It has made Sharad Pawarless.

The great Indian leveler, the most egalitarian of vegetables – the onion is sought after by Aam Admi to Ambani . Every palate craves for it, unless you have renounced the world. Our kitchens whisper softly into its pink glistening skin …you complete me. The poor peasants’ meal is incomplete without a bite of the pungent bulb. It adds chutzpah, that crunchy zing to our meal. Of course the wicked veggie it is, it is layered to bring out the tears, but do we mind?? Naah.

But these days the modest onion is bringing tears of the other kind – tears of frustration. The naughty little bulbs have been playing truant and prefer the cool comfort of dark-dank godowns. This has sent prices spiraling skywards and has raised a stink so strong that the government had to wake up and smell the onions (coffee is so passé). They have been tardy as usual, while the onion mafia is laughing all the way to the bank. Traders have been hoarding stockpiles of the smelly bulbs while the government is pottering around with ad hoc fixes. Thanks to an official missive, onions will cease to be globetrotting veggies and will be homebound till mid-January.

The onion deprivation has done a lot of good for our neighborly ties. For once we are looking forward to something from Pakistan – 40 truckloads of the humble bulbs all the way from Sindh to ease our Big-O predicament.

Inflation-hit onions have also been taking on the role of the great Indian unifier with aplomb. For once there is no north-south divide. If dosa makers down south have bid adieu to the bulb, then Mughlai chefs up north are using bread crumbs to thicken their gravies. And it has given way to some unique dishes like the Mutton no pyaaza.

Bloggers from Delhi meet-the unofficial version

I almost didn’t make it for the bloggers meet. Not that I wasn’t keen. Having read so many accounts of Indiblogger-meets, I had been waiting for the Delhi version for months. And every time I read an announcement about a new meet (even Dubai got one), I would sulk and wonder, why not Delhi?

Well it did happen, out of the blue, at such a short notice that I was far from amused. In winters we Delhites come out of our self-imposed hibernation and make the most of the weather. People eligible, ineligible get married, the city comes to life with its many exhibitions and concerts and we party like apocalypse is just round the corner. And moi goes on an overdrive inviting her long ignored friends. And it was on Saturday 18th Dec, the same day as the Indi-meet I had chosen to throw a dessert party for my close friends (yes, such a thing exists especially for people who think cooking is a mind numbing chore). I was supposed to make paatishaptas (a sweet crepe with a coconut-kheer filling). Of course the drama queen I am, I had been stressing about it for days. But my fears were not entirely unfounded, I have made this Bengali dessert precisely twice in my entire lifetime and ended up bragging about it on FB and that’s what got me in trouble. And now this meet, I so wanted to go to but couldn’t. How can I? I will be spending the entire day bumbling, fumbling in the kitchen, completely engrossed in my culinary misadventures. 

I spent the entire week apologizing profusely….to my few blogger friends from Delhi for my inability to make it (two to be precise) …. I even sent a preemptive text to my friend apologizing for my imagined culinary disaster.

It was the last minute mail from Vineet Rajan from Indiblogger that changed my mind…. Hope to see you at the Delhi blogger meet! Mom will also be there. And his Mom is none other than “Zephyr”, one of my favourite bloggers. That was it, I took back my apology notes and there I was on my way to Religare Art Gallery, the venue for the meet.

Your Weekly Dose Of Spice

These days we need scientific research to tell us how to flirt, what makes us happy, the colour of lipstick to wear to attract a man’s attention. Incredulous findings that make you almost choke on your morning cup of coffee - a bunch of good-for-nothing nerds, who will waste half their uneventful life researching and come up with path breaking findings- Women who thoroughly dust their houses have a high chance of becoming pregnant… Chewing gum can give you wrinkles around the mouth… Men crave sex even in old age and the difference is most pronounced in the 75-85 age groups….Men are programmed to have a lustful, wandering eye and have affairs.…. Having a younger man for a husband lowers your life expectancy. I am convinced these researchers are of the male variety. But it makes for fun reading and you can look up from the paper and say “Guess what they have come with now!!”

Here’s a sample of the latest findings. Money can buy you happiness, but only if you earn more than your friends. Studies have revealed that yes the rich are happier, but what matters is earning more than others and not the actual amount earned. So for the sake of your happiness people, never ever ask your friends about the digits they earn!! Better safe than sorry.

Portrait Workshop

Remember Mona Lisa’s smile – that makes you wonder whether it’s a smile or a smirk or simply a case of a pout gone wrong. It now seems there’s something wrong with her eyes as well. In what mirrors the book and Hollywood movie ‘The Da Vinci Code’, art historians claim to have uncovered a real-life Da Vinci code, after they found tiny letters painted into the eyes of the Mona Lisa. The experts examined the Mona Lisa after finding a book in an antique shop that claimed there were tiny hidden symbols in the eyes. “The question now is what do they mean?” Any guesses? But from what I’ve seen at the Louvre, one tiny painting encased behind a glass façade and a horde of Japanese clicking with wild enthusiasm, I wish the code reads it’s me you morons, Da Vinci in drag, gotcha!!

And if we are talking of Da Vinci’s Code can the Holy Grail be far behind. A new survey of online flirting by a dating website Badoo.com, claim to have found the Holy Grail of flirting. Yes, the secret is finally out -the best internet chat-up line for men to use is “You have beautiful lips”. So after you are done with playing a/s/l, a/s/l you can get down to business fast It’s safe, it’s foolproof and it’s works 99.99% times.

But one thing that’s definitely not safe and way past its expiry date is the 2,400-year-old bowl of soup, excavated from the ruins in China. Sealed in a three-legged bronze cooking pot, this culinary find was dug up from a tomb near the ancient capital of Xian by Chinese archeologists. For over 2000 years nobody touched that soup! It must have been really bad.

Let’s Give Silence A Chance

How many times have you rambled about the weather, when you had nothing better to say? I hear it around me all the time. People who love the sound of their voice, who will drone on and on filling you up with every painful detail of their life (just like my last post), how ungrateful their servants are, what an adorable creature they are. Men who can’t talk beyond their office, women who think their child is a reincarnation of Einstein.

Those of you, who read my posts regularly, might have assumed that I love talking. I was a bubbly, talkative kid, a nightmare for most of my teachers. I still am a people’s person and a sparkling conversation makes my spirit soar. Unfortunately with age and experience, I have become picky. I am quick to pick on vibes and clam up the moment I sense negativity. I can light up like a 100 watt bulb and flicker uncertainly - I can sit in a crowded room and still feel alone.

Have you noticed people who talk too much are mostly poor listeners? A family acquaintance who can talk non-stop detailing his experience with the carpenter and the intricacies of his new door, a friend who uses you as a sounding board to vent her miseries, a colleague who loves giving minute to minute details of her latest shopping expedition. And the moment you open your mouth to say something about your inconsequential life, their eyes glaze over. And I can’t help but think of this classic line from Jab We Met...”Mein apni sabse favourite hoon”. But even if many of us have a lifelong affair with ourselves, we are terribly afraid of our own company. So afraid to sit alone in a cafe, uncomfortable at the thought of going out for a movie alone. What will people think? Will they feel sorry for me? At home alone, we are afraid at the prospect of having nothing to do. Emptiness scares us, loneliness intimidates us. Is it why we are terrified of old age?

It is during these times our avocations come to our rescue. Remember that rainy day, when you were forced to stay indoors. How you took shook off dust from your long forgotten stamp collection album and smiled wistfully as you leafed through the pages. Running your hands lovingly over the stamps, each with its own unique story. Pulling out that musty smelling book from the shelf and reliving your first flush of romance. That’s why it’s so important to have hobbies ; it is the best gift you can give yourself. Unfortunately we have too many distractions vying for our attention. The television, the internet, the DVD player, the phone you can’t live without. It’s as if we dread being alone with our thoughts.

Excuse me while I ramble

The last few weeks left me breathless, gasping for time. My soulmate – my cook went off for two months for her annual vacation leaving me with anxiety pangs and petulant desolation. Her replacement was a nightmare, someone who couldn’t differentiate cumin from aniseed and looked at the pressure cooker as if it were a UFO.

I also had relatives over for a short stay. And when you have visiting relatives, you can’t get away with shortcuts. You are expected to cook proper meals and put on your best behaviour. I remember as a child, how I excited I would be every time we had our gaggle of relatives visiting us during the summer break. I would be in a fevered state of anticipation of the good times ahead and thought Maa was a big spoilsport with her concern for all that extra work. How drastically your perspective changes with age – now it’s me who frets about the extra effort and the infringement of my valued personal space.

This series of unprecedented events also coincided with me enrolling for yoga class, besides my regular workouts at the gym. My cleaning lady in her endeavour to further spice things up decided she needed a break too. It was harrowing – piles of unwashed utensils, spending most of my day in the kitchen cooking while my trainee cook looked on. And I wasn’t willing to compromise on anything. I had to attend my yoga classes, household chores couldn’t take a backseat either and I didn’t want to give up on my blogging. For me writing a post is not about switching on my computer, thrashing the keyboard and magically producing a post. I do get my bursts of spontaneity but most of the times my write-ups, especially the memoirs, are a labour of love. Sometimes I spend days working and reworking my articles.

Stranger than fiction

We are living in strange times.

Image courtesy: Toonpool.com

A group of villagers from Shahbarsa UP, tired of the inept ways of their village heads made a local beggar Narayan Nat, apply for the post of Village Pradhan. He was elected to the post last month. Although Nat is entitled to a Rs 1500 honorarium, he is no mood to quit his “family business” of begging. He now has people lined up, waiting politely for their turn, who not only drop coins in his palm, but also get their problems addressed. A village head, who begs to differ.

Definitely more honourable than stealing. Neera Yadav, former Chief Secretary UP is fast emerging the new age feminist. Why should only men be corrupt, what they can do I can do better. Close on the heels of Raja of scams, comes the Maharani of scams. The lady in question has caused a loss of 5000 crores to state exchequer, thanks to her large scale bungling in land allotment during her tenure as Chairperson of Noida. She has many other unique distinctions to her credit. During her 25 years of service, she was one of the most corrupt officers of the UP cadre. So much so, that the IAS association voted her as the corrupt bureaucrat No. 1. Last heard David Dhawan was trying to ink a deal with Neera Devi.

The Unbong Bong

I think I look like a Bengali even though I don’t have the trademark lush, long hair and am not exactly doe eyed. I definitely don’t sound like one. And no, I never wear a red bordered sari and don’t get into paroxysms every time I hear Robindro Shongeet. Sometimes people are surprised when they come to know I am from the cultural hotpot of the East.

I am a “Probashee Bangalee” which translated means a Bengali who has never lived in Bengal. As a Bengali born and brought up in Punjabified- Delhi, where people think India begins and ends with North India, I am often confronted with stereotypes. People assume all of us were born clutching a fish and have it morning, noon and night. The Bhadrolok’s love for fish is legendary but unfortunately I am not one of them. Neither am I a big fan of rice. My unconventional preferences made my Mum fret incessantly. She would often prophesize doom for me – what will happen to you if you get married into a conventional Kolkata family! Well, I did get married to a true blue bong who loves his fish as much as he does his Strauss but don’t startling contrasts make the best unions?

Although I love Kolkata, a city that has a soft corner for its three eph’s - Phish, phootball and phriends, where it’s diligent citizens express their displeasure by going on strikes - I do feel like “an Englishman in New York”, during my visits there. Most of its populace has an opinion on everything, argues with passion and is a closet revolutionary. The bhodrolok loves breaking into Keats at the drop of a hat and every adda is interspersed with a soulful rendition of Nazrul geeti or Robindro shongeet. And you are the only silent one in the room sitting with a silly, ignorant grin.

It's A Gay World After All



Image courtesy : fugly.com

 All of you who thought Ibis was the name of a chain of hotels meant for the budget conscious traveller, here’s news for you. It’s an avian variety that was happy but now gay. The females of this species are not too thrilled about this development though.

Scientists believe that pollution in water is turning birds into homosexuals. Apparently white male Ibises have been giving a cold shoulder to the females of their species and prefer cosying up to each other instead. And since Papa Ibises now prefer other papas, baby chicks are not seeing the light of the day. It appears poisonous metal compounds entering the food chain is the culprit behind the altered sexuality of these birds. I would have preferred the male pigeons taking a shine to each other. Those of you staying in high rise apartments would be well aware of this feathered menace. In fact I had devoted an entire post to my pigeon litany. It is quite irksome to see and hear their constant furious coupling and then be privy to their irresponsible parenting. Baby pigeons keep tumbling down from their precariously perched nests on our AC compressors. And the rapidly multiplying population merrily poops all over our balconies. Papa pigeons it’s time you brought your alarmingly growing numbers under control.

I remember reading somewhere that the rising pollution level is also to blame for the changing sexual orientation of men. When I was in school gay meant happy and boys getting close to each other did not invite You are so gay comments. We merrily sang We are Springdalians happy and gay! And NOBODY sniggered. Well things have changed. Men now prefer pink, and all the eligible men are either married or gay. And now there’s even a fresh new preference on the block – the flexisexual. There are quite a few women who can’t seem to make up their mind and swing both ways. Visibly straight women do not mind singing I kissed a girl, just to try it, I hope my boyfriend don’t mind it. It felt so wrong, it felt so right. Ah the permutations and combinations of the modern world.

Educating Tee

Education is akin to religion for the great Indian middle class. Even as you are changing your baby’s nappy for the 25th time, fantasising about a good night’s sleep and dying to turn the clock back to your non-motherhood days, your family elders start making excited plans and knowledgeable predictions about your newborn’s future. Oh she loves tearing pages off the book....so you think she will be an educationist? Doesn’t she look cute jamming her fingers in electrical sockets....she will undoubtedly be an electrical engineer. Look at her, trying to dissect the cockroach with her fingers....yes she will be a doctor. Unfortunately my daughter was a big drama queen and loved looking at herself in the mirror....nobody dared suggest her vocation based on that.

It is usual for parents, grandparents and everybody else still alive in the family tree to take the business of educating their latest addition in the family rather seriously, more so if you hail from the Eastern states. The grandma will insist on teaching Bangla limericks even as your baby drools. The grandma’s dad on ventilator will give you a grim lecture on the need to inculcate serious studying habits at an early age. The granddad will read out Kafka to his granddaughter, her baffled expression be damned. And you will let out an exasperated sigh and exclaim “Can I first potty train her please????”

I guess I was unusually casual and gave more priority to sundry things like trying to keep my baby from plunging herself in a bucket of water or dissuade her from sticking a pencil up her nose. One fine sunny afternoon, standing on our ground floor balcony, reality hit me with a loud thud. It was neighbour's barely two year old son confidently rattling off English alphabets and numbers, while his Mum proudly looked on. Try as I might, I couldn’t share her jubilation and before her bonny boy could move on to Greek, I mumbled an apology and ran inside. I have been a bad, bad mom. My Tee is a good six months older and all she does is play around with the jhadoo & karhai and yelp in joy every time she sees the maid mopping the floor. A bleak future awaits her and she will curse me as she scours utensils for a living.