This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.
AUTHENTIC SINDHUDURG
An interview with Sindhudurg’s owner and master-chef, Prabhakar Desai
The journey upto Sindhudurg
Well I always loved cooking. I had started a Khaanavar in Goregaon in 1962, which I had to shut down because of the partnership did not work. Then I ventured into politics, social service and construction. I always sensed the need for food that was less oily than what restaurants normally serve. Something you can have daily. Also I wanted to provide the ood from my hometown to all. So I took up this place on a Dadar by-lane. It was supposedly inhabited by many antisocial elements then, but I that didn’t put me off. My political connections and goodwill helped me feel safe too.
You keep improvising and extending the menu, yet remain authentic. How?
You’ll be surprised at the amount of authentic items available in Malvani cuisine – both vegetarian and non-vegetarian.
How do you ensure the quality remains consistent, despite new cooks?
Well some cooks have been with me for a long time. But it’s mainly because I still prepare all the masalas myself. We have a factory in the Sindhudurg district where the Malvani atta comes from. And the essential mixing of the masalas is done according to weight, down to the milligram (it’s computerized). Then the cooks just have to apply a standardized amount to the food.
What inspired the doing up of the décor.
(laughs) Maintenance. It was all bamboo initially. Then I used wood and metal for the seating and to an extent the walls, for durability. I was in the construction line, so had my ideas as to what to do and a basic aesthetic sense. Also I started the counter outside selling Malvani take-home food items like dried fish, mangoes, coconuts and Malvani Atta, a lot of which are grown on our own farm.
The future?
I’m 69 now. So no expansion plans. I’ll leave that to my sons.
The future of Malvani cuisine?
When we started we were pioneers in the restaurant business. Now there are a lot of coastal cuisine eateries. But sadly many restaurants which tout their items as Malvani are actually offering South Indian items. Malvani cuisine is different from Gomanthak cuisine or any other coastal cuisine. This authenticity has to be maintained if it is to be survived.
UTTERLY BUTTERLY MALVANI
Adman and theatre personality Bharat Dabholkar leads Rishi majumder
through a much treaded path of discovering Sindhudurg, and
continuously laying siege…
"I first came here ages ago, when I heard of it as a new place opening
up – the first place to serve Malvani cuisine," recounts Bharat
Dabholkar, adman, playwright and theatre and film director. That first
tryst proved addictive, and he's been visiting the almost bistro like
eatery tucked into a Dadar bylane (alas! No swaying palm trees and
waves crashing on sand) since. "I've come here with advertising
colleagues, clients, people from my plays – people from every aspect
of my life basically," lists Dabholkar as he it's amidst the air
conditioned wood paneled interiors. Having his office in Worli, only
added to the number of stopovers at the restaurant. Why? "The
excellent food, and the fact that they've continued with authentic
Malvani food while creating the ambience of a mordern restaurant,"
explains the Amul man whose roots in the western coast stop at his
Goan great-grand-father. So has this place inspired ideas in a
creative mind? Or fruitful meetings maybe? "No," Dabholkar shakes his
shaven creative head candidly against the dark wood backdrop. "When
I'm eating I don't think."
Sindhudurg was inspired from the Khanavals, small Malvani joints with
fixed menus for each day of the week. "What I like is the fact that
they didn't stay small. They're competing with restaurants from every
cuisine, not just Malvani," says the adman matter-of-factly. This
would strike a chord with Dabholkar, who, through his plays competes
with "not just other plays, but television serials and cinema as well"
for viewership. "And Mumbai being the truest metropolis, means there's
a lot of competing cuisines," gauges a business sense, rare in
artists.
According to him, the joint, under master chef and owner Prabhakar
Desai, transformed itself "almost over night" to it's simplistic but
attractive, cosy and highly comfortable ambience. "They've also kept
adding dishes to the menu and added a counter outside where you can
purchase take-home Malvani delicacies," adds the guru of advertising.
"I turned 'preferably vegetarian' on the 1st of May," he confesses,
perusing the added dishes on the menu, and proceeds to order
(thankfully!) Prawns Masala, Sukya Tisrya (a kind of shell fish in dry
gravy) and a Pomfret Masala. Umm, God Only Knows maybe? "You wouldn't
want me to do this article without seafood would you?" he grins. He
explains that a man who's sampled everything from Crocodile Steak to
zebra meat can't be fanatical about such vows, but tries sticking to
them. Sipping the "best and most authentic Kokam in town", he
remembers times when he came here with colleagues to celebrate getting
a new account while heading back from work. "Or the days I used to
rehearse at Dadar Matunga Cultural Centre for my play", when he
dropped in with his troupe after every other rehearsal.
When the food arrives with two **** waiters, Dabholkar stands by his
no-thinking-while-eating catchline. He focuses solely on the curiously
spiced prawns curry and Vada (a seemingly evolved version of the Puri)
at hand pausing between quietly delighted mouthfuls grudgingly, to
answer a pressed question: "For me a food place is a place to eat and
go from. Also I hate eating at 5 stars." True, for even at parties
Dabholkar is reportedly renowned for skipping the dinner spreads to
grab a late night Paw Bhaji instead. "Infact, I was addicted to the
Paw Bhai stall near my Nariman Point office, and insisted on going
there to eat instead of ordering," he cites even as he digs into the
Tisrya. The Paw bhaji wallah knew Dabholkar make his serving in a
particular way – much in the same way that Desai is involved in the
day to day running of the restaurant, maintaining a personal equation
with many a customer - "A joint like this, on the Udupi restaurant
formula, wouldn't run unless the owner is personally involved." Hmm.
This from a man who's known for his ability to run an advertising
company through delegation as he directs a play or film alongside.
"There is one problem with this place though," Dabholkar laughs, as he
cuts through a serving of the Mouri or pomfret masala, it's lightness
contrasting sharply with it's far spicier precedents. "You end up
eating much more than you planned to." But, somehow Dabholkar's
appetite doesn't show on the muscled arms and the toned torso. "A one
hour rigorous workout daily at my personal gym," he comments, frankly
as always. "I can't diet, even if I try." The Kharbas, a Marathi sweet
dish supposedly made from the first batch of milk given by a buffalo
after her delivery, appears with an imaginary QED signed on it. "Now
you know why my caption or this place would be 'endless good food',"
wraps up the Amul man.
Showing posts with label Bombay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bombay. Show all posts
Friday, March 27, 2009
KOOLAR THAN THOU...
This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.
HISTORY AROUND A CORNER
This cafe has since the early 1900s hosted history it refuses to
hoist, but reeks of...
Rishi Majumder
Approach King's Circle which has been renamed Maheshwari Udyan. Look
for St Vincent's Road, which is now called Dr. B R Ambedkar Marg. And
waving a hello from a protruding street corner, with road on either
side, will be a self effacing King George the 4th which, since 1932,
has been re-christened Koolar, Since 1932. "It was an Irani joint even
before that, but my father and his brothers re-named it after they
took over," informs the raspy voice belonging to Amir Irani , one of
the current managers and owners of this family run remnant of
authenticity. The Irani's were originally Koolar Zade (hence, the
restaurant's name), till the British relegated them a more general
sir-name. Funny, how history hides behind pseudonyms.
Irani's father, one of many who "came into India on a ship or oil
tanker" worked in the restaurant for a good ten years before he and
his brothers pooled finances to buy it. "It served only Paw (bread)
and chai then, before moving on to cakes, omelettes (including the
must-try Wrestler Omelette, made of eight eggs) and keema," recounts
Irani from amidst the restaurants near antiquated dark
Burma-teak-and-multiple-mirrors interiors. "But even Hindus, who were
wary of sampling bread back then, bought our ware rather than that of
other Catholic bakeries." He claims that the fact that they had their
own religious culinary don'ts made Hindus trust them never to let non
vegetarian oils seep into their bread. Also, "the fact that we didn't
sell beef." The looming high ceiling-ed triangular eatery with a
chequered stone floor and large colonial doors thrust open on three
sides hasn't digressed any from it's initial design: "All Irani
restaurants are based on the model of the traditional Italian
drugstore cafeterias." Even the imported Thornet bent wood chairs
colloquially baptized 'welcome' chairs, because of the word being
stitched across it's seat cushion, were bought back in the 30's – "for
a pittance of 10 rupees." Amusingly, the corner location was
considered inauspicious back then. "But the sunlight that streamed in
from all sides and the fact that every passerby would bump into it,"
made it ideal for an Irani café's famed 'Mehmaan Nawaazi':
"Indiscriminately serving food to people of every caste, class and
community who were forbidden from entering other meal places." Now
however, with a New Yorker on the next corner, a Café Madras some
blocks down and a secular Constitution firmly in place, this is one
patent Koolar has had to surrender.
"But the crowds come in as much as in those days," defends the owner
of a restaurant which proudly flags it's identity at the doorstep,
with a Persian lady holding a tea cup painted on the old peeling sign
board. And while the current crop of college students and generation
next office goers may have prompted the largish star posters hung on
the walls, even these half-hearted compromises with contemporariness
are decidedly retro. And so Marilyn Monroe holding down her famed
billowing skirt in black and white, tough guy Charles Bronson staring
steely in technicolor, a French Avant Garde movie poster with leather
jacketed dude, rouged up babe and Harley Davidson and the classic
'Shit!' poster with a train crashing through the window of a building
to land on the pavement, warn you not to push the timeline. For the
timeline preserves in memoriam many distinguished knocks on the old
teak wood door. Morarji Desai who with his fellow partymen sought
shelter from a post independence riot, Buta Singh who loved the Sekanj
Been, Shashi Kapoor who's still an occasional visitor, Mithun
Chakraborthy who spent his struggler days on Koolar kheema omelette,
or even Iqbal Mirchi and Bheema Dada, feared underworld elements who
did much plotting and planning on endless cups of Irani Chai. The
current who's who patron's list includes politician Ramdas Atwal,
filmmaker Mahesh Manjrekar and Raj Thackeray, whom parcels are
delivered to at regular intervals. But even lesser known mortals have
sown their share of memory seeds. Banker Shanu Khuraana, for instance,
who's Khalsa college days in the café have raised it to the position
of his "second home" even after he started working. Or engineer Deepak
Shah, who's family the café had sheltered during the Hindu Muslim
riots, when he was a child.
But making this timeline tedious to tarry with is competition from
diverse fast-food centres mushrooming in the same area. Giving way to
concessions like the Seven Up hoardings lining the humble heritage
walls with monstrosities like 'In between hot gossips have Seven Up Ke
cold sips'. "In between profits had gone down, and we had to put these
up to survive," explains Irani, a tad defensively. Befitting. Survival
is one synonym history always hides behind.
HISTORY AROUND A CORNER
This cafe has since the early 1900s hosted history it refuses to
hoist, but reeks of...
Rishi Majumder
Approach King's Circle which has been renamed Maheshwari Udyan. Look
for St Vincent's Road, which is now called Dr. B R Ambedkar Marg. And
waving a hello from a protruding street corner, with road on either
side, will be a self effacing King George the 4th which, since 1932,
has been re-christened Koolar, Since 1932. "It was an Irani joint even
before that, but my father and his brothers re-named it after they
took over," informs the raspy voice belonging to Amir Irani , one of
the current managers and owners of this family run remnant of
authenticity. The Irani's were originally Koolar Zade (hence, the
restaurant's name), till the British relegated them a more general
sir-name. Funny, how history hides behind pseudonyms.
Irani's father, one of many who "came into India on a ship or oil
tanker" worked in the restaurant for a good ten years before he and
his brothers pooled finances to buy it. "It served only Paw (bread)
and chai then, before moving on to cakes, omelettes (including the
must-try Wrestler Omelette, made of eight eggs) and keema," recounts
Irani from amidst the restaurants near antiquated dark
Burma-teak-and-multiple-mirrors interiors. "But even Hindus, who were
wary of sampling bread back then, bought our ware rather than that of
other Catholic bakeries." He claims that the fact that they had their
own religious culinary don'ts made Hindus trust them never to let non
vegetarian oils seep into their bread. Also, "the fact that we didn't
sell beef." The looming high ceiling-ed triangular eatery with a
chequered stone floor and large colonial doors thrust open on three
sides hasn't digressed any from it's initial design: "All Irani
restaurants are based on the model of the traditional Italian
drugstore cafeterias." Even the imported Thornet bent wood chairs
colloquially baptized 'welcome' chairs, because of the word being
stitched across it's seat cushion, were bought back in the 30's – "for
a pittance of 10 rupees." Amusingly, the corner location was
considered inauspicious back then. "But the sunlight that streamed in
from all sides and the fact that every passerby would bump into it,"
made it ideal for an Irani café's famed 'Mehmaan Nawaazi':
"Indiscriminately serving food to people of every caste, class and
community who were forbidden from entering other meal places." Now
however, with a New Yorker on the next corner, a Café Madras some
blocks down and a secular Constitution firmly in place, this is one
patent Koolar has had to surrender.
"But the crowds come in as much as in those days," defends the owner
of a restaurant which proudly flags it's identity at the doorstep,
with a Persian lady holding a tea cup painted on the old peeling sign
board. And while the current crop of college students and generation
next office goers may have prompted the largish star posters hung on
the walls, even these half-hearted compromises with contemporariness
are decidedly retro. And so Marilyn Monroe holding down her famed
billowing skirt in black and white, tough guy Charles Bronson staring
steely in technicolor, a French Avant Garde movie poster with leather
jacketed dude, rouged up babe and Harley Davidson and the classic
'Shit!' poster with a train crashing through the window of a building
to land on the pavement, warn you not to push the timeline. For the
timeline preserves in memoriam many distinguished knocks on the old
teak wood door. Morarji Desai who with his fellow partymen sought
shelter from a post independence riot, Buta Singh who loved the Sekanj
Been, Shashi Kapoor who's still an occasional visitor, Mithun
Chakraborthy who spent his struggler days on Koolar kheema omelette,
or even Iqbal Mirchi and Bheema Dada, feared underworld elements who
did much plotting and planning on endless cups of Irani Chai. The
current who's who patron's list includes politician Ramdas Atwal,
filmmaker Mahesh Manjrekar and Raj Thackeray, whom parcels are
delivered to at regular intervals. But even lesser known mortals have
sown their share of memory seeds. Banker Shanu Khuraana, for instance,
who's Khalsa college days in the café have raised it to the position
of his "second home" even after he started working. Or engineer Deepak
Shah, who's family the café had sheltered during the Hindu Muslim
riots, when he was a child.
But making this timeline tedious to tarry with is competition from
diverse fast-food centres mushrooming in the same area. Giving way to
concessions like the Seven Up hoardings lining the humble heritage
walls with monstrosities like 'In between hot gossips have Seven Up Ke
cold sips'. "In between profits had gone down, and we had to put these
up to survive," explains Irani, a tad defensively. Befitting. Survival
is one synonym history always hides behind.
NEW AND SECOND HAND BOOKSHOP - SINCE 1905
This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.
LIVE LIFE, SECOND HAND…
… at the New And Second Hand Book Store of yore, finds Rishi Majumder
No glass walls, no grand signboard and no guard at the doorstep. The
New And Second Hand Book Store (Since 1905) lets out its stifled
scream for attention in faded but bold red lettering from a
weather-beaten sign attached to the ground floor of a ramshackle
building, in a row of many ramshackle buildings, at Kalbadevi. Drowning that voice
even further, is the fact that the shutters one both sides of the shop
are perpetually down. So the lone lodestones to literature are a small
window showcase of books – flaunting subjects from the Mohini Attam
dance form and Eastern philosophy to Parenting and the formative years
of the UAE, and an ajar door, ensuring that peep which makes Alice
want to dive in.
Inside the rabbit hole (and not one remotely as deep as Caroll's…) are
rows of old iron and wooden bookshelves leaving between them just
enough passage for one body to squeeze through. "Dr. B. R. Ambedkar, a
regular visitor to the store, never came in, always ordered his books
from his car," informs current proprietor Sultan Vishram. Good
thinking maybe. His stout frame might never have fitted in! In these
bookshelves, are crammed to the overflowing books on every subject
under the sky. Politics – from Plato to Woodrow Wilson, literature –
from Homer to Rushdie, gardening, psychology, art, religion, music,
cinema, theatre… the bookstore is the older Mumbaikar's rejoinder to
Google. "Yet today, sales are dwindling because youngsters don't want
to read anymore. They have the TV and internet to give them
information they require," Vishram, himself in his 60s, sighs jadedly.
But does that substitute depth? "Explain that to today's
in-a-hurry-generation," he smiles. He remembers yesteryears star
Bharat Bhushan who bought innumerable books on theatre, acting and
film, from the store, to build his collection. He also remembers
Bushan's engineer son, who after his death sold the collection back to
him. "He said he had no use for books from that profession. But the
collection was priceless!" Vishram cries.
More than the content, many of the books are priceless for the
atmosphere that's settled around them. College notes, half a century
old. A bookmark from the 40s with the English royal coat of arms. One
literature student has exulted to find, in the middle of his book of
American poets from the store, an invitation to a reading by Robert
Frost at the Asiatic library many many years go. "Often, books which
are out of print, are taken from this store for re-printing purposes,"
gloats Vishram. But those rare books coming in aren't as frequent as
before: "People have become more illuminated now. They know an antique
book when they see one, and don't part with it as easily."
Which brings us to how the store built and sustained this coveted
collection. "It started off in 1905 as a Raddi Paper shop (a paper
recyling outlet)," Vishram delves back. His grandfather Jamalbhai
Ratansey then started buying and selling school text books before
spotting opportunity in general reading material during the Second
World War. The shop grew along this format in amoebic fashion. "We get
our supplies from what people sell us at the counter. Some people of
course buy books in bulk from Chor Bazaar, and we pick and choose from
them," Vishram elucidates. Often books are bought back from the same
customers who they were sold to. "Infact, if a customer comes back
within 15 days, we guarantee a buy back at half the price." And the
pricing? "On an average it's half the label price, but it varies with
10 % of that depending on the condition of the book," he justifies.
Even with it's selling new books now, the partly regurgitated second
hand stream is still the business mainstay.
On the attic like second floor are more book closets. Here you have to
walk sideways in between the shelves to fit. But books on journalism,
international history, military science and war, Indology and Sanskrit
and French literature and grammar would convince many a couch potato
to delve through the dusty corridors of knowledge. Or maybe not,
considering what Vishram said about sales to youngsters. In Vishram's
over-cluttered cubicle of an office are the store's truest treasures.
The complete works of Shakespeare published in 1900, The Life Of
Napoleon Bonaparte by Joseph S C Abbot, a 1911 publication of
Moliere's plays, reprinted from stereotyped plates, a John Milton
omnibus published in 1885, Burke's Speeches published in 1897 are only
some of the available antiques, though Vishram warns, "It's not just
the age of a book that determines it's value, but the edition it is".
Funnily, more foreigners buy these books than Indians: "They spend
hours in this cubicle, buy whole sets together, then inform their
friends abroad who call and ask me to keep certain pieces aside."
Earlier many of these pieces were collected by Indians, including in
the list of buyers ex- defense minister V K Krishnamenon, Rajneesh
Osho, Sadhu Vasvani, Ali Yavar Jang and Jennifer Kapoor. And it's not
just the buyers that are diminishing. "Two other bookshops like this
closed down some years ago. And my children aren't interested in this
business at all," smiles Vishram acceptingly, signing the death
warrant on a legacy. Well, at least we know it'll be one hell of an
auction…
LIVE LIFE, SECOND HAND…
… at the New And Second Hand Book Store of yore, finds Rishi Majumder
No glass walls, no grand signboard and no guard at the doorstep. The
New And Second Hand Book Store (Since 1905) lets out its stifled
scream for attention in faded but bold red lettering from a
weather-beaten sign attached to the ground floor of a ramshackle
building, in a row of many ramshackle buildings, at Kalbadevi. Drowning that voice
even further, is the fact that the shutters one both sides of the shop
are perpetually down. So the lone lodestones to literature are a small
window showcase of books – flaunting subjects from the Mohini Attam
dance form and Eastern philosophy to Parenting and the formative years
of the UAE, and an ajar door, ensuring that peep which makes Alice
want to dive in.
Inside the rabbit hole (and not one remotely as deep as Caroll's…) are
rows of old iron and wooden bookshelves leaving between them just
enough passage for one body to squeeze through. "Dr. B. R. Ambedkar, a
regular visitor to the store, never came in, always ordered his books
from his car," informs current proprietor Sultan Vishram. Good
thinking maybe. His stout frame might never have fitted in! In these
bookshelves, are crammed to the overflowing books on every subject
under the sky. Politics – from Plato to Woodrow Wilson, literature –
from Homer to Rushdie, gardening, psychology, art, religion, music,
cinema, theatre… the bookstore is the older Mumbaikar's rejoinder to
Google. "Yet today, sales are dwindling because youngsters don't want
to read anymore. They have the TV and internet to give them
information they require," Vishram, himself in his 60s, sighs jadedly.
But does that substitute depth? "Explain that to today's
in-a-hurry-generation," he smiles. He remembers yesteryears star
Bharat Bhushan who bought innumerable books on theatre, acting and
film, from the store, to build his collection. He also remembers
Bushan's engineer son, who after his death sold the collection back to
him. "He said he had no use for books from that profession. But the
collection was priceless!" Vishram cries.
More than the content, many of the books are priceless for the
atmosphere that's settled around them. College notes, half a century
old. A bookmark from the 40s with the English royal coat of arms. One
literature student has exulted to find, in the middle of his book of
American poets from the store, an invitation to a reading by Robert
Frost at the Asiatic library many many years go. "Often, books which
are out of print, are taken from this store for re-printing purposes,"
gloats Vishram. But those rare books coming in aren't as frequent as
before: "People have become more illuminated now. They know an antique
book when they see one, and don't part with it as easily."
Which brings us to how the store built and sustained this coveted
collection. "It started off in 1905 as a Raddi Paper shop (a paper
recyling outlet)," Vishram delves back. His grandfather Jamalbhai
Ratansey then started buying and selling school text books before
spotting opportunity in general reading material during the Second
World War. The shop grew along this format in amoebic fashion. "We get
our supplies from what people sell us at the counter. Some people of
course buy books in bulk from Chor Bazaar, and we pick and choose from
them," Vishram elucidates. Often books are bought back from the same
customers who they were sold to. "Infact, if a customer comes back
within 15 days, we guarantee a buy back at half the price." And the
pricing? "On an average it's half the label price, but it varies with
10 % of that depending on the condition of the book," he justifies.
Even with it's selling new books now, the partly regurgitated second
hand stream is still the business mainstay.
On the attic like second floor are more book closets. Here you have to
walk sideways in between the shelves to fit. But books on journalism,
international history, military science and war, Indology and Sanskrit
and French literature and grammar would convince many a couch potato
to delve through the dusty corridors of knowledge. Or maybe not,
considering what Vishram said about sales to youngsters. In Vishram's
over-cluttered cubicle of an office are the store's truest treasures.
The complete works of Shakespeare published in 1900, The Life Of
Napoleon Bonaparte by Joseph S C Abbot, a 1911 publication of
Moliere's plays, reprinted from stereotyped plates, a John Milton
omnibus published in 1885, Burke's Speeches published in 1897 are only
some of the available antiques, though Vishram warns, "It's not just
the age of a book that determines it's value, but the edition it is".
Funnily, more foreigners buy these books than Indians: "They spend
hours in this cubicle, buy whole sets together, then inform their
friends abroad who call and ask me to keep certain pieces aside."
Earlier many of these pieces were collected by Indians, including in
the list of buyers ex- defense minister V K Krishnamenon, Rajneesh
Osho, Sadhu Vasvani, Ali Yavar Jang and Jennifer Kapoor. And it's not
just the buyers that are diminishing. "Two other bookshops like this
closed down some years ago. And my children aren't interested in this
business at all," smiles Vishram acceptingly, signing the death
warrant on a legacy. Well, at least we know it'll be one hell of an
auction…
Thursday, March 26, 2009
CHARNI ROAD'S STUDY CORNER
This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.
A STUDY IN STUDYING
For the aimless, the driven, the over-worked, the lazy, the disturbed and the peaceful, this study corner is a sacred spot of sanity, finds Rishi Majumder
6:32 pm. A boy in a cheap printed shirt and faded trousers paces frantically, memorizing economic principles. Another, in T-shirt and shorts, is motivated by such momentum to recite history dates aloud in ascending tones. Till a middle aged office goer grappling with legal principles from his evening law diploma course shushes him. This makes a 20 something pretty-ish girl studying her homeopathic medicine syllabus laugh. Who in turn starts being glanced at by a bunch of eager junior college lads otherwise solving their Mathematics home-work. Blocking their view (rather unconcernedly) is a freshly muscled kid wearing an army print cap over his long hair, flashy T-shirt and frayed jeans – who sms-es, looks hesitatingly at a newly bought text book, sighs, and sms-es again. Then: the boy paces more calmly; the other mutters his dates under his breath, the office-goer reads, the girl concentrates; the junior college members go back to arguing algebra solutions (oggling's only for breaks); and the cool kid, well, opens his book. The diverse student community at the 24 hour 50 seat study corner in S K Patil Park, Charni Road manufactures and maintains it's own rules.
7:12 pm. "The place was built many years ago with the park, but it was done up with a translucent plastic canopy, painted properly, tiled and hedged with a marble top only two years ago by MLAs from the BJP and Shiv Sena from the Khazdaar fund," informs above 50 security guard cum cleaner cum gardener Janki Jadav, who lives at the Park. Complementing the canopy's numerous fans is the gentle breeze coming in from over the lush lawn and trees flanking the area. The breeze blows a bespectacled 21 year old Amol Patil back as he looks up irritated from a Balance Sheet problem. "I work as a clerk in a trading firm while continuing with Second Year B. Comb., but I've been studying here since class five," he answer. Amol's house in Bhuleshwar is too crowded for studying. During exams he inhabits this place all night. "Even people who have a room to themselves come here or live far-off come here. But for a poor student this is a necessity!"
7:30 pm. The tube lights have been turned on. As if on cue the army capped boy wonder starts reading his commerce textbook with escalating urgency: "I'm studying for my K.T. exam." He identifies himself as 19 year old Ketan Balsara. And how often does he come here? He mulls before smiling awkwardly, "Rarely." "I could study at home, but there's no drive. The environment forces me to concentrate." The junior college group trudging back from a canteen, have different reasons: "We like the fact that we have a place where we can study as a team, yet remain motivated," say 16 year olds Sumit Chaurasia and Vrijesh Gupta. It also inspires an appetite: "The Uphaar Griha in the park itself, serves tea and meals for as little as Rs 6 till eight in the evening!"
8:00 pm. "We don't let people sit idle or read a magazine," security-man Jadav had warned. Two sitters have flouted this rule however. While one works out a crossword, the other after leafing through a Marathi daily's page 3, stares vacantly with his head propped up on the slab of wood attached to each chair for writing. Questioning glances cause them to exit and sit on the benches surrounding the study corner (but not in it!). An old gentleman saunters in from the park to sit smiling amidst the open-on-all-sides learning spot for two minutes before walking out. "The park closes at eight. I come in after that everyday to just sit amongst them for two minutes. It gives me peace and focus," sighs 59 year old Jayant Phadke, on his way out. "It's more silent than the park even – minimum traffic noise, and…" he points to a board on the central pillar holding up the canopy that reads: Please Keep Silence. "They get angry if my phone rings," he laughs and puts his fingers to his lips. "They go Shhhhh!"
9:16 pm. 25 year old Ajay Pande heads for a drinbk from the cooler. "I still have another two hours to go. The thing is I live in Vikhroli and she (he points to the girl sitting opposite him) in Malad. If we go home to study, the train journey exhausts us so much, there's little energy left," he explains agitatedly. Reason for such turmoil: their Ayurvedic College exams are around the corner. "There's another study centre near Churchgate too, but it's too small," Bhavika Parmar (the girl with him) begins. "Also the garden and breeze here ensures we never have to take a break to go for a walk or anything. Your mind is always fresh!" Pande butts in. "And even though there are very few girls here, I've never faced any discomfort being a girl," she persists. "And also, why no bathroom? The one here shuts at 10. That's a big problem for those who have to study all night," Pandey ends this spurt by slamming a fist into his palm. Maybe he should try political science instead…
12:30 pm. The learner population has become leaner and Jadav's around for his nightly check: "You know, during final exams this place is so packed, even the parks are filled with students." And most of those who've studied from here are back "at Saraswati Puja. Chota Bara Sab Log Aate Hain!" As if in response, serviceman Hitesh Jain offers, "I've passed my CA inter from here." Now he only sits in the garden to reminisce: "That's why I'm sitting on the benches outside the canopy." Another middle-ager sits inside however: "I'm doing my law now," explains 38 year old stock broker Prateek Pali. "I can't get back to studying at home or at work. I thought the atmosphere here might inspire." Rajesh Soni, a younger equities dealer, who's studying his MBA in correspondence agrees, just as the clock strikes one. One shouldn't disturb beyond…
A STUDY IN STUDYING
For the aimless, the driven, the over-worked, the lazy, the disturbed and the peaceful, this study corner is a sacred spot of sanity, finds Rishi Majumder
6:32 pm. A boy in a cheap printed shirt and faded trousers paces frantically, memorizing economic principles. Another, in T-shirt and shorts, is motivated by such momentum to recite history dates aloud in ascending tones. Till a middle aged office goer grappling with legal principles from his evening law diploma course shushes him. This makes a 20 something pretty-ish girl studying her homeopathic medicine syllabus laugh. Who in turn starts being glanced at by a bunch of eager junior college lads otherwise solving their Mathematics home-work. Blocking their view (rather unconcernedly) is a freshly muscled kid wearing an army print cap over his long hair, flashy T-shirt and frayed jeans – who sms-es, looks hesitatingly at a newly bought text book, sighs, and sms-es again. Then: the boy paces more calmly; the other mutters his dates under his breath, the office-goer reads, the girl concentrates; the junior college members go back to arguing algebra solutions (oggling's only for breaks); and the cool kid, well, opens his book. The diverse student community at the 24 hour 50 seat study corner in S K Patil Park, Charni Road manufactures and maintains it's own rules.
7:12 pm. "The place was built many years ago with the park, but it was done up with a translucent plastic canopy, painted properly, tiled and hedged with a marble top only two years ago by MLAs from the BJP and Shiv Sena from the Khazdaar fund," informs above 50 security guard cum cleaner cum gardener Janki Jadav, who lives at the Park. Complementing the canopy's numerous fans is the gentle breeze coming in from over the lush lawn and trees flanking the area. The breeze blows a bespectacled 21 year old Amol Patil back as he looks up irritated from a Balance Sheet problem. "I work as a clerk in a trading firm while continuing with Second Year B. Comb., but I've been studying here since class five," he answer. Amol's house in Bhuleshwar is too crowded for studying. During exams he inhabits this place all night. "Even people who have a room to themselves come here or live far-off come here. But for a poor student this is a necessity!"
7:30 pm. The tube lights have been turned on. As if on cue the army capped boy wonder starts reading his commerce textbook with escalating urgency: "I'm studying for my K.T. exam." He identifies himself as 19 year old Ketan Balsara. And how often does he come here? He mulls before smiling awkwardly, "Rarely." "I could study at home, but there's no drive. The environment forces me to concentrate." The junior college group trudging back from a canteen, have different reasons: "We like the fact that we have a place where we can study as a team, yet remain motivated," say 16 year olds Sumit Chaurasia and Vrijesh Gupta. It also inspires an appetite: "The Uphaar Griha in the park itself, serves tea and meals for as little as Rs 6 till eight in the evening!"
8:00 pm. "We don't let people sit idle or read a magazine," security-man Jadav had warned. Two sitters have flouted this rule however. While one works out a crossword, the other after leafing through a Marathi daily's page 3, stares vacantly with his head propped up on the slab of wood attached to each chair for writing. Questioning glances cause them to exit and sit on the benches surrounding the study corner (but not in it!). An old gentleman saunters in from the park to sit smiling amidst the open-on-all-sides learning spot for two minutes before walking out. "The park closes at eight. I come in after that everyday to just sit amongst them for two minutes. It gives me peace and focus," sighs 59 year old Jayant Phadke, on his way out. "It's more silent than the park even – minimum traffic noise, and…" he points to a board on the central pillar holding up the canopy that reads: Please Keep Silence. "They get angry if my phone rings," he laughs and puts his fingers to his lips. "They go Shhhhh!"
9:16 pm. 25 year old Ajay Pande heads for a drinbk from the cooler. "I still have another two hours to go. The thing is I live in Vikhroli and she (he points to the girl sitting opposite him) in Malad. If we go home to study, the train journey exhausts us so much, there's little energy left," he explains agitatedly. Reason for such turmoil: their Ayurvedic College exams are around the corner. "There's another study centre near Churchgate too, but it's too small," Bhavika Parmar (the girl with him) begins. "Also the garden and breeze here ensures we never have to take a break to go for a walk or anything. Your mind is always fresh!" Pande butts in. "And even though there are very few girls here, I've never faced any discomfort being a girl," she persists. "And also, why no bathroom? The one here shuts at 10. That's a big problem for those who have to study all night," Pandey ends this spurt by slamming a fist into his palm. Maybe he should try political science instead…
12:30 pm. The learner population has become leaner and Jadav's around for his nightly check: "You know, during final exams this place is so packed, even the parks are filled with students." And most of those who've studied from here are back "at Saraswati Puja. Chota Bara Sab Log Aate Hain!" As if in response, serviceman Hitesh Jain offers, "I've passed my CA inter from here." Now he only sits in the garden to reminisce: "That's why I'm sitting on the benches outside the canopy." Another middle-ager sits inside however: "I'm doing my law now," explains 38 year old stock broker Prateek Pali. "I can't get back to studying at home or at work. I thought the atmosphere here might inspire." Rajesh Soni, a younger equities dealer, who's studying his MBA in correspondence agrees, just as the clock strikes one. One shouldn't disturb beyond…
TO DATAR... TO DATAR...
This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.
This article also bows its head today, in deference, to the immense talent, drive and actual 'work' exhibited by Chetan Datar, a theatrewallah whose untimely demise has actually been a last gasp of sorts... for theatre in Mumbai.
THE GASP THAT GOES ON…
Theatre, dance and music thrive in a small municipal school hall – for thespians and amateurs alike, finds Rishi Majumder
Curtain Raiser. Turn into an undersized hall at the significantly unassuming and old New Mahim Municipal School at Mia Mohammad Chotani Road at seven pm, and you will face revelation. This might be a play, a musical rendition, a dance, a reading, a film, a rehearsal or simply a discussion. The participants may range from National Award and Padma Shree winners to amateurs who've started just a month ago. But the revelation will be the audience – ranging from interested college students to thespians like playwright Vijay Tendulkar.
Prologue. When the Christians in Rome were under threat they took to the Catacombs. Nepalese theatre activists today use private houses to voice national unrest through whispered dramas. Mumbai experimental theatre, however, fights not political, but economic battles. "This Awishkar Cultural Centre is the 'last gasp' before amateur theatre dies in Bombay," pronounces theatre stalwart Pandit Satyadev Dubey when asked for a quote. 'Dubeyji' had announced to us some months ago that "Experimental theatre like sexual intercourse will never cease". And if theatre group Awishkar's true-to-it's-name re-invention of a nondescript assembly hall into an artistic platform – for their faith – is anything to go by, Dubey's preceding verdict might just overrule his more recent one.
Act One. While theatre group Awishkar was formed by theatre legends like Vijay Tendulkar, Sulabha Deshpande and Arun Kaakre's historical breaking away from Rangayan in 1971, they formed their abode here due to problems (involving commercial consideration, presumably) with Chabil Das Hall (of the Chabil Das Theatre Movement fame) in 1993. But it took the group five more years to realize the "room's" potential as a performance space. "This wasn't the ideal place for opening a play – the authorities have never let us make any permanent changes. Plus the senior members were very disheartened by the fall-out with Chabil Das," remembers playwright-director Chetan Datar, the group's secretary who fondly calls the centre his "baby".
Act Two. But ply-wood walls were created to form atmosphere for any play. Multi-hued theatre spot-lights were strung on bamboo poles hung on hooks to create effects. And the tiny storeroom was lined with make-shift shelves to create space for a variety of props and set-pieces. Sitaram, the centre's ultra-experienced man-for-all-seasons can assemble a set and environment – with desired colour-schemes and props – within minutes. "Small for me has always been beautiful… designing a play for this space ensures it can be performed anywhere," laughs Datar. He also acknowledges that downplaying the ambience and effects ensures concentration on theatre's primary tools – text and performance.
Act Three. With government grants and money accumulated from 'donation cards' given to the audience barely enabling them to break even, the group focused on it's next mission: distinguishing the cultural centre from a mere theatre. "We have an average of three events a month, for which we advertise ourselves," explains Datar. While these are mostly plays, they also encompass performances from allied arts: "This is essential for theatre persons as well, as theatre is an amalgation of every art," Datar continues. So poetry readings by Kishore Kadam, dance recitals by Darshana Jhaveri, and classical music performances shares spaces the some of the years most memorable Naataks. Also, each performance ends with a discussion with an active audience: "Consisting of mostly middle or the upper-middle class, the primary reason people come here is 'mental stimulation'" Datar points out. He remembers Meena Naik's play Vaate Varti Kachaga, on child molestation eliciting strong responses: "Each person shared their private experiences on the troubling subject for a long time after the play." Also adding to the 'forum' quality are the theatre workshops conducted in the centre – especially the free-of-charge workshops by Datar and Dubey. "These workshops, in turn invent further volunteers and participants in the centre's events," Datar completes the circle. Arun Kaakre better known as Kaakre Kaka ("Kaakre Kaka is Awishkar and vice versa" is what people say when asked for his 'designation') sums up the initiative: "Our object is the R&D of theatre. Which is why we ask various groups spanning different experience levels, languages and cities to perform here."
Epilogue, Curtain, and Encore. Ending post performance discussions, the 75 odd crowd streaming out often blinks at the municipal building they emerge from disbelievingly. Aadesh Pawar a novice-actor from pune is still awed by his performance at the centre: "Can you imagine a mediocre actor like me getting feedback on a first performance from someone like Dubeyji or Sulabha Tai (Sulabha Deshpande)?" Aadesh and the hall seem synonymous as metaphors. For isn't experiment but finding the magnificent in the mundane?
This article also bows its head today, in deference, to the immense talent, drive and actual 'work' exhibited by Chetan Datar, a theatrewallah whose untimely demise has actually been a last gasp of sorts... for theatre in Mumbai.
THE GASP THAT GOES ON…
Theatre, dance and music thrive in a small municipal school hall – for thespians and amateurs alike, finds Rishi Majumder
Curtain Raiser. Turn into an undersized hall at the significantly unassuming and old New Mahim Municipal School at Mia Mohammad Chotani Road at seven pm, and you will face revelation. This might be a play, a musical rendition, a dance, a reading, a film, a rehearsal or simply a discussion. The participants may range from National Award and Padma Shree winners to amateurs who've started just a month ago. But the revelation will be the audience – ranging from interested college students to thespians like playwright Vijay Tendulkar.
Prologue. When the Christians in Rome were under threat they took to the Catacombs. Nepalese theatre activists today use private houses to voice national unrest through whispered dramas. Mumbai experimental theatre, however, fights not political, but economic battles. "This Awishkar Cultural Centre is the 'last gasp' before amateur theatre dies in Bombay," pronounces theatre stalwart Pandit Satyadev Dubey when asked for a quote. 'Dubeyji' had announced to us some months ago that "Experimental theatre like sexual intercourse will never cease". And if theatre group Awishkar's true-to-it's-name re-invention of a nondescript assembly hall into an artistic platform – for their faith – is anything to go by, Dubey's preceding verdict might just overrule his more recent one.
Act One. While theatre group Awishkar was formed by theatre legends like Vijay Tendulkar, Sulabha Deshpande and Arun Kaakre's historical breaking away from Rangayan in 1971, they formed their abode here due to problems (involving commercial consideration, presumably) with Chabil Das Hall (of the Chabil Das Theatre Movement fame) in 1993. But it took the group five more years to realize the "room's" potential as a performance space. "This wasn't the ideal place for opening a play – the authorities have never let us make any permanent changes. Plus the senior members were very disheartened by the fall-out with Chabil Das," remembers playwright-director Chetan Datar, the group's secretary who fondly calls the centre his "baby".
Act Two. But ply-wood walls were created to form atmosphere for any play. Multi-hued theatre spot-lights were strung on bamboo poles hung on hooks to create effects. And the tiny storeroom was lined with make-shift shelves to create space for a variety of props and set-pieces. Sitaram, the centre's ultra-experienced man-for-all-seasons can assemble a set and environment – with desired colour-schemes and props – within minutes. "Small for me has always been beautiful… designing a play for this space ensures it can be performed anywhere," laughs Datar. He also acknowledges that downplaying the ambience and effects ensures concentration on theatre's primary tools – text and performance.
Act Three. With government grants and money accumulated from 'donation cards' given to the audience barely enabling them to break even, the group focused on it's next mission: distinguishing the cultural centre from a mere theatre. "We have an average of three events a month, for which we advertise ourselves," explains Datar. While these are mostly plays, they also encompass performances from allied arts: "This is essential for theatre persons as well, as theatre is an amalgation of every art," Datar continues. So poetry readings by Kishore Kadam, dance recitals by Darshana Jhaveri, and classical music performances shares spaces the some of the years most memorable Naataks. Also, each performance ends with a discussion with an active audience: "Consisting of mostly middle or the upper-middle class, the primary reason people come here is 'mental stimulation'" Datar points out. He remembers Meena Naik's play Vaate Varti Kachaga, on child molestation eliciting strong responses: "Each person shared their private experiences on the troubling subject for a long time after the play." Also adding to the 'forum' quality are the theatre workshops conducted in the centre – especially the free-of-charge workshops by Datar and Dubey. "These workshops, in turn invent further volunteers and participants in the centre's events," Datar completes the circle. Arun Kaakre better known as Kaakre Kaka ("Kaakre Kaka is Awishkar and vice versa" is what people say when asked for his 'designation') sums up the initiative: "Our object is the R&D of theatre. Which is why we ask various groups spanning different experience levels, languages and cities to perform here."
Epilogue, Curtain, and Encore. Ending post performance discussions, the 75 odd crowd streaming out often blinks at the municipal building they emerge from disbelievingly. Aadesh Pawar a novice-actor from pune is still awed by his performance at the centre: "Can you imagine a mediocre actor like me getting feedback on a first performance from someone like Dubeyji or Sulabha Tai (Sulabha Deshpande)?" Aadesh and the hall seem synonymous as metaphors. For isn't experiment but finding the magnificent in the mundane?
OPEN HOUSE FOR WODEHOUSEANS
This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.
OPEN HOUSE FOR WODEHOUSEANS
This club formed five years ago spans a range of characters meeting to bond on the world's most loved humorist, reports Rishi Majumder
"Try an apple cake?" persuades Giri Dore in his sprawling, almost Edwardian, Marine Drive Flat terrace. "You're not on a diet are you?" questions Kaushal Thakur. "He doesn't look like he's on a diet…" smiles Surya Prakash. And the laughter begins. Dore's a retired cricketer, Thakur a businessman and Prakash an old but young-at-heart senior banker. But cackling in striped old-world sofas and quaint cane chairs around a large center table loaded with tea and an array of (delicious!) cakes, they could easily be P G Wodehouse's Bertie Wooster, Psmith or Lord Emsworth. Which would make this apt once-a-month meeting place – almost exclusively for Wodehouseans – Wodehouse's Drones Club, strictly for members only. This overweight writer – three mandatory cake slices later – did definitely come to feel like Empress, Lord Emsworth's force-fed pig.
"But no. We're not sticklers. You can be a member even if you're just an avid reader," Thakur offers expansively. "Just log in to blithespirits@yahoogroups.com or come down to one of our meetings." "But be warned! A Wodehousean will never trust a Non-Wodehousean," adds S. Ananthanarayanan, a senior railways officer and newspaper columnist. Ulp! That cake just got stuck. Formed five years ago, the club comprises around 25 members, their age-range running laterally inverted from a 17 year old Pranav Pirmlani to a 71 year old Dore. "But we don't just discuss Wodehouse," legal adviser PG Murthy – jokingly called "our own PG" – protests. That's right. Wodehouse at Blithe Spirits is just the lowest common denominator. Even as the discussion moves on from the origin of Psmith's character to the terrible state of the Indian cricket team, Wodehousean wit remains the subtext. For hadn't the author said, "My way of writing about life is making a sort of musical comedy without music and ignoring real life altogether!" Hence even their discussions on good ole Plum (the humorist's nickname) are more a bonding on their favourite passages. "We hate analyzing and hate being analyzed," Prakash elucidates ominously. "Now analyze that!" Dore continues. Then more laughter, as Thakur pacifies, "Don't take these digs otherwise please," in between his guffaws. "It's a good rule in life never to apologize. The right sort of people don't want apologies. The wrong sort take a mean advantage of them," Wodehouse had written once. Please don't take this otherwise Mr Thakur.
Most members of this club have been introduced to Wodehouse since their school years. "I've spent a happy 10 years of my life collecting priceless Wodehouse novels," Prakash, who possesses some of the earliest editions, informs. "And now he'll spend an unhappy ten years guarding them," cracks businessman Raj Daryalani. Laughter again. Young Pranav's playing a CD recording of Andrew Lloyd Weber's musical Jeeves now, as Ratula Datta, a researcher – who'd joined the society when it began in Kolkata to continue after shifting to Mumbai – comments: "No wonder the musical didn't work. That doesn't sound like Wooster at all!" But what really draws this diverse crowd to Wodehouse? "Escapism!" answers Prakash promptly. Is the fictional Blandings Castle that remote? Or the idiosyncrasies of aristocracy so irrelevant? "There might well be a reason Wodehouse is today more read in India than in England even," confesses Ananthanarayanan. "I so often see rich, educated classes of Indians, with the very same hypocrisies – some adopted from historic British influence, some self-grown." Funny, for Wodehouse had concluded a famous preface with, "Who can say that ere long spats and knuts and all the old bung-ho-ing will not be flourishing again? When that happens, I shall look my critics in the eye and say – Edwardian? Where do you get that 'Edwardian' stuff? I write of life as it is today." Or lets end this in more popular Wodehousean: Right Ho!
OPEN HOUSE FOR WODEHOUSEANS
This club formed five years ago spans a range of characters meeting to bond on the world's most loved humorist, reports Rishi Majumder
"Try an apple cake?" persuades Giri Dore in his sprawling, almost Edwardian, Marine Drive Flat terrace. "You're not on a diet are you?" questions Kaushal Thakur. "He doesn't look like he's on a diet…" smiles Surya Prakash. And the laughter begins. Dore's a retired cricketer, Thakur a businessman and Prakash an old but young-at-heart senior banker. But cackling in striped old-world sofas and quaint cane chairs around a large center table loaded with tea and an array of (delicious!) cakes, they could easily be P G Wodehouse's Bertie Wooster, Psmith or Lord Emsworth. Which would make this apt once-a-month meeting place – almost exclusively for Wodehouseans – Wodehouse's Drones Club, strictly for members only. This overweight writer – three mandatory cake slices later – did definitely come to feel like Empress, Lord Emsworth's force-fed pig.
"But no. We're not sticklers. You can be a member even if you're just an avid reader," Thakur offers expansively. "Just log in to blithespirits@yahoogroups.com or come down to one of our meetings." "But be warned! A Wodehousean will never trust a Non-Wodehousean," adds S. Ananthanarayanan, a senior railways officer and newspaper columnist. Ulp! That cake just got stuck. Formed five years ago, the club comprises around 25 members, their age-range running laterally inverted from a 17 year old Pranav Pirmlani to a 71 year old Dore. "But we don't just discuss Wodehouse," legal adviser PG Murthy – jokingly called "our own PG" – protests. That's right. Wodehouse at Blithe Spirits is just the lowest common denominator. Even as the discussion moves on from the origin of Psmith's character to the terrible state of the Indian cricket team, Wodehousean wit remains the subtext. For hadn't the author said, "My way of writing about life is making a sort of musical comedy without music and ignoring real life altogether!" Hence even their discussions on good ole Plum (the humorist's nickname) are more a bonding on their favourite passages. "We hate analyzing and hate being analyzed," Prakash elucidates ominously. "Now analyze that!" Dore continues. Then more laughter, as Thakur pacifies, "Don't take these digs otherwise please," in between his guffaws. "It's a good rule in life never to apologize. The right sort of people don't want apologies. The wrong sort take a mean advantage of them," Wodehouse had written once. Please don't take this otherwise Mr Thakur.
Most members of this club have been introduced to Wodehouse since their school years. "I've spent a happy 10 years of my life collecting priceless Wodehouse novels," Prakash, who possesses some of the earliest editions, informs. "And now he'll spend an unhappy ten years guarding them," cracks businessman Raj Daryalani. Laughter again. Young Pranav's playing a CD recording of Andrew Lloyd Weber's musical Jeeves now, as Ratula Datta, a researcher – who'd joined the society when it began in Kolkata to continue after shifting to Mumbai – comments: "No wonder the musical didn't work. That doesn't sound like Wooster at all!" But what really draws this diverse crowd to Wodehouse? "Escapism!" answers Prakash promptly. Is the fictional Blandings Castle that remote? Or the idiosyncrasies of aristocracy so irrelevant? "There might well be a reason Wodehouse is today more read in India than in England even," confesses Ananthanarayanan. "I so often see rich, educated classes of Indians, with the very same hypocrisies – some adopted from historic British influence, some self-grown." Funny, for Wodehouse had concluded a famous preface with, "Who can say that ere long spats and knuts and all the old bung-ho-ing will not be flourishing again? When that happens, I shall look my critics in the eye and say – Edwardian? Where do you get that 'Edwardian' stuff? I write of life as it is today." Or lets end this in more popular Wodehousean: Right Ho!
This article appeared originally in Mumbai Mirror, of the Times Of India group.
OPEN HOUSE FOR WODEHOUSEANS
This club formed five years ago spans a range of characters meeting to bond on the world's most loved humorist, reports Rishi Majumder
"Try an apple cake?" persuades Giri Dore in his sprawling, almost Edwardian, Marine Drive Flat terrace. "You're not on a diet are you?" questions Kaushal Thakur. "He doesn't look like he's on a diet…" smiles Surya Prakash. And the laughter begins. Dore's a retired cricketer, Thakur a businessman and Prakash an old but young-at-heart senior banker. But cackling in striped old-world sofas and quaint cane chairs around a large center table loaded with tea and an array of (delicious!) cakes, they could easily be P G Wodehouse's Bertie Wooster, Psmith or Lord Emsworth. Which would make this apt once-a-month meeting place – almost exclusively for Wodehouseans – Wodehouse's Drones Club, strictly for members only. This overweight writer – three mandatory cake slices later – did definitely come to feel like Empress, Lord Emsworth's force-fed pig.
"But no. We're not sticklers. You can be a member even if you're just an avid reader," Thakur offers expansively. "Just log in to blithespirits@yahoogroups.com or come down to one of our meetings." "But be warned! A Wodehousean will never trust a Non-Wodehousean," adds S. Ananthanarayanan, a senior railways officer and newspaper columnist. Ulp! That cake just got stuck. Formed five years ago, the club comprises around 25 members, their age-range running laterally inverted from a 17 year old Pranav Pirmlani to a 71 year old Dore. "But we don't just discuss Wodehouse," legal adviser PG Murthy – jokingly called "our own PG" – protests. That's right. Wodehouse at Blithe Spirits is just the lowest common denominator. Even as the discussion moves on from the origin of Psmith's character to the terrible state of the Indian cricket team, Wodehousean wit remains the subtext. For hadn't the author said, "My way of writing about life is making a sort of musical comedy without music and ignoring real life altogether!" Hence even their discussions on good ole Plum (the humorist's nickname) are more a bonding on their favourite passages. "We hate analyzing and hate being analyzed," Prakash elucidates ominously. "Now analyze that!" Dore continues. Then more laughter, as Thakur pacifies, "Don't take these digs otherwise please," in between his guffaws. "It's a good rule in life never to apologize. The right sort of people don't want apologies. The wrong sort take a mean advantage of them," Wodehouse had written once. Please don't take this otherwise Mr Thakur.
Most members of this club have been introduced to Wodehouse since their school years. "I've spent a happy 10 years of my life collecting priceless Wodehouse novels," Prakash, who possesses some of the earliest editions, informs. "And now he'll spend an unhappy ten years guarding them," cracks businessman Raj Daryalani. Laughter again. Young Pranav's playing a CD recording of Andrew Lloyd Weber's musical Jeeves now, as Ratula Datta, a researcher – who'd joined the society when it began in Kolkata to continue after shifting to Mumbai – comments: "No wonder the musical didn't work. That doesn't sound like Wooster at all!" But what really draws this diverse crowd to Wodehouse? "Escapism!" answers Prakash promptly. Is the fictional Blandings Castle that remote? Or the idiosyncrasies of aristocracy so irrelevant? "There might well be a reason Wodehouse is today more read in India than in England even," confesses Ananthanarayanan. "I so often see rich, educated classes of Indians, with the very same hypocrisies – some adopted from historic British influence, some self-grown." Funny, for Wodehouse had concluded a famous preface with, "Who can say that ere long spats and knuts and all the old bung-ho-ing will not be flourishing again? When that happens, I shall look my critics in the eye and say – Edwardian? Where do you get that 'Edwardian' stuff? I write of life as it is today." Or lets end this in more popular Wodehousean: Right Ho!
OPEN HOUSE FOR WODEHOUSEANS
This club formed five years ago spans a range of characters meeting to bond on the world's most loved humorist, reports Rishi Majumder
"Try an apple cake?" persuades Giri Dore in his sprawling, almost Edwardian, Marine Drive Flat terrace. "You're not on a diet are you?" questions Kaushal Thakur. "He doesn't look like he's on a diet…" smiles Surya Prakash. And the laughter begins. Dore's a retired cricketer, Thakur a businessman and Prakash an old but young-at-heart senior banker. But cackling in striped old-world sofas and quaint cane chairs around a large center table loaded with tea and an array of (delicious!) cakes, they could easily be P G Wodehouse's Bertie Wooster, Psmith or Lord Emsworth. Which would make this apt once-a-month meeting place – almost exclusively for Wodehouseans – Wodehouse's Drones Club, strictly for members only. This overweight writer – three mandatory cake slices later – did definitely come to feel like Empress, Lord Emsworth's force-fed pig.
"But no. We're not sticklers. You can be a member even if you're just an avid reader," Thakur offers expansively. "Just log in to blithespirits@yahoogroups.com or come down to one of our meetings." "But be warned! A Wodehousean will never trust a Non-Wodehousean," adds S. Ananthanarayanan, a senior railways officer and newspaper columnist. Ulp! That cake just got stuck. Formed five years ago, the club comprises around 25 members, their age-range running laterally inverted from a 17 year old Pranav Pirmlani to a 71 year old Dore. "But we don't just discuss Wodehouse," legal adviser PG Murthy – jokingly called "our own PG" – protests. That's right. Wodehouse at Blithe Spirits is just the lowest common denominator. Even as the discussion moves on from the origin of Psmith's character to the terrible state of the Indian cricket team, Wodehousean wit remains the subtext. For hadn't the author said, "My way of writing about life is making a sort of musical comedy without music and ignoring real life altogether!" Hence even their discussions on good ole Plum (the humorist's nickname) are more a bonding on their favourite passages. "We hate analyzing and hate being analyzed," Prakash elucidates ominously. "Now analyze that!" Dore continues. Then more laughter, as Thakur pacifies, "Don't take these digs otherwise please," in between his guffaws. "It's a good rule in life never to apologize. The right sort of people don't want apologies. The wrong sort take a mean advantage of them," Wodehouse had written once. Please don't take this otherwise Mr Thakur.
Most members of this club have been introduced to Wodehouse since their school years. "I've spent a happy 10 years of my life collecting priceless Wodehouse novels," Prakash, who possesses some of the earliest editions, informs. "And now he'll spend an unhappy ten years guarding them," cracks businessman Raj Daryalani. Laughter again. Young Pranav's playing a CD recording of Andrew Lloyd Weber's musical Jeeves now, as Ratula Datta, a researcher – who'd joined the society when it began in Kolkata to continue after shifting to Mumbai – comments: "No wonder the musical didn't work. That doesn't sound like Wooster at all!" But what really draws this diverse crowd to Wodehouse? "Escapism!" answers Prakash promptly. Is the fictional Blandings Castle that remote? Or the idiosyncrasies of aristocracy so irrelevant? "There might well be a reason Wodehouse is today more read in India than in England even," confesses Ananthanarayanan. "I so often see rich, educated classes of Indians, with the very same hypocrisies – some adopted from historic British influence, some self-grown." Funny, for Wodehouse had concluded a famous preface with, "Who can say that ere long spats and knuts and all the old bung-ho-ing will not be flourishing again? When that happens, I shall look my critics in the eye and say – Edwardian? Where do you get that 'Edwardian' stuff? I write of life as it is today." Or lets end this in more popular Wodehousean: Right Ho!
CHINESE FOR DEAD
CHINESE FOR DEAD
Rishi Majumder visits this over a century old Chinese Cemetery, one of the only two Chinese burial sites in India, and it's very interesting caretaker
"Mare Se Kya Darna. Zinda Se Daro," Mohammad Rafiq Shah rejoins to a local warning him that photographing graves might be a bad omen. Then using his crutches he leads on inside the grey walled overgrown Chinese Cemetery on Antop Hill, one of the only two Chinese graveyards in India. Shah, caretaker of the Chinese dead, is 76 years old. He's been working at this cemetery since age 10. "My father worked here before me. And my sons are ready to carry on the tradition," he enlightens, spraying a hose over lush plants growing above the corpses. The cemetery, opened on 1890 (one of Mumbai's oldest) has graves over 120 years old – of people buried even before its completion. It's divided into two parts: "As per Chinese burial rites, each grave is dug up after 4 years and the bones are buried 'permanently' in the other part of the cemetery, in a plastic box covered with a marble plate," Tulen Chen, Chairman of the Maharashtra Chinese Association which maintains the graveyard, tells us. So in two by two feet plastic boxes, lie bones of Chinese sailors, doctors, servicemen, businessmen and even concubines from over the country. A few Japanese skeletons, not having found a graveyard of their own, have settled down under these marble plates as well.
Jiang Wei, Sun Quan, Zhou Tai… some names are inscribed in Mandarin, others in English: "Earlier all names would be in Chini bhasha. But now the younger Chinese staying here don't know the language, so… English," claims caretaker Shah as he walks in between graves to stop at one saying Maharashtra Chinese Association Trust. "Here lie lawaaris bodies. Names unknown. The trust does their last rites." These rites normally consist of placing before the grave items of food dear to the deceased along with flowers and lighted candles. One supposes the lawaaris bodies go without favourite foods. "If a young person dies, then it's a quiet affair. But if it's an old man, there's a lot of fanfare," Shah remarks. Undertaker Danny Pinto, who prepares coffins and bodies for Taoists as well as Christians, points out, "During Christian funerals there's three or four people giving the music. But during Chinese ones there's a full set band with around 15 people!" Then a small meal is set up, consisting of cold drinks, coffee and more of the dead man's favored edibles.
On a flat concrete structure at the yard's entrance, the name of Kuan Kung, supreme god of the Taoists, stands inscribed in red on a marble plaque, overlooking the section with the burial site's most recent graves. Flora abounds here – planted ritually, grown wild. "Either the young have become less respectful, or there's no time," Shah sighs. "Earlier people would come as per tradition three days, 10 days, 20 days, 40 days and then 1 year after the burial." Now, he claims there's lesser of that. There's also lesser praying during the festivals of Chinese New Year, or the death anniversaries. "Maybe it's also because from 25000 Chinese in 1962, only 24 families remain," observes Chinese Association Chairman Chen. "The rest migrate to better opportunities in the USA, England or New Zealand. Here we aren't even given a minority status."
Shah waters the remaining plants, deftly balancing himself on both crutches with one hand as he leans out with the other: "I lost my knee cap while watering one of these graves - slipped and smashed my knee on the marble." Besides gardening, Shah's functions include grave-digging, guarding, sweeping and digging up the bones to be transplanted after four years in the middle of the night to wash them with spirit and brandy before sunrise… "as dictated by ritual"
And don't these calling cards left behind by the grim reaper scare him at his age? He laughs for a full three minutes. "Death? I've lost a knee cap and…" he rolls up his shirt to show a wide operation scar across his stomach: "Ulcers!" He runs his finger down to point to another larger cut: "Appendix!" The finale is lifting his lungi to show us stitches on his thigh. "…but I'm still alive. I ask Allah to give me Maut twice a day," Shah giggles. "But he gets irritated and prolongs my life for another five years. Everyone should try this formula." Here's one deserving that full set band. And an encore.
Rishi Majumder visits this over a century old Chinese Cemetery, one of the only two Chinese burial sites in India, and it's very interesting caretaker
"Mare Se Kya Darna. Zinda Se Daro," Mohammad Rafiq Shah rejoins to a local warning him that photographing graves might be a bad omen. Then using his crutches he leads on inside the grey walled overgrown Chinese Cemetery on Antop Hill, one of the only two Chinese graveyards in India. Shah, caretaker of the Chinese dead, is 76 years old. He's been working at this cemetery since age 10. "My father worked here before me. And my sons are ready to carry on the tradition," he enlightens, spraying a hose over lush plants growing above the corpses. The cemetery, opened on 1890 (one of Mumbai's oldest) has graves over 120 years old – of people buried even before its completion. It's divided into two parts: "As per Chinese burial rites, each grave is dug up after 4 years and the bones are buried 'permanently' in the other part of the cemetery, in a plastic box covered with a marble plate," Tulen Chen, Chairman of the Maharashtra Chinese Association which maintains the graveyard, tells us. So in two by two feet plastic boxes, lie bones of Chinese sailors, doctors, servicemen, businessmen and even concubines from over the country. A few Japanese skeletons, not having found a graveyard of their own, have settled down under these marble plates as well.
Jiang Wei, Sun Quan, Zhou Tai… some names are inscribed in Mandarin, others in English: "Earlier all names would be in Chini bhasha. But now the younger Chinese staying here don't know the language, so… English," claims caretaker Shah as he walks in between graves to stop at one saying Maharashtra Chinese Association Trust. "Here lie lawaaris bodies. Names unknown. The trust does their last rites." These rites normally consist of placing before the grave items of food dear to the deceased along with flowers and lighted candles. One supposes the lawaaris bodies go without favourite foods. "If a young person dies, then it's a quiet affair. But if it's an old man, there's a lot of fanfare," Shah remarks. Undertaker Danny Pinto, who prepares coffins and bodies for Taoists as well as Christians, points out, "During Christian funerals there's three or four people giving the music. But during Chinese ones there's a full set band with around 15 people!" Then a small meal is set up, consisting of cold drinks, coffee and more of the dead man's favored edibles.
On a flat concrete structure at the yard's entrance, the name of Kuan Kung, supreme god of the Taoists, stands inscribed in red on a marble plaque, overlooking the section with the burial site's most recent graves. Flora abounds here – planted ritually, grown wild. "Either the young have become less respectful, or there's no time," Shah sighs. "Earlier people would come as per tradition three days, 10 days, 20 days, 40 days and then 1 year after the burial." Now, he claims there's lesser of that. There's also lesser praying during the festivals of Chinese New Year, or the death anniversaries. "Maybe it's also because from 25000 Chinese in 1962, only 24 families remain," observes Chinese Association Chairman Chen. "The rest migrate to better opportunities in the USA, England or New Zealand. Here we aren't even given a minority status."
Shah waters the remaining plants, deftly balancing himself on both crutches with one hand as he leans out with the other: "I lost my knee cap while watering one of these graves - slipped and smashed my knee on the marble." Besides gardening, Shah's functions include grave-digging, guarding, sweeping and digging up the bones to be transplanted after four years in the middle of the night to wash them with spirit and brandy before sunrise… "as dictated by ritual"
And don't these calling cards left behind by the grim reaper scare him at his age? He laughs for a full three minutes. "Death? I've lost a knee cap and…" he rolls up his shirt to show a wide operation scar across his stomach: "Ulcers!" He runs his finger down to point to another larger cut: "Appendix!" The finale is lifting his lungi to show us stitches on his thigh. "…but I'm still alive. I ask Allah to give me Maut twice a day," Shah giggles. "But he gets irritated and prolongs my life for another five years. Everyone should try this formula." Here's one deserving that full set band. And an encore.
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