Short’s story

He was born a chart busting seventy centimeters long and was immediately nicknamed Chottu by an imaginative uncle. A nickname that would, in time, look ridiculous on who was to be India’s biggest sport export.

Chottu kept elongating unaided by any giraffe branded tonic or ruler inspired chocolate drink. And his early life was miserable. Wearing shorts at seven, when he was already five feet tall, made him a standout target for the usual pranksters at school. He needed chairs and tables to be brought in from senior school. He was a sight, walking around forlornly like a coconut tree in the school compound at recess.

The ring on the wall first caught his attention when he was eight and his life changed. He soon realized he could pretty much jump and put a ball through the hoop without a thought. The wall became his best friend. And nothing could come between them. He pounded away every free minute he had. At times, he had no ball. That did not deter him. Stones, crumpled cardboard and, sometimes, brown paper covered notebooks were all made to jump through his circle of joy.

Soon a senior spotted this wall creeper and got him onto the school basketball court. He was born again. It was like Tom had just met Jerry. By the time he was ten, he was topping six feet and easily was the senior team’s Magic. MC as he soon came to be known grew in leaps and bounds and became the sporting sensation of town. People came to see him running rings around teams from all over and they never went back disappointed.

And as fate would have it, an exchange program saw him in New York and suddenly he was not a freak. He was just twelve and already six and a half feet tall. And by now, he was lethal on the court. It was his court and when he was on it he took no prisoners. He was grabbed by the New York City’s second league Dramstick on a professional contract, smashing all previous records.

MC had arrived. And Chottu was a pleasant memory.

That is the long and short of this tall tale.

Cooking up a storm

The first one was recommended by the local grocer's Bong helper (Dada, He haz worked in a hotel). It took us ten minutes to realise that there are probably lots of jobs in hotels, not necessarily all in the kitchen.

The second was from my home state's neighbour. All reputed to be great cooks and this one did that reputation no harm. He was a lifesaver. He had the speed of a Ronaldo and the artistry of a Giggs all rolled into one. Stuffed baingan and aloo (even the aloo was stuffed), followed delectable dals, interspersed with stuffed bhindi(not a drop of stuffing spilling) and methi chicken. Life was good. The day he earned the tag "Maharaj" was when we asked him if he could cook Biryani. His usually non-attentive eyes blazed with anger. After an hour, the kitchen door opened and he said he was done. After a few beers when we entered the kitchen, we were awestruck. We had a dekchi with its lid sealed with atta, emitting the most amazing aroma, staring at us.

Then he had to go on his annual leave. My parents were arriving in mid-Dec and on hearing that he brought his leave forward and promised to be back by the 20th. And even provided us with a substitute. The sub couldn't do stuffed bhindi but was allright for 20 days, we thought. Well, as of date, Maharaj No 1 hasn't returned. And his sub has found another job.

Two days of ordering in and mish-mash at home and we went back to cook hunting. An old pal obliged and Maharaj No 2 came to meet us. He specialises in veg! The vision of my parents, who think Rui maach is veg, eating daal chapati day in-day out swam in front of me. But beggars can't be choosers.

M2 hits us from this evening.

Will keep you posted.

The Invisible Musician

I never could get what people see in the “upcoming star” of classical music. How times have changed. I remember playing at the Dover Lane music festival. Night after night. Year after year. Now that was magic.

But my opinion is hardly relevant.

Today, we are at the Town hall. It’s wonderful. It’s all lit up and when I look up from my strumming, I see the steps are almost full. Yes, even the buses twisting around Horniman Circle seem to be respecting the dulcet tones of the pretender.

He is not bad. Just that he needs a little more discipline. Since I first strummed behind him, he has put on a few kilos. His voice seems to be struggling at times to get past the last Biryani he had from Ameenas. And he is making up for it by blaming the sound guys.

But then, who am I to blow against the wind. He is, after all: The next voice.

When you are the second string player at these socially conscious gatherings, it's amusing to watch the corporate types lighting the diya. I wonder if they can identify a raga from a regatta. Hey, I am not complaining though, it pays for my rum and pomfret slice at Apoorva’s (the curry is to die for, try it with the neer dosa).

Just that, the Hansadhwani at times makes me want to strangle the black swan.But then, what choice do I have?

Being invisible is one.

Mumbai Mein Har Ghar Kuch Jyada Hi Kehtha Hain

The Bandra lady was very sweet. Her flat was in a building that seemed to be in the running for heritage status. The Guard doubled as the liftman and we learnt that the “oc” of the entire building was yet to come. The lady took us around her 30 second flat and informed us how it was once possible to see the highway out of the “master” bedroom window. The price-Rs 1.35 Crores.

I began to understand the thinking of a dear friend who I thought had lost his nuts when I learnt he had paid well over a million dollars for a place in Parel.

I decided then that all I could possibly hope for is a rental place. And the hunt began again. Bandra, the first choice, seemed to have rediscovered its own value. Any decent place is at a 80k package. The longer it takes you to get to a place in Bandra from Linking road, higher the rent.

I was in Delhi for a pal’s daughter’s first and their three bedroom sprawling flat in GK2 with a Olive-like patio was all of 25k pm!

Mumbai has really gone crazy.

Another close friend who booked a flat in Mahalakshmi 4 years back has seen the value of her flat move from 50 lakhs to 2.5 crores!! And here I was spending hours every day analyzing the fundamentals of Bharti Airtlel, Infosys and RIL.

Yet another of my many friends was down from Singapore and took a day trip to Nagpur to buy land. In Nagpur! He informs me DLF has reached there too.

I am seriously thinking of investigating the US sub-prime crisis and see if I can pick up something in Manhattan.

Will be cheaper than Khargar, me-thinks.

Almost Bees Saal Baad

Today, the venerable Times of India informed us that we are the world. I am still figuring out the implications of that. Its brother, who is in business, gave us seven headlines, all permutations of 20-20. A hot FM station changed its nicely brand aligned promo from giving away Rs 10400 to Rs 20000. And I am looking forward in eager anticipation to all the eye care advertisements that will hit us soon.

The match was a cracker. A 20+20 Khan was doing a Michael Jackson impersonation while a 20+ team showed us how to beat it. Between biting my nails, gulping my beer, smoking my cigarette my mind wandered to the four musketeers whose cumulative age of 8X20 must have been weighing down their thoughts.

Amidst all this, a man from Jharkhand inspired his team to play without fear, made calls that were inspired without knowing so, and finally took off his shirt sans the helicopter act. Almost bees saal pehle, when I was 20 minus, a Nikhanj had inspired us from a famous balcony and taught us to “enjoy”. A braver brighter generation received its clarion call last evening.