tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-130469242024-03-08T11:21:45.065-08:00mumbai mutteringsSuprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-8442483220242504122015-02-02T16:20:00.000-08:002015-02-02T16:30:27.774-08:00Soup, Salad and all that Jazz: London diary #1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">I was pleasantly surprised by the close up shot of a saxophone on the menu
booklet. Even more surprised that there was a nice para on the instrument on
the inside. I learnt that Antoine Joseph “Adolphe” Sax invented the, well, Sax. Set
the right tone of expectation. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Flipping through the wine list, I was
stopped on my way to the Stella by</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> <i>d’Arenberg Olive Grove Chardonnay I
Mclaren Vale I Australia</i></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">The Olive Grove McLaren Vale Chardonnay develops
intense,complex honey, cashew, fig and soft toast aromas. The fresh structured
mid palate retains its texture but opens slowly into generous sweet banana,
butterscotch flavours before finishing with a persistent developed stone-fruit
and chalky texture</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Seriously? Banana, butterscotch, chalk? Now I get
why wine drinkers sniff and swirl the stuff suspiciously before delicately
taking a sip. The aroma of stone and chalk must be JUST right. Thanks, I will
have vanilla with my Artois.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">I ordered a cup of tea.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> <i>Darjeeling
tea I Darjeeling I India</i></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Is the best tea in the world. Drink.</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">The time had come to face my worst
fears. Soup or salad?</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> <i>Soup:
Caraway Infused Roast Carrot Soup<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> Salad: Apple,
Cherry Tomatoes and Cheddar Cheese Salad</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Caraway and Carrot. Apple and Tomato. I was torn;
the cheese finally tipped the balance. I ordered the soup. How was it, you ask?
Unlike the red wine featured above, this soup wasn't confused. It was
carrot soup all right. I swallowed a spoonful.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">In the descriptions of dishes in various eateries,
every spice gets a mention on a fairly regular basis, like caraway, cardamom,
chillies (ground, whole, chopped). It should be made mandatory by law that
chefs have to put down the most important ingredient of all: SALT. Maybe, then
they will remember. Note to self: Add sachets of Knorr soup to survival travel
list.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">That brings me to Paneer Qualiyan. I see all of you
perking up, Quail and paneer! That is a first.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">PQ: Cottage cheese cooked in rich saffron gravy.</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">I ordered the Goan fish curry.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">The fish was Basa. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Sigh.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-55677434753675990252013-01-16T22:31:00.000-08:002013-01-16T22:32:17.035-08:00Tom and the king of butterflies<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">Once upon a
time, in a land not so far away, lived a four year old boy called Tom. He lived
with his Mama and Baba in a beautiful cottage, next to a big jungle. Tom’s Baba
worked in the cheese factory in town, which was a very good thing for Tom as he
could eat as many cheese slices as he wanted.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">Tom loved to peel off the plastic and break the cheese into small pieces
and eat them. He had them for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Tom loved cheese.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">Every morning,
Tom’s Baba would get into his shiny new red car and drive to work and every
morning he told Tom not to go into the jungle on his own: “It’s a very big
jungle and is full of creepers, bushes and trees and you will lose your way and
never will be able to return home”. That worried Tom as he loved his Mama and
Baba and if he got lost he would not be able to be with them. Also, he would
miss having cheese.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">During the
day, while Tom’s mama did her cooking and housework, Tom played in the garden.
Their garden had a swing, a sand pit and lots of flowers. Tom loved running
about in the garden, making sand castles and playing on the swing. He would
swing himself very fast and then hold his head back and look up at the blue sky
and observe the white clouds that looked like big cotton balls to him. He could
usually see Mickey Mouse floating by and once he even saw Barney!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">One day,
Tom was watching the clouds when suddenly a big blue butterfly came over his
head. The wings were as blue as the sky and the edge of the wings were dark as
the night. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">Suddenly,
the butterfly spoke: “Hello Tom, I am the king of the butterflies and wanted to
talk to you”. The voice was velvety with a nice flutter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tom
recovered from his surprise and asked: “How do you know my name and what do
want to talk to me about?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">The king
butterfly replied: “I have been watching you for a few days now and have heard
your Mama call your name. I think you are a very intelligent boy and I wanted
to ask your help for a matter of grave importance.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tom didn’t really
know what grave was but he could make out from the king butterfly’s fluttery
voice that it was important: “Sure I will help you if I can, what is the
problem?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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“Thank you so much, Tom” said the king butterfly and continued, “For you to understand
our problem, you will have to come with me into the jungle and meet all the
butterflies and talk to us. Shall we go?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tom’s heart
sank. He really wanted to help the butterflies but go into the jungle? He did
not want to get lost and miss his cheese for lunch. He got off from the swing
and sat down on the ground with his chin in his hands. What should he do?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">Seeing that
Tom was worried, the king butterfly said “Don’t worry Tom, I will guide you
inside the jungle and I promise to bring you back home before lunch”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tom smiled
and said “C’mon then, we must go quickly”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">They set
off into the jungle with the kind butterfly flying near the top of the trees
and Tom following on the tiny path below. On both sides of the path there were
thick bushes and wide trunks of the tall trees that towered into the sky.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">Suddenly
Tom heard a rustling sound to his right. He was startled to see a small brown
smiling face with two big ears starting at him. It was a monkey! “Where are you
going, Tom” asked the monkey. “I am going with the king butterfly to help him
with a problem” said Tom. The monkey stopped smiling and with a worried
expression said “You must be very careful, the butterflies are very dangerous”.
And the monkey disappeared into the bush.
Tom was most amused, thinking to himself as he skipped along the path
behind the king butterfly “Butterflies and dangerous? What nonsense” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tom had
barely gone a few yards, when he heard another noise, this time to his left.
Over the bushes, he could see two long ears sticking out. It was a rabbit! And
next to the rabbit was a sad looking donkey. And as he moved the bushes aside,
he could see a bear, a baby kangaroo, a striped creature, a small pig and a
baby elephant. And suddenly he noticed up on a tree a bird like creature with
big round eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">They all
reminded Tom of something he had seen somewhere. Do you know who they were?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">Suddenly
Tom remembered “They all look like my friends from Winnie the Pooh” he said to
himself “Rabbit, Eyore, Pooh, Roo, Tigger, Piglet, Lumpy and Owl!” But what
were they doing here? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">Suddenly,
they all started speaking “Tom, what are you doing here?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;"> “I am going with the king butterfly to help
him with a problem” said Tom. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">All of them
went silent and then Rabbit said “Tom that is not very clever of you, the
butterflies are verrrrry dangerous. And we are very scared of them”. All the
other animals nodded in agreement.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tom noticed
that the king butterfly was getting ahead so he waved at the animals and ran
after the butterfly thinking to himself “There is something strange going on
here and I am going to find out what” Tom was a very brave boy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">After a few
minutes, the path abruptly ended and Tom found himself in a clearing in the
middle of the jungle. And what did he see? There were hundred and hundreds of
butterflies floating around. They were of every colour possible-brown, red,
yellow, green, violet, and of all possible combinations-some were blue with red
spots, others were green with red stripes..there were so many..<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">The king
butterfly took Tom to the centre of the clearing and said “Tom is here to help
us”. All the butterflies started twittering at the same time. “Shh” said the
king butterfly loudly and there was silence.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Tom” said
the king butterfly “We are all very worried about these dangerous creatures
that live next to the jungle.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">“What
creatures?” asked Tom. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">The king
butterfly said “Strange ones, one has long ears, there is one with round large
eyes that keeps looking at us, one has strange stripes and keeps jumping up and
down, then there is one with a looong nose,,”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">And all the
other butterflies said in one voice “They are verrrrry dangerous!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tom started
smiling. His face broke into a wide grin. This upset the butterflies. “You are
laughing at our troubles” said one orange butterfly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">“No, no”
said Tom “I was smiling because I can solve your problem. You wait here and I
will be back in a minute.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tom ran
back down the path to where the animals were waiting. He explained to them how
both the butterflies and the animals were afraid of each other and asked them
to come with him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">“No no”
said the piglet “it is too dangerous.” “Could be a trap” said the donkey. They
were not convinced, till owl and rabbit had a discussion and then owl said “We
trust Tom, we will go with him” So, off they trooped behind Tom and entered the
clearing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">On seeing
the animals all the butterflies went into a tizzy and started flying here and
there. The animals also got alarmed and piglet ran back down the path. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">“What is
this, Tom? You have brought our enemies here” said the king butterfly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">“No, no,
listen to me all of you.” said Tom “You are both scared of each other, when
there is nothing to be afraid about. All of you are very nice and should be
friends.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Friends?”
said the donkey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Friends?”
said the yellow butterfly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Friends?”
said the baby elephant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yes,
friends” said Tom. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">The king
butterfly flew over to where the owl and rabbit were standing and asked “Can we
be friends?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Why not?”
said the owl<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">Everyone
broke into laughter and started dancing with happiness. “Friends, friends” was
what you heard all over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">The king
butterfly flew over to Tom, who was standing in the corner smiling broadly and
said “Tom, thank you so much, we will be grateful to you forever”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Now, let
me take you back home, it’s almost lunchtime.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tom ran
behind the butterfly through the jungle. He didn’t want to be late for lunch.
His Mama would be very worried.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">As he burst
into his garden, he could hear his Mama’s voice “Tom, lunch is ready”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">He turned
around, waved at the king butterfly and ran into the kitchen all excited “Mama,
you won’t believe what I did!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yes, yes,
I will listen. First go wash your hands and eat your cheese.” said Mama.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">Tom sat
down with a smile to eat his cheese.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">And
everyone lived happily ever after.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-69461481468867877702010-08-13T01:44:00.000-07:002010-08-13T02:00:42.005-07:00Short’s storyHe was born a chart busting seventy centimeters long and was immediately nicknamed <em>Chottu</em> by an imaginative uncle. A nickname that would, in time, look ridiculous on who was to be India’s biggest sport export.<br /><br /><em>Chottu</em> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />MC had arrived. And Chottu was a pleasant memory.<br /><br />That is the long and short of this tall tale.Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-21032547776414656342010-01-04T21:04:00.001-08:002010-01-04T21:33:44.404-08:00Cooking up a stormThe 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />M2 hits us from this evening.<br /><br />Will keep you posted.Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-56396270235237552752009-03-23T10:22:00.000-07:002009-03-23T10:51:02.214-07:00The Invisible MusicianI 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. <br /><br />But my opinion is hardly relevant. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />But then, who am I to blow against the wind. He is, after all: The next voice.<br /><br />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). <br /><br />Just that, the Hansadhwani at times makes me want to strangle the black swan.But then, what choice do I have?<br /><br />Being invisible is one.Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-2248756462214490512007-10-04T22:56:00.000-07:002007-10-04T23:30:12.544-07:00Mumbai Mein Har Ghar Kuch Jyada Hi Kehtha HainThe 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />Mumbai has really gone crazy. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I am seriously thinking of investigating the US sub-prime crisis and see if I can pick up something in Manhattan. <br /><br />Will be cheaper than Khargar, me-thinks.Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-42060777993873052022007-09-24T23:18:00.000-07:002007-09-24T23:44:20.613-07:00Almost Bees Saal BaadToday, 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-8120926474328842762007-09-20T07:19:00.000-07:002007-09-20T07:24:23.150-07:00Peking Ducks and London SmokesThe cabbie transporting me from Heathrow to St James Street offered me his Statue of Liberty Zippo and asked me if I knew where the name Cheswick was derived from. I had been pestering him with all kinds of questions (is it truly no-smoking all over, do you like Jose Mourinho, how long have u been driving etc) and Cheswick was the nice suburb we were passing at the moment. I was duly silenced as he explained how “wick” is an old English word for market. Cheswick, hence, was the cheese market. Gatwick should be easy for you intelligent reader. And the wicker basket makes so much sense now. <br /><br />I had a series of meetings (read interviews-the British are so polite) with some very intelligent people and needed to smoke in between. The only choice was to walk up and down a definitely chilly street, passing similar sad souls. I did. On my way out to the hotel to check out I noticed the Chequers Tavern right next door. And praise be the lord, there was a bench with a solitary occupant who had a Guiness in one hand AND a cigarette in the other. I soon joined him and smoked nearly half a pack in 30 minutes.<br /><br />The flight back was cold-turkey free. The Duck, however happened as my dear psychiatrist pal and wife were passing though Mumbai on their way to Tanganyika. Or was it Tanzania. We met up at the Taj Land’s End, downed a few single malts and frozen M’s. And made our way to the marvelous Chinese restaurant. We ordered the P Duck as we walked in. And added some ribs as starters and a crab to ensure we didn’t go hungry.<br /><br />Waltzed in the ribs which we ate with gusto and plum sauce. Then came a basket (plain vanilla, not wicker) full of thin pancakes accompanied by a plate of sliced veggies and a plate of yummy brown looking thin slices of duck. We ate silently and purposefully. We were wondering if we had overdone the crabs. <br /><br />The plates were cleared, I lit a smoke. Then the waiter asked if he should get the soup. Soup!! We hadn’t ordered soup. I was about to pick a fight, when it was explained to us that all we had till then was duck skin. This was followed by duck soup and then the main course of duck meat arrived! Phew..and let’s not even talk about the crustacean.<br /><br />Fellow eaters, if you ever order Peking duck just order a glass of water to go with it.Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-54069632796826624432007-05-21T05:50:00.000-07:002007-05-21T05:55:55.350-07:00Met Life?<span style="font-family:arial;">I started my career as a salesman whose territory was “rural” Maharashtra. Essentially meant anything beyond Thane was part of my kingdom. Annexed from the larger Mumbai land, whose rulers had little time to look into the affairs of Nagpur, Nasik and the likes. As happens when you have no expectations any performance seems spectacular and I was scintillating. As a reward for my toils, and they were toils, the fabled land of Goa was handed over to me.<br /><br />Which meant I could officially fly to Goa. Whenever I wanted. That was the good news. I had inherited a dealer whose last year sales was 4 printers. Annual sales. (We used to sell Panasonic dot matrix printers and HP laser printers) My Bombay sales genes were stirred. How could someone possibly sell just 4 printers. Even Aurangabad had managed 20.<br /><br />I learnt that the only flight landed in Goa at 2:15 pm or something. So the zealous sales person took an overnight bus. Bad idea. When I got off at Panjim, I could barely walk. I needed food. I needed water. I needed sleep. It was 9 am and I stumbled into the first hotel that I could spot. I sat, grabbed a waiter and ordered an omelet and toast. The waiter stared for a while and then walked away. I gulped down a glass of water and then looked around. There were four solitary men at four lonely tables, all with an open pint, a glass and a happy expression.<br /><br />I walked over to the Mandovi, registered and fell asleep. Got up at 1 pm, feeling guilty as hell. Called my dealer, No response. Got ready, forfeited lunch and rushed to the dealer’s shop. Felt a little like it was a bandh day, most shops seemed shut except the booze joints. Reached to find my dealer’s shutters down. These were the days of no-mobile. Called him from a PCO and soon had a very sleepy man meet me outside his shop. I had encountered siesta.<br /><br />That first day, despite the Agudas and beaches and prawns that were to follow, remains my most memorable memory of Goa.<br /><br />I think it was the day I met life.</span>Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-89925664321573508252007-03-06T03:35:00.000-08:002007-03-06T04:17:14.980-08:00All That Jazz By The Bar<span style="font-family:arial;">When I walked in that Thursday night, it seemed a bit under par in headcount. I wasn’t complaining as I attached myself to the bar. The draught glass appeared. I took a gulp and looked around.<br /><br />Next to me were two tallish specimens. One a bit rakish. The other a bit fattish. Both a bit loud. Draught beer and vodka tonic and not their first. I slowly swiveled the other way. A really button popping specimen cradling a whisky water smiled at me. My nightmare. I can’t remember names. He looked familiar and effusively greeted me with “Long time, no see”. I murmured the usual “How u doing, boss”. This looked like a one draught night for me.<br /><br />The music could have been better. “You are my hero”, sung as if it was a lead in an Opera version of “Night of the Long Knives” at 11 pm after a day of no ideas for a brand presentation at 1030 am the next day, wasn’t helping. Needed some comforting and numbing. Just as I was about to give up on the night, things, as they are wont to, looked up.<br /><br />She was alone and in a red spaghetti. And she choose to settle down at the bar next to the draught beer and vodka tonic. The whisky water next to me perked up as if he had a ruler shoved up his shirt back. Waiter A looked pleased as plum.<br /><br />Fatty with Vodka suddenly realized that life had a new purpose. The Rake had been informed, who was soon checking out Red Spaghetti in an obviously obvious manner. This was not going down too well with button popper to my left, who was trying to pierce the Rake with his deadly glare. I think the whisky had dulled the usual sharpness of his killer laser eyes.<br /><br />Soon, Rake and Fatty started behaving themselves. That is they starting acting like men. Desmond, old fellow, could have added an entire chapter to his book. Soon, in even louder voices, the best single malts were being enquired about. Water A’s smile grew wider. I think they stopped short of Blue Label. Having spent a grand on thin slices of peat smoked Scottish water, courage was soaring.<br /><br />Then, Spaghetti asked for the bill. Ooops! But the Rake wasn’t giving up. A conversation between Waiter A and Rake ensued at the end of the bar. Outcome: A came and informed Red that Rake had paid her bill. She was a bit flustered but recovered admirably. She accepted graciously, smiled at the Rake warmly, spoke a few words, picked up her handbag and left!<br /><br />Rake and Fatty started an animated discussion about the single malt bill, Button Popper was grinning as if Red had agreed to meet him after closing hours, Waiter A was still smiling. I asked for another and retuned my ears to the dulcet charms of the female Pavarotti.<br /><br />Another day in Mumbai was downing shutters.</span>Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-1168598909565958082007-01-12T02:35:00.000-08:002007-01-12T03:04:14.510-08:00Tata, Sky?<span style="font-family:arial;">The first thing I do when I get up every morning is to open the sliding windows of my living room and take in the breathtaking view of the sea. This Sunday as I lazily swiveled my head my eyes brushed over the tree tops and came to a jarring halt on two discs staring at me.<br /><br />I was transported back to early childhood when, thanks to a soccer world cup, the television set finally entered our living room. My life changed and has never ever been the same again. With Chitrahaar came the perennial running up to the roof and tweaking the multi-spoke antenna. <em>Arre, ektu edike ghora..bas bas..na na abar snow aasche..ulto dike ghora.<br /></em><br />Every rooftop had number of these objects and soon the sky was trapped in a mesh of wires and aluminum rods. Which soon got covered with pigeon shit and other such allied substances.I was the happiest when the cable man made his appearance. The antennas disappeared and though there where thick cables strung across, the sky was blue again.<br /><br />I am dreading the thought that DTH will win and we will be left with a saucerful of sky to look at.</span>Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-1165488421407253062006-12-07T02:39:00.000-08:002006-12-07T02:47:01.420-08:00An Elephant In Coorg<span style="font-family:arial;">The only reason I am still in advertising is the variety. On any particular morning, I may be doing the brand identity for a new mutual fund launch, working on a loyalty program for a petrol client, figuring how to get footfalls into a gold mall, checking out creative thoughts for an internet campaign for the fastest online stock trading offering. You get the picture. Makes my day.<br /><br />The flip side of my job, being on the client facing side of the business, is the requests (to put it politely) that you have to deal with. Usually on Friday post 4 PM the client calls up asking for full fledged finished DMs, for say a new car launch, in Delhi by Saturday morning 10 AM.<br /><br />You turn around and you find one of your trusted aides standing there with a request for an Rs 50,000 advance for a shoot slated for 5 AM in the morning at Madh island. Of course, the photographer needs the money before he leaves for the shoot.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Once a client called me up when I was on my fourth at 8 PM on a Saturday night, asking me if I could organize a wedding photographer for the MDs daughter wedding that was currently underway in a Gurgaon farm. Of course, the photographer was to be there in 30 minutes (that was the Mooharat time).<br /><br />All these situations, an average advertising servicing person tackles without missing a sip. It’s all par for the course. But sometimes even the best are stumped. Especially when there are elephants involved.<br /><br />As I was driving home last night, leaving my worries behind at Lower Parel, I received a call from my man in Bangalore. Boss, we have a problem. I need an elephant. He said.<br /><br />There are very rare ocassions when I actually pull up and stop my car for a call. This was one of them. Now what was that again, I barked into the phone. A long monologue happened. Gist: We are shooting a film in the South of the country. It appears (or not) that there was to be an elephant at the break of dawn. There wasn’t.<br /><br />I took a deep breath. I saw myself calling the Chairman and explaining this one. Sir, we forgot the elephant. Not to worry, we used cows. Hmm. Getting a grip on myself, I asked: Wasn’t a minor object like this covered in the pre-prod? It was and wasn’t as usually is the case. He said I thought it was covered and the client suddenly developed amnesia.<br /><br />As I drove back, my mind was exploring options. Do I know someone who knows the descendant of the Mysore King? Maybe he can get us the pachyderm. What about that photographer I met at Pico’s in Bangalore. He was into wildlife. Oh, my pal in HCL! His wife is from Coorg. Maybe she knows someone who has a few frolicking in the yard. Maybe there is a circus playing in Bangalore…the phone rang.<br /><br />It was my Creative Director on the shoot reporting in. She sounded cheerful. All is well. Shoot’s going like a dream. I dared not ask..what about the elephant? I whispered. Oh that, we changed the scene. We will shoot in Coorg. We spoke to someone and someone had a few spare and a couple of them are en-route at this moment. Will be there in the morning. Don’t worry.<br /><br />Okay, I won’t. Phew.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;"></span>Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-1164269465480569752006-11-23T00:03:00.000-08:002006-11-23T00:33:54.150-08:00Ice Relief<span style="font-family:arial;">Global Warming is not, as I believed till now, a Greenpeace invention for getting funding. Third week of November and you can walk around in Delhi at ten in the night with just a shirt on your back without your whatever-it-is-that-freezes freezing. And let’s not even talk about Mumbai. Willis Haviland Carrier’s invention is still keeping Vijay’s sales registers ringing.<br /><br />The plus for daily Mum-Del passengers is that fog hasn’t yet added to the excuse list for flight delays. The latest, which was pretty innovative I thought, when we finally landed an hour late at the Chattrapati Shivaji International Airport (I really feel sorry for the poor sod who has to announce that) this Wednesday morning was “We are sorry for the late arrival of the flight which was caused by the late departure of the flight from Delhi”. Nice one.<br /><br />Talking about excuses. Our hero, Rahul, came up with a gem after the South Africa slaughter last night: “We can play better”. Even my <em>para</em> team can. But I digress. We were discussing GW. Contrary to what I am experiencing, former scientific adviser to the Prime Minister and eminent scientist Vasant Gowarikar feels that GW has not affected the Indian climatic system. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Gowarikar pointed towards the India Meteorological Departments data on cyclones and rainfall, which are indicators of GW. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />‘‘If we look at the last 115 years of data on cyclones, we will find that the highest number of cyclones (10) hit the country in 1893, 1926 and 1930. If we check last 20 years’ data, the highest number of cyclones in that period, which is six, hit the Indian shores in 1992 and 1998,’’ Gowarikar said.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />He then pointed out that the highest rainfall recorded in the country was in 1917, with 1457.3 cm of rainfall and the lowest was around 913 cm in 1918. ‘‘In the last 20 years, the highest rainfall was recorded in 1988 with 1288 cms while the lowest was in 2000 with 939 cms. If climate change has taken place in terms of warming, that should reflect on this data. But there is nothing to indicate the claims of warming affecting the Indian climate system,’’ Gowarikar said.<br /><br />QED. Perhaps that explains the ice.<br /><br />On that hot November day in Delhi, I ensured that my last meeting was at TGIF. After downing a set of beers (I had <em>only</em> two, another two insisted on making the hour happy) I made my way to the relief centre. As I was about to, I happened to glance down. The pot was full of perfectly formed ice. That caused a pause in normal operations. “What it is” ran through my mind. Is it that I am the only one not feeling the cold. Is Gowarikar right, after all? No answers came to mind. I started operations. Friends, I sizzled.<br /><br />But the ice has been bothering me no end. If you have any <em>Gowarikarisque</em> explanations, please call me.<br /><br />Your favourite pale liquid on-the-rocks is the promised reward.<br /><br /></span><br /><br /></span>Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-1163155944339218022006-11-10T02:49:00.000-08:002006-11-10T02:56:11.960-08:00OFTR<span style="font-family:arial;">I had a favorite beer buddy in Delhi. This was in the days I was pretending to be an entrepreneur (I gave up the day someone pointed out that a Bengali entrepreneur was an oxymoron). This pal was our mentor and helped us by picking holes (and he had an extremely sharp implement for a brain) in every plan we came up with. However, these brainstorming sessions was a flimsy wrap for very long drinking sessions.<br /><br />There is this place in Asiad Village on Khelgaon Marg in the capital which was our favourite hangout. Over the years the place has metamorphosed number of times. From a long benchy (beer lao) place to a warm cozy (pitcher please) hangout to now a very steel and glass (vodka and tonic) kitty party place.<br /><br />Our mentor used to travel from Noida, where he claimed he worked. We never really delved into that side of his life as long as the bubbly was paid for. The sessions had a reassuring repetitiveness about them. The two of us were the core and on different afternoons of the week the number would vary from two to five (depending on whether we were discussing brand names or intricate distribution strategies).<br /><br />Once the business was dealt with, which took about half a pitcher the real business would start. Usually when we reached the fourth pitcher (this was when there was the two of us) one of us would have had enough of the long walk to the men’s and would suggest asking for the bill.<br /><br />“Who said OFTR” would be the refrain from the other party. Invariably neither would have. So another pitcher (it was an insult to our belly guts to order mugs) would have to be ordered. The magic words would be said BEFORE placing the order and the bill requested. That would be the final sign to bring the business discussion to an end. And totter to our respective vehicles.<br /><br />It was a good rule. The ride home did feel much better after that last one for the road.<br /><br /></span>Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-1155814399508938302006-08-17T04:22:00.000-07:002006-08-17T05:31:14.750-07:00Premchand & Flying Crabs<span style="font-family:arial;">The other day I was overcome by the desire to have some juicy crabs. Promptly, set off for Ankur (had my first ever Kiwi Margarita there). Having maneuvered past Kandeel and found the right left and right, I was soon appetizing my stomach with some Karwali Prawns and slices of delightfully cooked Pomfrets. The process being aided by the king of good times.<br /><br />After about 20 minutes arrived the weaponry. A shell cracker (we have all seen that); an intriguing appliance that looks like pliers (“plus” for bongs); and the narrow bone digger. And, of course, the bibs.<br /><br />Another ten minutes and a majestic 8-inch crustacean covered in thick gravy made its grand entrance (how do people have shelled crabs?). My co-eater was looking on kinda intimidated. I, of course, the veteran of crabs grabbed the cracker and set upon the creature.<br /><br />It was a sublime experience. The white gentle meat flaking off the shell countered by a deliciously angry thick masala melting inside the mouth. Friends, it was heavenly!<br /><br />I was reminded of something I had read in school, part of our Hindi reading. Premchand wrote in his story 'Budi Kaki': 'budapa bahuda bachpan ka punaragman hota hai'. The story goes on to explain how older people start craving for the same stuff they did when they were kids and food was top of the pops. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I have certainly purnagamaned.<br /><br />Yes, yes the flying part. Am coming to that. We encountered this particularly sturdy crust which was too small for the cracker. Ah, I thought. That’s what the “plus” is for. No sooner, had I applied a gentle wrist motion a crusty slice spliced off and almost nailed my opposite number. There was gravy on the walls and white meat in the neighbour’s muttor paneer (why on earth would you eat paneer in Ankur!).<br /><br />Things settled down. I got the shell shocked paneer eater some mulligatawny soup and we finished off the crab. They got us buckets with scrubbers to clean our arms and some delicious dried paan to make it the complete meal.<br /><br />It’s when I was leaving that I realized that I hadn’t finished the bottle of beer. Yes, the first bottle. Am sure, all of you who know me well (or even not that well) are reaching for the phone to book an appointment with a crab.<br /><br />And if you don’t live in Mumbai, well…</span>Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-1153914248872523422006-07-26T04:36:00.000-07:002006-07-26T04:58:47.883-07:00Gup-shup at Goks<span style="font-family:arial;">What is about this wonderfully cheap, dirty place called Gokul that draws men like a magnet? The quarter at almost wholesale rate? The spirited air? The tear gas filled interiors? The half chicken tandoori? The dry chicken liver fry? The boiled eggs?<br /><br />Or is it the comforting fact that when you ask for rum you are served the familiar old fellow and not a bat (white or reserved).<br /><br />I believe it’s more than that. There’s something about the combination of all of the above that creates a unique mood for conversation. People chatter at Goks. I have seen men sitting alone and talking to a fried Surmai.<br /><br />The Parsi, the Goan and the Bong were nursing their usual. The conversation was about the yearly turnover of beggars in Mumbai city. The bong had read in the morning rags (he was the only one who read the papers in the group) that it was to the tune of Rs 180 crores (post-tax, of course).<br /><br />Parsi was quick to jump in as he was wont to. (They hadn’t ever discussed a topic that P did not have a first hand experience or knowledge of). “That’s absolutely realistic” said P. He informed that in 1995 he had done a research among Colaba beggars. He was stopped by G and questioned at the need driving this primary research. It was a result, the group was informed, of a bet with a journo where P was trying to prove his hypothesis that beggars were, well, umm.. poor people.<br /><br />P lost an evening’s drink at the Press club. His findings showed that (11 years back) the average take in Colaba was Rs 80. What got to P more than losing the bet was that this amount translated into a monthly sum that was half his salary in his coveted advertising job.<br /><br />The conversation also threw up the fact that the most famous beggar family own a flat in Virar and travel to their respective job locations as most Mumbaites do by the 7:10 Churchgate fast. P was, however, not sure if their dabbas came from home. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Last year, the group was lead to believe, when this famous (yes, famous) beggar retired and went back to his village he sold his spot on the Colaba Causeway for Rs 40,000 to a hawker. Of course, P informed, he would have retained about half of that post deductions by the authorities.<br /><br />It was just an early elevenish when this round wrapped up. P was rushing to catch the bus for his office trip to Mahabaleshwar. Next week I will educate you on how to open the sealed window of a perfectly engineered AC Volvo.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />That too with a bottle opener.</span>Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-1152618781442788932006-07-11T04:48:00.000-07:002006-07-11T05:38:38.083-07:00Close encounters of the head-butting kind<span style="font-family:arial;">In my many years of street-corner hanging out in Calcutta I have been a close witness to lots of <em>phites</em>. The locale, the number of people, the hardware (during the season it would be cricket stumps) involved may have varied but these <em>phites</em> had a very strong common thread.<br /><br />They usually involved two groups of singularly scrawny bong men, with over-the-ear-Amitabh hairdo, in bell bottom jeans pant and blue Bata <em>hawai choti</em>. The script would normally involve cheating-<em>baji</em> in an inter <em>para</em> cricket match or one <em>para</em>’s beauty queen Shampa’s dalliance with another <em>para</em>’s Amit, Potla, or Chandan (in some cases, with all three). These two scenarios covered almost 90% of all incidents.<br /><br />However, there were minor variations to the themes. In the cricket scenario, it usually involved the umpire (the batting team in <em>para</em> cricket supplied the umpires; the concept of a neutral umpire was yet to be born). And the genesis of most arguments would stem from the turning down of what were seen as “plumb” lbw decisions. The other favourite was run-outs. I was once told I had dislodged the bails before catching the ball, this was when we were using bricks as wickets.<br /><br />In the Shampa scenario there were two broad themes. The first, where S is a willing recipient of Potla’s amorous advances. Here the <em>para</em> “elders” and the other guardians of <em>para</em> honour had to tread carefully. Their anger would stem from the fact that a <em>“onno” parar chele</em> has entered their citadel and “lifted” their rose. In the other scenario, S would be receiving unwanted attention from A, P or C. She would have mentioned this to her younger brother, Bapi. B would have conveyed this to the before mentioned <em>para</em> honour maintenance group.<br /><br />In the case of the cricket match the <em>phite</em> would be quite spontaneous and would probably start there and then. In the other scenario, the plotting and planning for the great revenge would go on for quite some glasses of <em>cha</em>. How Potla’s various bones would be dealt with and with what the next time he entered the <em>para</em> would be the central theme.<br /><br />Whatever the build up, the <em>phite</em> would always resemble what we can generously call a damp squib. Two groups would face up to each other and the air would be filled with great thunderous words. Stumps would be waved and the leaders of the packs would be nose to nose held back by their groups. They would be straining forward yelling <em>“chere de, chere de, shala ke aami..”</em> (It’s a time honoured tradition in Calcutta that you never let go off your leader in a brawl). Soon, a peacemaker would emerge and after lot of huffing and puffing, the great <em>phite</em> would peter out and the gangs would return to their “rocks”.<br /><br />The only really educational part of these <em>phites</em> was the colourful and extremely imaginative <em>gaalis</em> that were used. As a rule, fathers, mothers, daughters, grandfathers and grandmothers formed the root of all expletives. And though some overly sensitive participants took umbrage to some of the words, it was generally considered par for the course and never really taken to heart.<br /><br />Made me wonder this Sunday night, while we all watched the tragic events unfold before us in Berlin, what might have happened if Zizou’s parents where from Bengal and not Algeria.<br /><br />C’est La Vie.<br /></span>Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-1150369133970612362006-06-15T03:46:00.000-07:002006-06-15T04:40:32.443-07:00Bihari Bong<span style="font-family:arial;">An old Agarwal friend of mine left a comment on my blog pointing out how even he of the A clan knows that bhaapa is steamed, not baked as I had so heretically mentioned. I look back and think of the Khemkas, Guptas, Jhunjhunwallas, et al with whom I have had the pleasure of sharing my schoolhood with and realize that some of them are far more bong than I ever will be.<br /><br />I grew up reading Hardy Boys, MacLean, Sudden and brown paper wrapped James H Chases. I have never ever read a page of Sukumar Ray. I have read Pheluda in English (does that count?). I listened to the Beatles, Doors, Dire Straits and made fun of my sister’s Robindrasangeet and harmonium.<br /><br />I have no interest in sweets and only recently discovering the pleasures of STEAMED Ilish . Was never a fervent worshipper of the great Cal Puchka. Or for that matter Nizam’s beef roll. I liked the Park Circus Biryani and that too as it had lots of aloo and meat. What I really looked forward to was my mom’s Sunday mutton. That was the peak of my gastric cravings.<br /><br />My friends call me a Bihari, alluding to my five years in Bokaro Steel City. Where the game I came to love was hockey. Hockey! Imagine a Bengali hockey player. I tried my hand at chess and carrom. Was a disaster. Tried table tennis and stopped when a nine year old thrashed me. And I suspect he was being respectful. I was no good at quizzing and all I did was sip beer at DI and eye the pyts.<br /><br />All through college I wore blue jeans and fake Lacostes. Admittedly, I sometimes brought out my heritage by matching them with blue bathroom slippers. But that was about it. And as recently as last Saturday at a party at the castle, a Gourisaria walked in wearing kurta, jeans and chappals. A bong if you have ever met one.<br /><br />I hear Bong rock groups are reviving Rabindranath’s lyrics. I have heard a few strains. Could recognize the lead and the bass. Sounded like the Rolling Stones.<br /><br />Maybe there’s hope for me yet!</span>Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-1149165613305942592006-06-01T05:37:00.000-07:002006-06-01T05:40:13.316-07:00On an Island<span style="font-family:arial;">“Remember that night, white steps in the moonlight..sharing a dream, on an island, it felt right..”<br /><br />Listening to David Gilmour’s latest, I was reminded that I live on an island too. Not that it strikes one during the course of an ordinary day. One is very aware of the sea in Mumbai but one really misses the palm trees. People argue that Mumbai is not really an island anymore. I tend to disagree.<br /><br />One has to step off a train at VT and realize that we live in a sea of humanity. And despite these millions around us we are marooned in our tiny insignificant lives. We are all as lonely as we would have been if we had only sand and coconuts to keep us company.<br /><br />The efficiency that we are so proud off is just an outcome of Mumbaites trying to reduce their feeling of desolation. Everyone gets to work on time such that they find comfort in the known and the living. And post, we continue holding on to each other at the local bar. As long as we all catch the 12:45. It’s only when you live in Mumbai that you realize that when people talk about the “spirit of Mumbai” they are being literal.<br /><br />We live literally, metaphorically, and philosophically on the greatest island of them all. And guess what. We absolutely love it!</span>Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-1147776170413802872006-05-16T03:36:00.000-07:002006-05-16T03:42:50.433-07:00Mondy’s Ka Silsila<span style="font-family:arial;">Café Mondegar, at Colaba, is by far my favourite beer joint. The combination of chilled draught, beef in a sinful sauce and chilli cheese toast with mustard (at the right thickness-you must tell them to go slow on the water) never appears to lose its sting. I spend hours looking at Mario M’s cartoons, chatting up the waiters, and smoking endless GFK’s. Everything seems okay with the world when I am in Mondy’s.<br /><br />The killer-ap in Mondy’s is the jukebox. The simple promise of being able to listen to your own poison, from Floyd to Straits to REM, is absolutely compelling. True, on a four pitcher evening, one has to suffer Summer of 69 about that many times. But you forgive that after the second visit to the newly done up relieving room. I have even let Dancing Queen slip by on occasions.<br /><br />You can then possibly begin to imagine my horror when after the second glass and third smoke, just when I was beginning to relax; the silent jbox suddenly emitted the very familiar tune from the movie Silsila! Believe me, my loyal readers; I am not making this up because it makes a good piece header. It’s totally true. My jaw hit the mug. This was sacrilege. My Mecca had been defiled.<br /><br />I sat through the seemingly endless song. And then took matters in my own hand. I projected I would be there for at least another one and a half hours. That’s about 17-18 songs. Tokens were procured and in two installments I loaded 17 songs. From Ugly Joe Kid to CCR. And everything in between. After the fifth song a semblance of order had returned.<br /><br />I had a severe word with the management and have been promised that it was a never to be repeated overzealousness on part of one of the new staff who hadn’t yet grasped the brand essence of Mondy’s.<br /><br />Hopefully, this is now a closed chapter.<br /><br /><em>Note to all Hindi music fanatics</em>: I have nothing against Silsila or Hindi music in general. But there is a place for everything. And Mondy’s definitely isn’t the place!</span>Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-1145599266886459822006-04-20T22:55:00.000-07:002006-04-20T23:11:12.263-07:00Twiggy, Fatty and Big Brother<span style="font-family:arial;">One was caught by surprise by the chill in the hills. Dressed in shorts and Tees, one had to actually use a heater in mid-April. The weather demanded a fire and we got one on the second evening. It was a fire which kept us occupied for over four hours. Not just because it was a roaring one but some of the wood took on distinct personalities.<br /><br />Right at the beginning among the merrily burning members, we spotted Fatty. Sitting across the fire, sticking out on both ends, it showed early signs of non-cooperation. While its brethren were turning to ashes, Fatty hadn’t even started sweating. We concentrated a minor arsenal under its belly and were sure that sooner than later it would give in.<br /><br />Then there was Twiggy. Thin and dainty and its ends shaped liked a wishbone, she was our ally. We kept her out of the fire, using her instead to maneuver her friends and relatives to the most strategic spots. She had the tendency to join in the fun and her tips constantly burst into flames which we kept dousing by beating her on the turf.<br /><br />Soon the first lot was reaching its end and reinforcements arrived in numbers. Big Brother was here. As robust as Fatty but with a temperament in direct contrast. In seconds, Big Bro was alive and kicking and there was cheer all around. Fatty observing our glee with Big B tried to join in the merriment but his heart really wasn’t in it.<br /><br />With the wonderful night well past pumpkin hour, we ended Twiggy’s misery. She burnt merrily, crackling with delight. Fatty singed and crackled a bit but was left the solitary weeper. We left them at peace and retired. Roasted to our bones.</span>Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-1143547765653695492006-03-28T04:06:00.000-08:002006-03-28T04:09:25.663-08:00P.S: Its’s Jet Lag!<span style="font-family:arial;"><br />The signs are portent. If you are a faithful of a certain Mr Peter Senge’s systemic thinking, travelling in India today is a mine of data. The unfortunate few whose privilege cards change metal colour with rapidity are seeing a crumbling of all things good around them.<br /><br />Last week, having finished work earlier than expected, I was dashing back to Mumbai from the Capital. Was trying to get on to a 5:25 flight or a 6:00 flight (both were, of course, leaving at 6:30). It was mayhem. There were platinum people jostling with first time fliers at a counter manned by an extremely sweaty and harassed lady who was trying to make seats meet. The platinum people were getting extremely vocal at the plain blue treatment been meted out to them. Brand affinity was walking out of the emergency exit.<br /><br />Giving up on the tickets and reconciled at another wait in the lounge and a late night taxi fare, I demanded my free glass of beer and a place to smoke. I was pointed to a corner under the only sign that encouraged people to desist from the terrible habit. The corner was a mess. The ashtray was full. The table was filthy and there were hapless waiters running around. The signs were for all to see.<br /><br />The gentleman from the bank (that has just bought out the man with the golden sacks) looked around him, smiled wryly and said “if we can’t handle two years of 8% growth, what will we do”<br /><br />PS would have had a lot to say. Look out India Inc. Something’s giving.</span>Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-1134658554949206072005-12-15T06:51:00.000-08:002005-12-15T07:29:41.730-08:00Anywhere Else in Kolkata<span style="font-family:arial;"><br />A night to remember. My brother, his wife (SIL) and yours truly trooped off one fine October evening to paint the town vermillion. The first stop was at the imaginatively named Big Ben at the Kenilworth. It was the weekend. It was nine. We were alone. Not entirely true. Half a dozen liveried gents pushing all kinds of nuts were there to keep us company. And, of course, our own personal DJ.<br /><br />When we left, which was about one small rum and coke and two draughts later, no one had disturbed us. Except, of course, the above-mentioned world musician. Who played for us every kind of mix he could concoct. All this while the lights over the empty dance floor discoed. A polite request for the Beatles, who we assured him, had seen more of the Big Ben than DJ Suketu was met with a bhangra rap that sounded like, if you can only imagine, Bishen Singh Bedi singing along to Brett Lee. My brother, who had picked the joint (and I suspect that decison had something to do with his seven odd years of wandering in Bolton), was getting very belligerent. We decided to give peace a chance and left.<br /><br />We exhaled and directed our man for the evening to make haste to the Park. We stepped on to the lobby and like rats followed our ears to the bars of Wish You Were Here wafting out of Someplace Else. Why we even bother to experiment in Calcutta I don’t know. A totally unknown group held us enthralled through a baker’s dozen of Pink Floyd’s best. A performance I am sure even Roger and David may have nodded at.<br /><br />My SIL, who has converted my brother from a Jimi Hendrix worshipper into a rabid Bong music freak (he buys modern bong group music and distributes to his pals), had had enough. So we experimented more. Landed up at Sheesha Bar. Seemed like a place out of Mumbai or Delhi. I was comfortable amongst the miniskirts, long bar, and continuous jostling.<br /><br />This is where I proceeded to make a total fool of myself. I asked my SIL if she had tried a hookah before. No one had. We bravely ordered a double apple (or was it a tangerine twist) hookah, which arrived some two rums later. After taking care to meet my brother (the doc)’s hygiene standards of having fresh “suckers” (what on earth are they called), we proceeded to smoke.<br /><br />After lots of bubbling water and strained lungs, smoke filled our mouth. Joy on our faces. SIL and mine ie. We puffed and huffed for 30 minutes. Then my SIL, decided to understand the technology and asked the bartender, where the stuff was stuffed. Aghast the man replied, “Madam, this is entirely tobacco free”.<br /><br />We had been sucking on charcoal smoke.<br /><br />Time had come to go home and start some serious drinking.<br /><br /><br /></span>Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-1129378117650152962005-10-15T04:44:00.000-07:002005-10-15T05:08:37.660-07:00Uncomfortably Numb<span style="font-family:arial;">I missed my blog deadline again. It's not that I am that busy. Or lazy. Unfortunately, I havent been able to think of a single interesting lead-in or a witty title. My blog is, as most blogs, observations I make as I meander though life. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The last couple of weeks have been pretty unspectacular. The only thing in my life is work - targets, new business, outstanding payments, year end budgets, meaningless meetings. A numbing procession of menial tasks that make me wonder at the wonder of the advertising world. I may as well have been wearing pinstripe suits and signing vouchers in a bank. Atleast I would have had my dream BMW by now. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">But like a creature in a out of home sitaution, I stray. But what the hell this is my blog. Did you know that out-of -home is now the fancy name of the hoarding business. I tell you. We advertising people are amazingly good at justifying our existence.In the beginning it was pretty simple: if business had a problem to solve or an opportunity to take advantage of, advertising was about creating communication to help business do that. Now suddenly you have above the line, below the line, through the line, around the line, integrated, interactive..and if this wasn't enough we have gone and put India's hottest male star in a bath tub with rose petals.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I am numb.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Someone launch another Beatle campaign and save my life.</span>Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13046924.post-1128084155252522092005-09-30T05:25:00.000-07:002005-09-30T05:42:35.260-07:00Hazy Insights<span style="font-family:arial;">The foundation of the advertising business, it’s claimed by some, is to know the pulse of the masses. And bars, for me, have been an important (the less charitable amongst my friends would say only) source of insights. I visit all types and denominations of bars (to ensure that I am covering all segments of the target audience, of course)</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />To give you a perspective - Rs 500 for four: at Goks it means you are drunk, at Mondy’s you have been to the loo three times, at Zensi you have got a veg starter (3 aloos and lots of leaves), at Jazz you owe the doorman Rs 300 as entry fee, at the Shack you have already heard Dancing Queen thrice, at Toto’s heads have started banging, at the Lobby Bar you are still negotiating at the entrance.<br /><br />You get the picture.<br /><br />What follows are 3 of my not-so-deeply guarded trade secrets gathered through years of slightly out of focus research:<br /><p><br />3. No one actually likes Vodka and Red Bull</p><p><br />2. 40% of all Biharis wear trousers and are all in Mumbai. 40%, according to the pants, are having a ball in Bihar (they don't have time to put on trousers). The balance, according to advertising folklore, is in the IAS.</p><p><br />1. M/F, SEC AB, Age 12-21, residing in Bandra (the only civilized place in Mumbai) don’t require sleep at night. Initial research says it’s something to do with reclamation and Mount Mary.</p><p>It's Friday evening. Time to go to work.</p><p></span> </p>Suprio Guha Thakurtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07132018011624143137noreply@blogger.com2