Happy pills

23 May

Coke Studio is like my boomerang music. No matter how far I fling it, it comes back. Harder. Knocking me down all over again, like it is the very first time. That is probably the single biggest thing that separates good music from the bad. The good stuff never really leaves you. Like the classics, like good old real rock, like The Beatles. You know how you never outgrow them? That’s what I love about it. Repeat-value. Even after a 100 plays, I am still as excited and enchanted when these playlists make a comeback into my system. I’m pretty sure many years from now I’ll be sharing the Coke Studio awesomeness with several nieces  and nephews.

It all started with the kickass first scene of The Reluctant Fundamentalist, along with the rest of the lovely soundtrack that featured several Coke Studio favourites of mine. Naturally, I’m back to savouring these little happy pills again. In not-so-small doses, of course.

Can you tell I really, really love Coke Studio? Is it too early to do round two of my ode to them? So soon after the last one? If you think it is, shut this tab and go back to whatever it is you were doing. If you want some more nuggets of musical genius, stay. Scroll, hit play, enjoy.

Coke Studio has done a lot of good for my listening. It’s widened my perspectives and introduced me to kinds of music I wouldn’t know. Like Pashto — traditional Afghani music, characterised by the use unequal metres in percussion. There’s just no way you can listen to a pashto track sitting down. It is smack-you-in-the-face, get-up-and-tap-your-feet-music music for me. Unless of course you’re in an office. In which case you make do with some not-so-subtle shoulder shaking and grooving, ignoring the speculative stares your co-workers give you. At least, that’s what I used to do.

Speaking of happy music, nobody does it like this man does. If a song has the capacity to make you break down into a stream of happy tears, its done its job.

And then there’s my go-to light, happy-happy instrumental track. Never fails to make me groove a bit. In the car, in my home walking from my desk to the kitchen, while cooking and when the dude in the kitchen opposite me is staring into my kitchen window, while out for a walk, any.goddamn.time.

That is my track that proves you don’t need words. You just need some good old musical sense. The kind that seems to be fast disappearing off the face of this planet. That, and some funk. Like the old man violinist at 1.01. Oh and if you have a pretty face like the backing vocals girls Zoe and Rachel Viccaji, it definitely helps.

Okay, I can see why good music is a rare package to find. Hmm.

Then there’s my quintessential rain music. The few tracks that always make a comeback when the rains hit, get played over and over till the husband wants to throw me out of the house, with complains about how we never listen to his kind of music. I don’t know how this kind of music can ever get dull, or monotonous, or unpleasant.

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Do you think its something they eat that makes their voices so unbelievably grainy and sexy? Grain with lilt is the ultimate sex-on-tape music for me and that’s why I love these men.

Or maybe its that grubby stubble that makes me a little weak in the knees and clouds my judgement.

And because this whole second helping of happy pills was brought on by the soundtrack of that movie I just watched, I must share with you the other favourite track that was covered too, by Atif Aslam. Here is the original by an original diva. They don’t make ‘em like this anymore.

Apart from introducing me to Pashto, Coke Studio has showed me a riffy side to traditional Qawwalis, another one for a dark, rainy night.

Forced me to give Atif Aslam another change, and he did so good.

Showed me the powerhouse that is Abida Parveen.

Most of all its given me hours of endless happy music and kept me coming back for more and more and more. But I’ll stop now, and let you discover the magic for yourself.

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Coming out

22 May

On FB that is. It really has felt like a monumental move, like coming out into the world, marking another checkbox in social-acceptance. After weeks of everybody and their aunt telling me how much I am missing out, what a great “marketing tool” (read: pimp-mobile) it is, last week I  decided to bite the bullet and do it. I came back out into the world, in a way that my little world will accept me.

Real-talk: I am in the midst of a fairly big overhaul for the food blog. Some changes, large and small, are afoot. In time, I will be taking the blog down to smooth the edges, and introduce something new. Since the husband and I are managing this change ourselves, learning on the go and working out the kinks on our own, it might take a while before we get a slick, smooth site up and running. There may be a brief period of time where you do not have access to Hungry & Excited.

So if you’re interested in staying in touch, or in tune with the food blog in its newer avatar, do like the Hungry & Excited fb page, because it is where you will get updates for what is to come.

I turned on the fb charm on myself, albeit in a slightly contrived and unnatural way than I’d have liked to, because it seems blog -> website -> fb page is the only logical progression these days. I fought it for as long as I could, and the last straw came when I realised that the proposed Hungry & Excited overhaul that has been in the works for a while, might result in some feeds and links being broken. So I figured an fb page could act as a temporary space of interaction. I hate having succumbed, I hate it every morning when I have to sign in and grit my teeth and force myself to make a customary “update”, but I’m trying to make peace by looking at this as a good time for a healthy purge in subscriptions, hoping that those that only those who enjoy the cooking and photo sharing, those with whom I have a healthy exchange of information and learning, and with others like me in the foodie-novice space, will come back to reconnect. And the rest will peacefully fall off the grid.

So what’s new on fb for a returned user like me? On the surface, nothing really. Everything looks new, but more like a non-user-friendly rearrangement of what was. I find everything a lot more complicated than it used to be. Though I asked around and everyone seems to think otherwise. Maybe I am just rusty.

I have to say, for someone who had been away close to two years and not missed it at all, for someone who was a serial status updater and serial photo uploader just two years ago, coming back has left me more than underwhelmed. There was the initial tizzy of rediscovering people, re-adding them, constantly getting bombarded by requests, and dealing with a gazillion notifications, but in just 2-odd days that died down and I had the okay-now-what? moment too.

What I do love is the access to groups and pages, which was just about starting off when I decided to get off fb last time. The idea of mini forums of discussion and interaction seems to have picked up a lot more steam in the interim. That, is definite improvement, a new pro. I know it isn’t just me who seems a bit bored or meh with the concept of fb-as-it-was, because my newsfeed doesn’t really change all that much and as often as it used to. Almost everybody else on my list, seems to have outgrown doing the things we once did all the time on fb — pictures, status updates, yada yada. I find more activity on the pages and discussion forums. I didn’t really  need yet another channel for that, as if I don’t get enough of it on my own blog, the scores that I frequent and my mostly-here-for-the-reading attitude to twitter.

When I was away I sometimes missed the number of intelligent dialogues and debates I got to witness, the links that were thrown around that I would probably not have seen otherwise, but now I find even that noisy, shrill and unnecessary. I find way too many people engaging on huge debates on fb, and I am not sure too many of them do anything about any of the issues in real life. I feel its better to do a little bit in whatever way you can, and keep quiet about it, than vehemently share opinions all over the place and do nothing at all. As for the links, I find them all on twitter, where I choose what I want to see, minus the unnecessary onslaught of pictures, sponsored feeds, game requests and check-ins (yes, some people still do that shit!).

I look back to what I missed when I was away form fb, and I cannot think of much. Since I had already thinned down my friends list beyond recognition, eliminating those I didn’t care to connect with, it was easy to get off, stay off and not want to come back. With the real friends that I have, I hung on to gtalk, whatsapp, lots of email and the good old telephone calls to stay in touch. Oh look! We managed to be friends even outside of fb! So it seems that charm of staying-in-touch is not the central one anymore. I have to admit, I wasn’t even tempted and haven’t yet indulged in any fb stalking, also something I used to do a fair bit. In fact I barely even look at my personal page, friends list or newsfeed anymore.I log in, go directly to my groups feed, scrool, read, log off.

I’ve realised that fb has transformed itself from being the place to connect with people you once knew, to find people you’ve lost touch with, and stay in touch with those in your circle to this massive marketing vehicle to sell pretty much anything. Fb has given a lot of mediocre opinions a lot of importance. Its become a place to breed mediocrity of all kinds. Every second Johnnie with a DSLR now has his own firstname-lastname-photography page. Every blogger like me has a page to pimp our work. Every business is screaming offers and sales at us. Which is okay by itself I suppose, and which is why I am there too. Pimp. Pimp. Pimp.

But when did it get so easy to take the shortcut from hobbyist to expert? Fb seems to have become the quick route, the one that bypasses the rigour and learning that used to go into mastering any art form or skill. Take the fb route, circumvent the long and hard way, and jump directly to the end where you have a million fans.

I’m sorry if I sound old-school and aunty-like, but this is what I really believe. Actually I’m not sorry. Because 10,000 likes does not equal to any kind of real validation about my writing or cooking skills. Even a million likes on my page and a thousand followers on the blog will not make me a chef. Not unless I go through the rigour of culinary school. Not unless I finally go to baking school, put in the 10,000 hours of effort that are needed to make me an expert or an outlier and then I get out there and wow you. No matter how many nice things you say about my food pictures, will encourage me to rewrite my bio calling myself a photographer. I am an amateur hobbyist at best.

Until then, I am just an average home-baker, an over-enthusiastic home-cook, looking for yet another way to reach out to like-minded people. I’m just another sucker, pimping my blog on fb.

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Because I’m a sucker for the David in every story

20 May

They say that every story in the history of time is born from one of seven plot lines. The victory of good over evil, the underdog rising to shine, the supposedly-meek taking on the powerful and emerging victorious, the quintessential David and Goliath story has always been my favourite kind. What can I say, I’m a sucker for the underdog. In the most cliche fashion, I feel for the David in every one of these stories and get teary eyed at all the predictably soppy moments in his/her journey and shut the book or come out of the movie hall determined to give it a second, third and a fourth go. So its no wonder that I loved Mira Nair’s The Reluctant Fundamentalist even more than the Mohsin Hamid’s novel by the same name. In fact, I loved it so much that despite dragging my mildly hungover and sleep-deprived self to catch the first oddly-timed show, I managed to get myself to grab a quick lunch and go right back to catch the next oddly timed show. Sacrificing even my Sunday siesta.

Yep, I loved it that much. I’m just going to come out and say it: the movie beat the book, for me. And that almost never happens. I think it worked exceptionally well because unlike most adapts that take a novel in its pure form and crunch it down to translate its visual representation, this one took the essence of the story, the core themes of the book, and dressed them in a film-friendly plot. So while the basic premise for both was the same — Changez Khan’s narration of coming into his own — the novel did it via an aching love story in the tumultous post 9/11 period, and the movie chose to tell the story with a greater focus on his struggle with religious fundamentalism during the time after 9/11 and the resulting transformation in his dreams in life.

I’ll admit, I went in to the movie with no expectations because I am usually disappointed when a loved book is turned into a movie. So I was prepared for whatever was to come. A large part of the impetus to go was to watch Meesha Shafi act, given my perpetual crush on her. It didn’t matter that it is a small and simple role.

From the moment go I was totally into it. The Coke Studio-heavy soundtrack definitely helped. The opening titles begin with Fareed Ayaz and Abu Muhammed performing Kangna in the home of the protagonist, one of my most loved qawwalis from Season 4, and the whole scene, juxtaposed with the opening crime. Beautifully built into a crescendo until all hell breaks lose. Musically and cinematically. Goosebump-inducing stuff for me. I’ve looked high and low to find the opening 10-odd minutes of the movie, with zero luck, so I’ll give you this.

The way the story is told is really genius. The narrative unfolds over a few hours of the protagonist narrating his life story, with events going back and forth, threaded together by a not so subtle expose of the economic and religious machinery at work in international relations, especially in the wake of a crisis like 9/11.

Through the underdog’s story, the role the superpower plays in influencing perceptions of entire nations and people is revealed. The world was quick to label every Muslim a terrorist and America got away with some high levels of arrogance, xenophobia and meted out several acts of widespread violence and injustice. While watching it, squirming in my seat, I also did acknowledge that its probably why they have never been attacked at that level ever again, unlike closer home, where bomb scares, threats and explosions are becoming part of every day life.

But how can that kind of blind xenophobia ever be justified? Stories like The Reluctant Fundamentalist bring the flip side to the fore. It gives the underdog’s point of view importance and shows that eventually everyone’s battle is about coming into ones own. Whether you are an economic superpower, a religious fundamentalist or just an ordinary man chasing the American Dream, the journey is the same. Of achieving a dream, however big or small, and invariably the path to get there is to stick to your fundamental beliefs, unflinchingly.

Changez’s personal crisis develops when his personal dreams clash with those of his country and home. Like I said, the story is revealed over a conversation had between him and a journalist, but actually covers a large span of his life. And even though it is told in that painfully beautiful style that is Mira Nair’s work, the plot is tight, with adequate surprises and twists and turns, and had me glued right till the end, despite having read the book.

Cinematically too, it was beautiful and a couple of scenes, like the opening one, a couple of tea house sequences and the burial in the end, had me choked up. In one word, gorgeous.

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Here, now.

17 May

Just when I felt like things were finally moving, I find myself tired from not doing much, still wilting in the heat and wondering what magic potion I can take to get me going again. Even though I’m plodding along, trying hard to stick with my plan and ticking of little steps along the way, I long for someone to take over and just direct me, so I can do as I’m told.

As much as I like my time alone and the space and liberty it gives me to plan and work around things the way I want to, I have realised this works best when I am doing self-motivated, personal projects. When it comes to doing something that I need to put out there, I am horribly un-self-managed. I am and always have been a soldier, rather than a leader. So recently, I’ve wished that I belonged to a team of worker ants. Or even just having that one other work partner, who is as enthusiastic as me. I would probably get things done much faster, without feeling the energy flailing.

I do well when directed. And going on this way sometimes makes me feel a bit frustrated. Especially when the going is slow, which it is, because so much depends on me and my energy to get things done. Which would be great if I had nothing else to do but power through my life like it were a list of to-dos. But on the flip side of the to-dos, is life. And all the things I like to pack into it.

You see this stay-at-home-and-wear-many-different-hats business is (believe it or not!) sometimes tiring. When you’re one person trying to juggle keeping a home, cooking two healthy meals a day, handling three different projects at any given point of time (the third one being a personal project that seems to always get shoved on to the back burner), also trying to squeeze in time to work out, read, spend time with the husband, meet friends and like that wasn’t enough go and resurrect your facebook page (still unsure about this move, more on that soon) too, things tend to, er how shall I put it — stretch a bit.

It has a lot to do with my innate need to do many things all at once. I recently found myself explaining to some friends, that even though I am at home all day, for many days, and while I do revel in the occasional day where I allow myself the luxury of doing nothing at all, I am mostly packed to the brim with activity. Rarely does a moment go by empty, bored, uninterested. My head is bursting with ideas for things to go myself, for the home, the kitchen, the blog, I can barely keep up. My to-do lists (yes, there are multiple ones in multiple locations) are running on faster than I can keep up with them. Between meeting my work deadlines, making time manage both blogs over-enthusiastically, cooking, planning more cooking, having people over, socialising, trying to keep the reading and writing going, and I feel exhausted.

So this is the worker ant me, trying to do it all. Some times failing, reminding myself, sometimes unsuccessfully, that I have to prioritise and settle for what I can get. That I have to make my peace with fewer, small victories. Especially because earlier this year I consciously decided to pare down my life, down to the things I most wanted to do. Somewhere I have let my ambitious dreams take over.

It’s time to spring clean my head a bit, realign priorities, not get sucked into internet-hyped marketing crap, and remind myself that this sabbatical has and always should be about simplicity. About staying true and letting things happen in their own time. About staying active, but not letting the pace of things tire me out. About staying honest to my intentions and letting the rest happen if it must. About doing one thing at a time, but doing it well.

So its good that yesterdays mindles internet meandering lead me to another very epiphanic discovery. Allow me to share with you, exhibit A:

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I am usually torn between feeling stupid for having such unimaginatively simple, cheesy, Pinteresyt-packaged words get me to sit up and take notice; and feeling obviously stirred up and grateful that the jolt, simple as it may be, came at the right time.

Now is as good a time as any to be reminded that I need to do what I can do best, with what I have. While hopes and plans and dreams are good, I need to re-hash what I have on hand so I can do it well, treading one careful step at a time, rather than taking over-ambitious strides that actually lead me nowhere. This is where I need to focus on. Because there’s really no better way to enjoy the here and the now, than to be in the here and the now.

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Coke gets me high

14 May

No powdery white contraband substances for me. No vile, dark liquids passed off as cola either. The only kind of Coke that gets me really high is Coke Studio. The Pakistani variety, to be really specific.

This post has been a long time coming, ever since I promised here that I list my top 5 reccos from the beauty that is Coke Studio Pakistan. I dilly-dallied over it for the longest time because I couldn’t commit to just 5 tracks. I had a horrible time choosing from my favourites. Every time I made a list, I felt like I was letting the excluded tracks down. I even consulted with friends, fellow Coke Studio junkies, and everyone agreed — top 5 was just not enough. I would be doing the show and the musicians an injustice, given the hundreds of hours of intoxication, entertainment and emotion I have enjoyed thanks to the show.

If you’ve been reading this blog for long enough you might think I’m being a stuck record with the Coke Studio Pakistan love, when I lay it thick as I usually do. My love for the Pakistani original increased many times over when the lame Indian imitation hit MTV. I was overcome with a feeling of anger and frustration that a so called music channel can pander to the incestuous, you-scratch-your-back-I’ll-scratch-yours melting pot of mediocre music that forms the majority of the Indi-pop and Bollywood scene these days. Leslie Lewis doesn’t know his elbow from his arse, when it comes to composing and producing a show like this, and I felt outraged at the sham that he put up, two seasons in a row. I felt like it went against the philosophy that is at the heart of a show like this one.

I can’t think of a single day that has gone by without listening to at least one Coke Studio Pakistan track. I have gone through highs, and seriously obsessive phases of listening to a single or a couple of tracks on loop, all day, for days on end. And even in the lows, when my interest shifts, I still play a track or two every now and then. But the love came rushing back this past weekend when we plugged in out iPods at the shack in Arambol, and I realised that both Shashank and I had playlists that were almost 70-80% Coke Studio led. That is some serious love, I think. And now I feel compelled to share the love.

Because it was impossible to drill down this list to just 5 tracks, I have cheated a bit and plugged in a few extra tracks. I’m sure you won’t mind.

1) Chori Chori – Meesha Shafi, Season 3

This was the track that introduced me to Coke Studio, in 2007 and I remember being completely bowled over Meesha Shafi. For her voice, her poise, her confidence and for pulling off that illegally gorgeous shade of red lipstick. This is one of the songs I listen to only on youtube, because the video adds to the intoxication. I have harboured a serious crush on her ever since, sometimes listening to her tracks into the night, dreaming about her and discussing the nitti-gritties of the Meesha Phenomenon with the boys.

If you find her as lusciously beautiful, check out Alif Allah and Dasht-e-tanhai also featuring her. Strong contenders that almost made the list too.

2) Chal Diyay – Zeb & Haniya and Javed Bashir, Season 3

Sometimes music inspires instant love and this track did that for me. Javed Bashir’s grainy, raw unbridled vocals perfectly complemented by Zeb’s supple, sweet voice make this track so laden with emotion. It gives me goosebumps. Every. Single. Time.

I was charmed by Zeb and Haniya for the longest time after I first heard them and was introduced to how upbeat and rock-y Persian music could be, with so little effort. Bibi Sanam and Nazar Eyle are some of my other Zeb and Haniya favourites.

3) Rang Laaga – Sajjad Ali and Sanam Marvi, Season 4

Coke Studio hits are definitely women-heavy, with the sheer variety and spectrum in female voices rocking the series. Sanam Marvi and Sajjad Ali are another duo that work like a charm. There is a certain inexplicable beauty that comes through when a duo fall in sync so perfectly and completely, this is one track that really brings that to life for me. I wish more Indian female singers in the commercial realm would aim for a voice with such body. I’m so sick fo the Shreya Ghoshals and the Sunidhi Chauhans of the world. Its time to bring some bass back to our music.

I have always applauded Rohail Hyatt’s sense of balance. In using the right blends for the most appropriate tracks. Rockifying only those tracks that lend themselves to heavy instrumentation, knowing when to cut back and keep things simple, letting the words shine through in lyric-led tracks, using the brightest and best voices for those tracks that need range and emotion. Rang Laaga has the right blend of rock influences, getting heavier as the song ends, yet without leaving you wanting to shut the music off. Neray Aah and Saari Raat are two of my other favourites from this category.

4) Seher – Farhan Rais Khan, Season 5

I was tempted to exclude this one from the list because I have already posted it as one of my favourites. Cheeky way to free up a spot for another track I’m dying to squeeze in. But this list would be sorely incomplete. So here is Seher again, bringing you the Sitar like you have probably never heard it before.

Season 5 was the best season by far, with every episode having at least 2 tracks worth remembering and turning into earworms. It was also the season with some really intense/heavy (lyrics-wise and music-wise) tracks, like Rung and Wah Wah Jhulara.

5) Aik Alif – Noori and Saieen Zahoor, Season 2

I have always been a sucker for rustic, unrestrained throw that folks singers are blessed with. The way that they effortlessly toss their voices around, hitting every note perfectly and making it look like child’s play, gets me every time. Saeen Zahoor is one such voice. He performed in Goa in 2011 and I still kick myself for not finding a way to crash the gig. Noori has a vocalist who manages to do the same, but with some degree of rock-refinement. Listen to the track and you’ll know what I mean. He has a polished, yet effortless throw and knows how to use it well.

In my next life, I want to marry a singer. Because when men sing like this, its very easy to fall in love. Aaj Latha Naeeo and Hor Ve Neevan further reinforce this thought for me.

I wish there was a way to get you to listen to each one of these tracks, without tiring. But I’ll just have to settle with hoping that I can pass on the love. I am lucky to have a bunch of friends who share my obsession. From the time I was introduced to Coke Studio in 2007, to date, I have been fortunate to meet friends who are equally or more obsessed too. Long distance exchange of files, sharing, obsessing, discussing these tracks to death, to screening the videos late into rainy monsoon nights, I think we have more than done this show justice and I cannot wait for the next season to hit us.

As I patiently, I go back to listening to these favourites on loop. As the seasons progressed, Coke Studio only kept raising the bar and beating their own benchmarks. Season 5 was the peak, for me. Even though some of my most loved tracks are from seasons 2, 3 and 4, season 5 was consistently stupendous. And for that reason alone, I think the Pakistani original knocked the pants off the Indian imitation. Evidently, I am not the only one who thinks so.

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Sea-ing is believing

13 May

You know you are just a step short of turning irreversibly Goan when you get that annual itch to re-embrace the joys of living in a place the whole world comes to holiday in. When you spend the whole season avoiding the hardcore tourist-y areas because you can’t stand the onslaught of outsiders. And then just when it is all about to close, you feel that unbearable urge to have a little taste of what you now consider your own. So you brave the heat, the humidity, the possibility of getting a sunstroke, and make that annual before-the-season-ends trip to the beach.

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When you live in Goa, things like the beach, cheap booze, nightclubs and parties, sunbeds and massages become passe. Normal life takes over, and you forget that all these holiday pleasures exist just a stone’s throw from anywhere you might be in Goa. And like everyone else here, we mostly take these luxuries for granted. People think living in Goa means that we exist in a permanent bubble of inebriation and when the weekend rolls along, we obviously find ourselves collapsed in a drunken stupor, on some beach or the other.

The truth however, is far from it. When you live in Goa, holidaying by the beach takes effort. It takes planning, it takes scouting out untouched beaches, it takes hoping and praying that the secluded spot you once discovered still remains beyond the ever-increasing reach of the growing multitudes of tourists. And most often, it takes a whole lot of motivation to break out of normal life and get going.

But invariably, trips like that end up like no other. Despite the best efforts to plan bring people together, pick a place and head out at a mutually agreeable time, we found ourselves heading out over an hour later than we had planned, short of one man in the army, with no destination in mind.

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All we knew is that we wanted to get away for a day and a night, relax by the sea and have a good time. There is usually no better time to do this than in the wonderful twilight zone between the thick of season and the start of the torrential rains. It is in that in limbo zone that there is a lull in the air, the shacks are half torn apart, the beaches desolate and you cannot ignore the mild ache in your heart when you realise that its that time of year again, when Goa says goodbye to a blistering summer, and begins to prepare to get totally washed out by the monsoon.

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We were lucky to find a rather empty spot of beach on Arambol, with just enough beach-hut-acco options, a couple of decent looking restaurants and a roaring sea, within a hundred meters of where we finally decided to stay. Right on the beach.

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Plans work best when there are no plans, I think. And a weekend of meandering relaxation was just what all of us needed. The highlights of which were:

- A chatty shack-owner who was excited that he had some, as he described us “dhang ke log“, to keep him company after a long hiatus of boring tourists. He was a tad too chatty for our liking, but we couldn’t complain though because he shared his Goan goodies with us and kept the beer flowing.

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- Being the only people in the shack that night and getting a free reign with the music. In went out ipods and out came a never-ending loop of our kind of music. And that is the biggest boon one can ask for on a beach in Goa. To spend the entire time without suffering through copious amounts of Akon, Pitbull, Rihanna and the like.

- Having a random private scene in a shack that is otherwise open to public. A few other regulars showed up, and it turned into one big gathering of people sharing the music, conversation and laughter. In the amber glow that dotted the shack I realised, this almost never happens to us in our daily lives. Back home in Panjim, we step back into the routine, get on track with life. But it is on a beach in Goa where the shack owner who wants to retire at the age of 35, an Iranian didgeridoo player who has lived in India for nine years, and us non-Goans feeling as Goan as ever, can actually bond and be one.

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- Getting unabashedly overwhelmed by life lessons on how to make the most of a cheaper living expenses in Goa for some, realising that I must crack on with my “plans” quickly, lest they remain just that — plans, and some of us were given pearls of wisdom at the hands of a foreigner meting out simple truths quite unthinkingly.

- Laughing uncontrollably at one of us hallucinating poles holding a thatched roof where there wasn’t one, one of us confessing to being Deepika Padukone’s hang-out-buddy in his dreams, one of us having an epiphany and realising all he really wants to do is “be a hippe, man” and one of us choosing to suddenly start listening to David Guetta, in private. Yeah, it was that kind of night.

- Realising that Fellini’s was shut, and landing up in 21 Coconuts Inn (yes, you can laugh. we did too.), spotting things like peppAr chicken and hOmOs and pita bread on the menu. Way too much giggling, dubious videos filming, over-enthusiastic dog feeding, and more giggling followed by chilling on deck chairs even though all of us really just wanted to crash. Its quite a trip to be on a deathly quiet beach, with no light in sight for miles ahead, and just the sound of the waves crashing on. It lulled me to sleep and I yanked myself away before the whole night passed by, with me on a deck chair, in the open.

- Breakfast with chatty shack owner and random profusely drunk Frenchman who gave us all fist bumps, made himself at home at our table and told us his life story in a very vehement and bordering-on-violent manner. He then went across the whole shack, making himself at home at every occupied table. In Arambol, it works, apparently.

- A long and lazy morning that featured some swimming, some serious sun soaking, more beer downing, some idiotic dancing, some more film-making and finally when the hunger pangs struck, we packed up and left. Making our way back home, and grabbing lunch en route.

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It was a short, but extremely relaxing and fun-filled getaway. I know I speak for the husband too, when I say this. As usual it reminded us how we ought to take advantage of the beach in our vicinity more often. As usual we pledged to do it again. At least once a month. And as usual, we came away rather full of beans, happiness and some of us, wisdom too.

travel

As usual I realised that there is really no better way to rejuvenate myself than having the damp sea-air in my face, the wind in my hair and the atmosphere pregnant with a languid relaxed vibe to drench myself in. Its funny how this fact escapes me every now and then, until I go back to the sea, and it hits me like an epiphany all over again.

It seems some people travel the world to find it and fill themselves with life again. Thankfully, for some of us, its just a matter of wandering into our backyards, before we find peace again.

Post title inspired by my very own Bhaisaab, without whose enthu, the weekend away might not have ever happened.

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A day like any another day

10 May

NOT.

There are some days that you know, right from the start, won’t go the way you’d like them to. From the moment go, feel things are amiss. Yet you cannot put a finger on it. But you push every ounce of confusion and and that cloud of unsettledness away and power on.

Yesterday was one such day. For one, we had rain the previous night. Just when the heat peaked and I was making peace with surrendering to the forces that be (and that are hell bent on seeing me suffer), it had to go and rain. It was cool-ish when I woke up, and realised I had slept right through it. But you know what a spell of pissy rain does, in the midst of otherwise oppressive heat, right? It makes it hotter.

Cue: more sweat. And now, the beginnings of prickly heat. Oh well.

There was some solace to be had in the crazy breeze. Or so I told myself, until it knocked a massive paper lamp down, which I had to then gingerly put back together.

Turning on my computer revealed that one mini cloudburst is enough to bring all connectivity to a standstill in the boondocks where I live. The internet was down. Only for the 3894783th time this month. Something the wonderful folks at Hathway prefer to push under the carpet. And worse, try and provide remote tech-support to fix. Rather than get their tushies down here to fix it. Last I heard, fixing a broken service was also part of the service. Instead all I get, every time I call is a string of unintelligible prompts that I never quite know what to make of.

“Madam, you need to ping your device.”

“Can you connect your device from the back and check for a ping?”

“We will have to come there and ping your device.”

If I didn’t know better, I might have taken offense. And called the husband to come sit at home with me, lest someone tries to accost me and “ping my device”. Many frustrated calls later, I decide to give up and move on to the other important chore of the day. Replacing an exhausted gas cylinder. Yes folks. I never thought I’d see the day when I tweet this:

“Gas ran out while I was half way through frying pooris. #FML”

I am now that variety of aunty whose morning can get ruined by untimely interruptions in poori-making. And then takes heart in the fact that “at least the sabji got made in time”.

So I lug the damn empty cylinder four floors down, drive myself to the agency, where I have to pay, pick up a receipt, proceed to the godown and exchange cylinders. All this because unlike the rest of the country, where you call and book a cylinder, in Panjim I have to wait for the weekly (yes, it only happens once a week) gas rounds to happen, in the hope that my cylinder will time its running out really well. So that it can be replaced seamlessly.

Haha, of course that never happens. So I now indulge myself in self-service. And before you applaud me for me heroic gas cylinder acrobatics down four floors, hold your horses. I have to tell you its easy when you’re going down and the cylinder is empty. Its lugging a full one up that is the bitch. So I get some help. And we share the load 50-50. Now you can applaud my lower back and upper arm strength.

However, I had no such luck yesterday. I lugged that damn cylinder down for nothing. Because apparently the godown was shut. And it “may or may not open for two days”. And as of today, we are pushing day three of gaslessness, microwaved green tea and no breakfast. Now this is a truly #FML moment. Anywho, I argue a bit and try and push for a quick replacement, but the guy is adamant so I leave before I pop a blood vessel thanks to the slowly building pressure in my temples. But on the drive back I call him back to ask how long it might take for them to deliver a cylinder.

“Oh by tomorrow evening,” he says chirpily.

And I lose it again. “Why didn’t you give me that option then??!”

“Because you didn’t ask medam. You wanted to go to the godown.”

See what I mean? #FML.

So I make the booking. Trying to impress on the intelligent fellow that the reason I wanted to go to the godown was to get a freaking new cylinder. And that any other option available would have been fine by me. ERGO, just replace the goddamn cylinder, one way or another!

With no food at home, I decided to drive by my favourite biryani joint to pick some lunch up. This place is literally a joint, where one walks in pays and walks out with neatly packed dum biryani in aluminium foil cartons. Quick and painless, I thought. Perfect for the kind of morning I was having. I could almost taste it. I get there at 12 and ask for two biryanis parcelled.

“12.30 ke baad aao.” (Come back after 12.30!)

Having already skipped breakfast, indulged in some heavy-lifting and exhausted much energy being angry and frustrated, I was ravenous. Also, my mind was set on the biryani and given how the morning was going I was determined to take control and make at least one thing go my way. I wasn’t going to let Murphy win this one. So I walked back to my car, my black car parked in the scorching sun. I got back inside and sat in it, toasting away for the next twenty minutes until it was biryani o’ clock.

Biryani in hand, I drive home. Hot, irritable and rather peeved, but rather pleased that I can rest in peace. The internet would hopefully be fixed. The gas cylinder would be delivered to my doorstep. And I can finally turn the ac on, have my lunch and get some work done. Yessssss!

Except, on the way up to my home, I stubbed my toe.

Cue: some wincing, blinding pain and a prickly feeling behind my eyes as I blink baack a few tears.

You win this round Murphy.

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