Ladakh pictures

Back from Ladakh. Tired, tired, tired. I went to climb a mountain, climbed most of it but not all of it and came back exhausted. I've written a story on it - will put that up when I'm able, but in the meantime, here are some pictures.

Stok Kangri, the lovely one

View from plane

View from tent

Thiksey monastery, which amused me because all the offerings are in recycled plastic - flowers in an old Bournvita bottle, oil for the lamps in a coke 2-litre...

Stok Kangri

On a deep breath
I rise
into thin air

जब कभी भी सुनोगे गीत मेरे...

It’s the death anniversary of Mohd Rafi and Jhankaar on World Space is having a Rafi special. Predominantly 70s though, all the Rishi Kapoor numbers, which are fun enough but not, for me, the real Rafi. Give me the 60s any day.

When I was young, the radio and Hindi film music were obsessions. I’d lock myself in the room, sit in front of the transistor in attitudes of meditation, rocking in appreciation. On Sundays, Radio Ceylon had specials. I remember one hour-long information-packed slot where episode by episode, they went through the body of Hindi film music, year-wise – taking us through the hits, supplying nuggets of trivia. I took notes as if I was going to be examined on the subject. Eventually, the heat of my interest abated and regrettably, the facts have fallen away through the chinks in memory.

One July 31 many years ago, I was looking forward to a day full of Rafi. I had cleared the decks, and there was nothing to keep me from staying unhealthily glued to the radio. Except disaster. I turned the knobs and the transistor went dead. I was near tears; perhaps I did cry. My father took me out to Secunderabad’s Clock Tower area and bought me a new one. Shweta tells me now that she was shocked at such indulgence – my parents were not the sort to give in to every whim. I think now that they were very wise, able to distinguish between unreasonable demands and what was very important to the child.

The rut we're in

Life consists in what a man is thinking of all day.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Bah.

Aashiana dhoondta hai

Two weeks into the new city now. It has been easier and more difficult than I thought. I call home twice a day, which is normal. I miss my mother, but that was expected. I hate being out of 50km radius from her. She complains I hardly speak to her when I’m home, but I simply hate not being able to.

Delhi is fine. I have been moving hither and thither, have seen two movies, gone to several of its beguiling markets, eaten out few times and met some really nice people. I like it. The metro construction renders the roads cramped and everyone leans on their horns, but what the hey.

Finding a house – a good one – seems extraordinarily difficult. Everyone who has house-hunted in Delhi assures me it is a task of gargantuan proportions. There seems to be a pattern. At first, there is an allocated budget and a certain insouciance; you will even imagine fondly that you will spread the word and something appropriate will turn up, thus making it unnecessary to cough up the one month’s rent the broker will demand. Reality check: no one around you has an aunt or friend who magically has a house that needs a good caring tenant. However, there are several property agents. On my second day at it, I opened an Excel sheet with columns for names, numbers, speciality areas and current status.

Then you begin. You are shown the most appalling houses in various stages of disrepair, in several kinds of bad taste. Up staircases so dark you navigate solely by touch and instinct. Down alleys where you hold up your trousers daintily, picking your way through vegetable (and other) waste. Or you find houses of which only one aspect is extremely right. There is both frustration now and hope. You tell yourself: if I could find such a happy location as I found with House A, accompanied by the nice woodwork in House B and the un-hole-like kitchen in House C, we would be set. Easier said, my friends. There seem to several such houses as you rattle through various enclaves, glancing about longingly, but none available to rent for the price you have in mind. So you inch up a little, and then a little, till you are considering some entirely ridiculous sums of money. This is where we are at.

Even then, the house eludes you, I am told, till you are quite on the threshold of despair and about to give up, give in and beg to be let into the Good Samaritans’ Shelter. When you are on your knees, the House will appear. Insha’allah.

Due North

This blog, dear readers, such as it is, will now go out of Delhi. Seeking a change from the sameness, I have sought employment in the capital and have moved here this week.

If you're making noises of disbelief, your reactions will match many I have met. I must, of course, have been responsible for the wide-spread impression that I was a well-rooted Hyderabadi institution, who would grow to a venerable age here, eventually being pointed out to visitors of the city on their first tour of it. Look! Sheetal Vyas, over there, doddering on the sidewalk! We don't know very much about her, but she has been here forever.

Seriously though, it is a wrench. I do do love Hyderabad and leaving is a betrayal. It is really, because my rationale was that it was becoming so unbearable to live in, that I might as well live in another bigger unbearable city as not.

So you find me in Delhi, hefting five bags and looking for a place to stay. So, dear, kind people, if you should hear of a nice two bedroom apartment in South Delhi or even a spacious two room set (as they call them here), please do let me know – my email is on the profile (I think!).

It's every Williams for themselves

It may not be great tennis, but what a story this year's women's final is!

"We have known them as child prodigies, we have known them as youthful champions, we have known them as supreme champions at their absolute peak. And now they are giving us something new: they are giving us longevity. If things go on much longer, people will start to love them. Perhaps we should start," Simon Barnes writes in The Times.
The whole piece is here.

Tiger, Tiger!

Coming along the clear path,
in all majesty,
His Majesty.

Holding out

The cats have laid siege to our house. She had been looking fat for a while but revealed to us her crop of three only a few weeks ago. At first they limited themselves to the shade of one tree, nibbling at each others tails and making heavy weather of climbing small branches, scampering at the least sound.

Now with a few more days of living, and a small gain in weight, they think no end of themselves. They have taken over all our particular nooks, mewl at us as we pass the window and camp at our doorstep. My mother, who is ailurophobic, is virtually under house arrest and needs someone at all times to open the door gingerly, shoo away all felines and stand guard while she finishes whatever small work she needs to execute outdoors.

Mother Cat is a good mother. Attentive and protective but also far too indulgent, for she knows full well her brats are not permitted inside but will she keep them in line? No! instead, they persist in pushing their luck, peeping around doors, waiting for a crack in the defence. Even my dad who is notorious for forgetting to shut doors is assiduous in making sure they are barred. Although I must say his 'shoos' are rather half-hearted and wouldn't flutter a gnat.

Here is one, liking the rise and fall of mother's breath as he snoozes on the wall:

Bands of boys

Rock concert last night as part of the Times Festival. Headbanging crowds, sea of cornas and lovely weather. Bands Parikrama and Pentagram, both of whom were very good. I enjoyed Parikrama very much - their violinist was amazingly talented - and I might have enjoyed Pentagram more had Vishal Dadlani not insisted on putting us through our paces with the 'hands in the air, come sing-along, now clap with me' routine.
I've missed everything else - the Balamurli concert, Shiv Kumar Sharma and not going tonight to Manto Ismat Hazir Hain.

I wait

This has been a difficult summer. Some weird going-with-nature ideals hold sway chez Vyases and we make do with fans and vetiver purdahs. So you see, no ACs and no coolers. We simply tough it out.
I felt the heat particularly these months. Miseries of trickling sweat and heated laptops apart, I find I can’t write. Kind people have been waiting for longish whiles for pieces that should’ve landed in their inboxes ages ago.
All my wretchedness seems tied in with the hateful heat that rises off everything. The rains are lashing Kerala and I cannot wait for them to crawl over my city. Soon, soon…

Ru-ba-ru

GUESS what I’ve been doing? Having tea with Aamir Khan!

Aamir has been blogging for a while and, I think, finds it an excellent way to interact with his admirers directly without being interpreted by the media or other filters. He is in Hyderabad now, shooting for Ghajini, and asked last week if some of his local readers would like to meet him. Guess who put up her hand? Moi.

He was nice! Affable, articulate, attentive. Asking questions, seeking opinions; telling us his own with startling frankness. There were about 15-18 people in all – a diverse, well-informed, interesting gathering. Conversation flowed, flitting from Indian mythology to the state of our media, lingering on AP politics, staying quite a while on movies.

+++++++

We met on location for Ghajini and that brought a chance to see Aamir Khan in action. He invited us in to see the filming and sync-sound demanded that we keep quiet as mice. It has been a while since I was on a set, and the small exposure had me yearning… the dust, the heat, the cables underfoot… the ordered mayhem of it all.

It has been years since I was involved with TV and film, and I had, in fact, been itching to see how the years have altered film-making. It was a lesson to see the changes – sync sound, super light-sensitive cameras, the recording process. AR Murugadoss, who directed Ghajini in Tamil, directs this project as well. With him flew out my idea of the director as a loud presence. Diminutive, almost retiring, he sits in front of the monitor, closely watching the frames, darting off now and then to have a quiet confab with his star. The commands for silence, camera and action, in fact, came from a bossy (sounding) assistant.

Do you know, they don’t necessarily say ‘Lights, Camera, Action!’ any more? They dropped ‘Lights’ altogether on this occasion, it’s ‘Roll Video’ now, but mercifully, they say ‘Action’ still. They lit the scene entirely with ‘normal’ lights yesterday – wall mounted lights, lamps throwing pools, which apparently were more than adequate for the moody indoor ambience they sought. No sign of the heavy duty arc lights that have for so long been such evocative symbols of cinema.

Also, a great number of young women in the crew! Director’s assistants, sound recording and mysterious other jobs. All of them frightfully efficient.

++++++++

So much has been said about Aamir Khan’s perfectionism and it is indeed true. His concentration is phenomenal and he sees very clearly what must be achieved, I should think. Once that is clear, he spares no effort in achieving it. If another take and twenty more minutes must be spent in producing a shot a touch more menacing, or attain movement a little more beautiful, it must be done. Not to do that, to settle, is intolerable. It is an admirable work ethic.