Missing the psycho line (among other things)

Opened an old handbag to find this. For a moment, thought monkey had become an artist before realisation struck.

And then needless to say, had to go and re-read my favourite lines on the Tube written by one of my favouritest living writers.

As the fine denizens of London Town know, each tube line has a distinct personality and range of mood swings. The Victoria Line, for example, breezy and reliable. The Jubilee Line, the young disappointment of the family, branching out to the suburbs, eternally having extensions planned, twisting round to Greenwich, and back under the river out east somewhere. The District and Circle Line, well, even Death would rather fork out for a taxi if he's in a hurry. Crammed with commuters for King's Cross or Paddington, and crammed with museum-bound tourists who don't know the craftier short cuts, it's as bad as how I imagine Tokyo. I had a professor once who asked us to prove that the Circle Line really does go around in a circle. Nobody could. I was dead impressed at the time. Now what impresses me is that he'd persuaded somebody to pay him to come up with that sort of tosh. Docklands Light Railway, the nouveau riche neighbour, with its Prince Regent, its West India Quay, and its Gallions Reach and its Royal Albert. Stentorian Piccadilly wouldn't approve of such artyfaryness, and neither would his twin uncle, Bakerloo. Central, the middle-aged cousin, matter-of-fact, direct, no forking off or going the long way round. That's about it for the main lines, except the Metropolitan, which is too boring to mention, except that it's a nice fuchsia colour and you take it to visit the dying.

...

The Northern Line is black on the maps. It's the deepest. It has the most suicides, you're most likely to be mugged on it, and its art students are most likely to be future Bond Girls. There's something doom-laden about the Northern Line. Its station names: Morden, Brent Cross, Goodge Street, Archway, Elephant and Castle, the resurrected Mornington Crescent. It was closed for years: I remember imagining I was on a probe peering into the Titanic as the train passed through. Yep, the Northern Line is the psycho of the family. Those bare-walled stations south of the Thames that can't attract advertisers. Not even stair-lift manufacturers will advertise in Kennington tube station. I've never been to Kennington but if I did I bet there'd be nothing but run-down fifties housing blocks, closed-down bingo halls, and a used-car place where tatty plastic banners fuppetty-flup in the homeless wind. The sort of place where best-forgotten films starring British rock stars as working-class antiheroes are set. There but for the grace of my credit cards go I.

London is a language. I guess all places are.

ps: Yes, of course I am going to see Cloud Atlas. I know the reviews are bad. Do I sound like I care?

Goings-on (about town that one does not live in anymore but one can get to)

BFI celebrates monkey's arrival. (In related news, monkey's first word came out yesterday: akkirrrrrrrrrrr) And while you are there, might as well catch Film Science and a bit of Grace Kelly.

Totally totally worth your time. It even has a TV series to go with it. Super cool stuff.

The Great Game: Invasions and Independence

While I am sure we all know how important it is for a country to have a flag, I am not quite sure all of us know the importance of a map. The map and the flag together were the two greatest assets a country could have in the Age of Exploration. In fact, I am quite convinced that it was the map making obsession that made the British Empire. Imaginary lines result in real events. The old European map makers knew this, any unsuspecting tourist who happens to walk into Stanford's or wanders into Cecil Court will find this out pretty quickly, the Royal Geographic Society has always known this. Without a map, there is no nation, no Empire. This is why these Fellows trampled across continents, recruited natives when the going got tough, and surveyed every inch of land they could possibly get to. This is why maps tend to occupy a large space in the British imagination, and the children of the world are subject to mugging names of numerous imaginary lines which mean nothing.

This very British idea that maps define everything is the central theme of Durand Line, Play 2 of the Great Game (Part 1) series that's currently playing at the Tricycle Theatre. In Durand Line, Sir Mortimer Durand the then Foreign Secretary of British India is sent to negotiate with Emir of Afghanistan, Abdur Rahman Khan over the demarcation of boundaries between Afghanistan and the Russian possessions in view of keeping the Russians as far away from India as possible. Sir Durand is your quintessential colonial British civil servant with some very brilliant lines, played almost to perfection (slightly overdone, I felt) by Michael Cochrane trying to convince the Emir to sign on the dotted line in return for improved weaponry and a monopoly on the opium trade. The Emir, played convincingly by Paul Bhattacharjee, comes across as witty, indolent (at one point, Sir Durand refers to "the perfumed indolence of the Eastern court" which the Emir doesn't let go that easily) and remarkably perceptive about the far reaching consequences of drawing lines on a piece of paper. In a particularly memorable exchange, the Emir takes the map of the United Kingdom that Sir Durand had drawn up and draws a line across the middle of Scotland, erases the Highlands and calls the upper half of it Durandistan. He signs finally as he must, stuck between the British and the Russians, there isn't much of a choice. The point is made but both Sir Durand and the Emir of the play are caricatures, a bit over the top, taken to extremes to balance the tilt and therefore, the most memorable character in this play happens to be that of a young British engineer brought in by Sir Durand to explain to the Emir how he would be able to modernize his weaponry.

Paul Bhattacharjee plays an Oxford professor of Afghan history in Campaign (Play 3), and this time, he is so comfortable in the role that it is like he is playing himself which is not surprising considering this is set in 2009. Part 1 of the Great Game covers the period from 1842 – 1930 but given that the audience might not be familiar with the history of Afghanistan, Campaign is a rather sneaky way of providing context and history for the play that comes after this. The Professor, originally from Pakistan, is invited to a Cabinet Minister's office where the Minister's Private Secretary (an Oxford man himself) attempts to test him on his history. The Professor for the longest time is puzzled as to why he is there but indulges the arrogant Secretary all the same. The overarching theme of Part 1 is the futility of playing with a country that one does not know the first thing about and while the other plays use the weight of history to make the point, Campaign does the same very effectively in an absurd and light-hearted manner. This is possibly the only play in Part 1 (and I suspect, in the whole series) that is comic without being depressing but that is only because the campaign that the Secretary is suggesting is too absurd to be taken seriously. But this surely isn't the first absurd idea to be implemented as a real strategy, and it will be far more depressing in a few years when we begin to see the real consequences of this campaign to bring about secular, liberal democracy in Afghanistan.

The last play of Part 1 Now is the Time is set on the day in 1929 that Shah Amanullah Khan left on his lifelong exile with his wife and father-in-law. Amanullah Khan fashioned himself as the Ataturk of Afghanistan and introduced social reforms that would be considered sacrilege in his country in the current day. The reforms made him unpopular and he was forced by the tribal chiefs to abdicate the throne and leave the country along with his mentor and father-in-law Mahmud Tarzi and his wife Soraya Tarzi. Their Rolls Royce gets stuck in the snow en route to the Russian border and the British drivers goes to get help while the three passengers are left to discuss their state of affairs. Of the four plays in Part 1, this one for me was the least effective – it tries to do all the right things and make the right points, brings out Amanullah's desperation and helplessness, and the problem with introducing groundbreaking reforms in a country perhaps not quite ready for it but it seemed to fall into the very trap that these plays warn us about – that of not understanding the region and its people. I don't mean the fake accents; one can easily overlook that but the portrayal of the characters and their interactions were more in tune with what Western spectators would expect them to behave rather than the how real people are. To be fair though, all the plays were guilty of this caricaturing (which led Bill to remark that it wasn't surprising that all the lines he thought were most convincing / effective were all spoken by the British characters) but as this play has all its main protagonists as Afghan, it was more noticeable.

Last but not least, Play 1: Bugles at the Gates of Jalalabad. Regular readers of this blog know that Peter Hopkirk is a recurring theme in this space. I take my childhood obsessions a little too seriously sometimes and this happens to be one of them. If any of you reading this who has not read the Great Game, I suggest you go buy it right now. Anyway, one of the vivid images that I have of the book is from 1842 - that of Dr William Brydon, the sole survivor of the British retreat from Kabul, at the gates of Jalalabad proclaiming "I am the army". This play is about four British soldiers at the ramparts waiting with their bugles to see if there would be more survivors. There is no hope and their conversation is supported by excerpts from the diary of Lady Sale who remained behind in Kabul as a hostage. The soldiers do encounter an unexpected visitor, the one misstep in this play in my opinion. Regardless, Bugles captures everything there is to be said about the situation in Afghanistan, 1842 or 2009, imperialism, ignorance, wars, religion, and the futility of it all. It is a difficult choice, but this play is my favorite of the four in Part 1.

The Great Game is playing at the Tricycle Theatre until June 14^th. It is trilogy with each part consisting of four plays and you can either see it all together in a marathon session in the weekends or take it one at a time on weekdays like I am doing. If you have even a passing interest in history or political theatre, I suggest you go get your tickets now. It's a small, intimate theatre and the seats get filled up pretty quickly.

Encounter with the TV man

Last night just after 8. I managed to catch the 5.52 from W Sussex so had gotten home at a decent time. The buzzer.

"Hello"

"Hello ma'am. I have a letter for you"

Check time again.

"Can you put it through the mailbox and I will pick it up later?"

"No, I need a signature. If not, I would have done this hours ago"

"I will be right down"

He must be a burglar. Do burglars ring the bell? Maybe. Maybe I will open the door a crack and see. What if this guy has a gun or knife or something? Enough paranoia. Go down. Open door.

"Hello"

"Here is your letter ma'am. It says you have not paid your TV license"

"Are you the TV license inspector? I have never met one"

"Yes, so you need to pay your license fees within..."

"But I don't have a TV"

"You don't have a TV?"

"Correct"

"Are you sure?"

"I think so"

"Can I come and check?"

"Now?"

Narrowed eyes. "Yes"

Should I say that I can't let anyone in when partner is not around? Cultural exception. This guy doesn't look like the sort who would buy it.

"Can I see your ID?"

"Sure" Man pulls out ID and hands it to me.

"You are really a TV license inspector!"

"That's what I said ma'am"

"Come on in"

He follows me up the (spiral) stairs.

"These stairs are dangerous. Do you go up and down every day?"

"Don't have a choice. But you get used to it. Here we are"

"I am going to go here and check..."

"That's the kitchen"

"Many people hide TVs in the kitchen"

"Why would I hide my non-existent TV?"

"The detector did not detect anything"

Living room next. Nothing.

"Can I go here?"

"Sure"

Man goes into bedroom. Kneels down and points detector device under the bed.

"Since I did not know you were coming, I wouldn't have hidden it even if I had one"

"You took your time coming down"

"Fair enough. There's a room upstairs. You might want to go up and check"

"Another spiral staircase!"

"Yeah. Sorry about that"

Man goes up and comes back in a second.

"You really don't have a TV"

"I told you that"

"People say that all the time"

"How many times have people told you the truth"

"In my five years in this job, thrice. Including you"

"Ah. That's the first time anyone associated me with being truthful!"

"When did you move here?"

"A couple of months ago"

"How long do you intend to stay here?"

"End of this year for sure"

"Do you intend to buy a TV?"

"No"

"You are really not intending to buy a TV?"

"That's correct"

"Why?"

"We don't watch it"

"What do you do then?"

"Why are you asking me all these questions?"

"The other two people who did not have TVs were crazy. You look like you are fine, even seem to have a proper job"

How does he know I have a proper job? Is he stalking me? He is not a TV inspector after all. No, no, chill, I am still wearing my suit.

"I am very much fine, thank you"

"We might come up again in a couple of months to check"

"You are welcome"

I let him out of the flat and close the door when I hear the sound. Man promptly fell down stairs on his way down. I open my door.

"Tell whoever is coming up next to watch out for the stairs"

***

In totally unrelated news, I was just chatting with the Don and he was telling me that yesterday they announced the MP candidate for Thiruvanthapuram. It's a Sonia boy - name is Shashi Tharoor. People are apparently scratching heads and wondering WTF is going on. (Hey Feanor - Looks like now is the time. Before those papers come through, go file your nomination)

What's the worst possible thing...

one could be doing on a totally snowed under day in London? (Yes, I said London. Looks like London's decided to make me happy by imitating the city by the lake)

A. Sit at home and have hot chocolate while "working from home"
B. Attempt to go to work by going to tube station and then promptly coming back home
C. Get to airport to catch a flight
D. Get to random consulate, then queue wait 45 minutes in the snow only to have a chap come out and say that the visa section is closed as their staff did not turn up



Well, what can I say? Chotu Motu always had a sense of timing. If I ever had any qualms about surrendering my Indian passport, they are gone. Nobody can accuse me of being patriotic now.

For those of you (esp across the pond) wondering what's with all this naatak, trust me, you have no idea how unprepared this city is for adverse weather. You'd think all this obsession with weather would mean that they would do something about it. No way. Its like snow in Austin, TX. They don't even have snow trucks.

Oh, a couple more. One of our backyard, and the other from my office.





And now, let me get home before they suspend the Northern Line. Already most of the London Underground is greyed out.

Reading readers on the tube

In case you haven't heard, we have moved. As a result, I don't spend most of my commute walking up and down stairs switching tube lines. Instead, now I spend a good 10-15 minutes on one train[1]. This can get quite boring as I cannot read on the tube and it is usually too loud for music / podcasts. So I use my time wisely and conduct groundbreaking research on the reading habits of travellers on the Edgware branch of the Northern Line. I started with people at my station but they didn't meet the diversity requirements[2] and therefore, I expanded the study to all travellers on the line. Not surprisingly, what people read on the Edgware branch of the Northern Line is not very different from what people read on other lines though the distribution of segments vary. As a public service, I thought I would enlighten you all with the results of my totally unscientific study - perhaps commuters on other lines will conduct research of their own and add to this and we might end up having our own segmentation database using which we can save the world or something. Somehow. Anyway.

Oh before we proceed, obviously these are broad classifications and one can break these up into any number of sub segments but considering that I have travelled on this for line for like 10 days, this is all I could do. We will get to granularity later.

Type 1: Green Tabloiders (13%)

Characterised by London Lite, Metro and London Paper in their hands, the most common segment in most tube lines. In the Northern Line - Edgware branch, this segment comprises of about 13% of all travelling readers. The point to note is that the tabloid readers in this line are different from other lines in that they are environmentally conscious. They diligently calculate carbon footprints before they undertake any trip, and they make up for it by recycling anything and everything. What this means is that these people will never take the tabloid from the chaps who keep handing them outside the stations. But the second they see one of the tabloids left behind on the train, they will jump over seats in an urge to find out that Sir Paul is a lost puppy looking for love.

Type 2: FT / Guardian readers (21%)

I know. Technically these should be two very different segments but bear with me for a second. Let me explain. Those of you who know your Northern line know that the South bound train branches again at Euston. One branch goes to via Bank and the other branch goes through Charing Cross before they meet again at Kennington. In the course of a normal week, I have to travel on both the Bank and Charing Cross branches (client location in Bank and home office in Leicester Sq) which has proved very helpful for my research. As every Londoner knows, there are marked differences between the people travelling in each of these branches. My research shows that all these differences can be easily explained by what they read. No surprises. Bank reads FT. Charing Cross reads the Guardian.

Type 3: Kids who restore your faith in humanity (5%)

As strange as it may seem, there are quite a few readers in the tube who read Dostoevsky, Heller, F S Fitzgerald, Conrad, Steinbeck, Pynchon. These are usually the 17-22 year old college students who are travelling up / down to visit their parents who live on this line. This is the segment that gives me hope every time I come across one of them - I can finally believe that the next generation will turn out to be, you know, alright.

Type 4: Carrie Bradshaw wannabes (12%)

If Type 3 lifts my heart, this segment usually brings out the worst in me. Despite my best efforts to be non-judgemental and accepting, I see absolutely no reason why these people should exist in the first place and my first instinct is to throw them out of the train along with their pink Sophie Kinsellas and Candace Bushnells. Thankfully for me, it is not physically possible to throw someone out of the tube. And well, if I am a little honest, I am a little afraid of their stilettos. I have been a victim of these deadly weapons (why the fuck is this thing not on some banned assualt weapon list I don't understand) more than once and I have no intention of going there again.

Type 5: Discover oneself and the world types (15%)

This is a fun segment which means that you can extract a lot of entertainment out of them. There are a number of sub segments, but broadly this segment is into discovering the world and everything it has to offer. They want to learn all about exotic places and people and generally feel one with the world. These are the sort of people who will go to a special screening of Salaam Bombay and feel like they could so relate to the kid in the movie. (No, I have not watched Slumdog yet) They also like to have all sorts of adventures all over the world, the ones that white people tend to have. This group reminds one of the Stuff White People Like blog and their Book is Shantaram. (Which btw has to be the most popular book on the London Underground system though thankfully not on my line)

Type 6: The M club (34%)

This is an interesting group to study - their chief characteristic is that they don't have a set of authors or a genre that they read. They just read this one chap. Not kidding. There is this one guy and all 34% read him. They also look down upon every other segment and will usually hold the book pretty high up to ensure that everyone can see what they are reading. I could see myself warming up to this segment if only they exhibited a little more variety in their reading habits. But don't think that is happening. Don't get me wrong. The man is brilliant, one of the greatest writers living but that's not the point. There is something to be said about a large group of people who will only read one writer and nobody else (on the tube atleast). Ya ya, you all know who I am talking about, its not a big surprise is it? Ladies and Gentlemen, the most widely read author on the Edgware branch of the Northern line is Haruki Murakami. M, I am told, is in.

PS: Feanor, unless you want us all to believe that everyone on the Waterloo and City line reads FT except for this one chap who reads Eurocrime, you better do your own segmentation research and tell us about it.

[1] On some days, I take the main line for hours and hours but then I usually end up working the whole time, so no question of being bored.

[2]For those of you who think its slightly scary that I am (usually) the only non-white person inside my tube station, I'd like to remind you that I used to live in Lincoln Park. This is not half as bad. At least once I step outside, the whole world is around me. There is the Bangladeshi chap who hands out the tabloids right outside the station, and there's the Jamaican news stand guy, and then there's the Algerian falafel vendor, the desi clerks at the grocery store and the Chinese dry cleaners. As I said, the whole world around me.

This weekend at the Heath

Determined to get lost, I left the main trails and walked in no particular direction for about an hour and a half. The going was slow as the Heath was all slushy from previous night rains. Finally happy when I had no idea where the heck I was and the usually omniscient iMaps apologized for being unable to find my current location.





Except that in about two minutes I saw a small gate with directions to Kenwood House. Figured might as well as go see the artwork while I was in the area and headed down the path. Only to find that they were already closed for the day.







Btw, if you are wondering why this obsession with the Heath, I can assure you that its more than new neighborhood enthusiasm. I am convinced that there is some previous birth connection - the Heath clay can't let me go for some reason. I must be some daughter of the soil types.

BM , BG: remember the time when the Heath pulled me down when you guys were around? Another pair of walking shoes ruined and the GBP to USD exchange rate the way it is, I can't take comfort in the fact that I am due for one of my annual shopping trips soon :(

It almost makes up for the pain of moving

This on my backyard, that is. Well, okay, not backyard but 7 minutes is not bad you have to admit.







If there is one thing in which this city comes out on top against comparable cities (and take it from me, there is only one thing), it must be the availability of open spaces within reach inside its limits. And the Queen of them all, as much as I love Regents Park, has to be the Heath. If in that city by the lake, my favorite way to spend a Sunday morning was to run to the river to catch a glimpse of the 333 Wacker Dr as the sun comes up over the lake, in London, it has to be to run and get lost in the planned wilderness of the Heath.

I know I have posted this before but some things are worth posting more than once.

"A sprawling North London parkland, composed of oaks, willows and chestnuts, yews and sycamores, the beech and the birch; that encompasses the city's highest point and spreads far beyond it; that is so well planted it feels unplanned; that is not the country but it is no more garden than Yellowstone; that has a shade of green for every possible felicitation of light; that paints itself in russets and ambers in the autumn, canary-yellow in the splashy spring; with tickling bush grass to hide teenage lovers and joint smokers, broad oaks for brave men to kiss against, mown meadows for summer ball games, hills for kites, ponds for hippies, an icy lido for old men with strong constitutions, mean llamas for mean children and for the tourists, a country house, its facade painted white enough for any Hollywood close-up, complete with a tea room, although anything you buy from there should be eaten outside with the grass beneath your toes, sitting under the magnolia tree, letting the white upturned bells of blossoms, blush-pink at their tips, fall all around you. Hampstead Heath! Glory of London! Where Keats walked and Jarman fucked, where Orwell exercised his weakened lungs and Constable never failed to find something holy"

- Zadie Smith, "On Beauty"


PS: SB, happpy now? Got your Heath pictures?

PPS: SB, as I was posting this, Bill asks: "and here I thought the only Heath SB (or BM for that matter) cared about was Ledger"

Gimmicky it may be..

But what can I say? It doesn't take much to make my day.



On the tube this evening. Must say that for a second I was very tempted to strike off the "probably" but there were too many people in the car. Well, next time.Now for one of the 800 buses with the same message in a bigger font.

In other news, moi has realised that it works in this country if you email the CEO. At least for BT. We moved (yes, finally, more on that soon) and got stuck with Broadband issues which got fixed in record time once an email was dispatched to chap called Ian Livingstone. Comedy, no? Maybe I can make a living as a CEO letter writer.

But even in these times...

One has to thanks the Britons and their chief tabloid (everything except Four) for providing the world with much needed comic relief.

First, let us take a look at the knighthoods that have been awarded this year. In the business and economy honours, one finds this:

Nick Macpherson, permanent secretary to the Treasury, becomes a Knights Commander of the Order of the Bath for his work on the financial crisis.

An official statement spoke of his "extraordinary work in response to the crisis in the financial services industry", including the nationalisations of Northern Rock and Bradford & Bingley.

Whereever Sir Humphrey is, I am sure he would be proud. Bravo!

Next, look at this headline in the tabloid today:

Banks 'feel remorse' for downturn

Go on, read the whole thing. And the last two paragraphs very carefully please. You won't regret it.

Of English landladies and the long, creative tradition of the Bengalis

Finally. We have found a flat to move to. As most of you know, finding a flat is sort of a hobby with us - its our way of exploring eateries and neighborhoods in London and must say that in that respect, the flat hunt has worked out quite well. However, a couple of weeks ago, moi decided that enough is enough and that I am totally sick of sleeping in what is essentially a storage room. Bill nodded in agreement and promptly started looking at places in Cambridge. Since I am gentle and compassionate, I relaxed my constraints - I was willing to go look at any reasonably priced flat within:

1. Our current location, i.e. 3-8 minutes from Regents Park (not too close to Primrose Hill though - way too many bankers even in these times)
2. 3-8 minutes from the Heath
3. 3-5 minutes from Anthony Lane's house (the Cambridge constraint)

Needless to say, Bill totally failed to find out where Lane lives so that was out. We looked at a couple of places near where we live but didn't meet our space and budget requirements. So last Saturday we did a marathon flat viewing near the Heath and came up with a shortlist. We fought a bit over our first choice - closer to Heath vs. closer to Tube - and me being gentle and compassionate (in case you forgot), gave in and said okay to the place closer to the tube. Now for the fun part.

As part of negotiations, the landlady wanted us to go meet her. The agent called up and fixed a time when we were supposed to go meet her. Bill couldn't go because he wouldn't be back from Cambridge on time. So I went all by myself, on a cold, dark winter evening to make an impression on this landlady.

"Hello. You must be Veena"

"Yes I am. You must be Mrs. R"

"Yes, so nice to see you. Is your partner coming?"

"I am afraid not. He couldn't make it back from Cambridge on time"

"Oh yes. Mark (the agent) mentioned that he works in Cambridge. Does he commute everyday then?"

"Well, it is quite flexible so 3-4 days a week. Not too bad"

"I used to work in Cambridge and it was quite bad. I don't envy his commute"

"Yeah well"

"Come sit down now. I am sorry I cannot offer you anything - we could always go over to my place"

"That's alright. Do you live around here too?"

"Yes, just across the road. But I am married to a Frechman so I spend a lot of time oversees"

"I see"

"Your partner is a researcher I hear"

"Yes, Bill is doing his post-doc"

"A Phd! What is his area of research?"

"Computer Science"

"What does he do in Computer Science"

"He specialises in theoritical CS. In this area commonly known as eurotheory" (Cat: Thank you. I have never managed to explain (without stammering) what Bill does before this)

"Interesting. And what do you do?"

"I am a management consultant"

"What does that really mean?"

Uh-huh.

"I work with different clients in the City mostly helping them with a bunch of stuff really. What do you do?" (Obviously, now I can explain what Bill does better than what I do)

"I am an artist - I paint a bit and play music"

"Oh, interesting" (Say something intelligent. Oh, why the fuck didn't I read 42 today?)

"I just edited a book on Cecil Collins which is launching this week"

"Oh"

"You surely know who he is?"

"I am afraid not"

"Have you been to Tate Britain?"

"Of course"

"There is a Cecil Collins exhibit right next to the Bacon section. You should go see it"

"I surely will"

"Tell me which part of India you are from"

"I am from down South. Have you been to India?"

"Yes, I spent a year there when I was young"

"A year? That's great. Were you travelling?"

"Yes, I did four years of travelling. In Turkey I came across a bit of music that I wanted to find more about. It was Indian, and so I went to India to find out about it"

"Thats interesting. Did you study music when you were in India then?"

"Yes, I remember a few jamming sessions with Ali Akbar Khan"

"Oh wow"

"Where did you say you were from?"

"I am from Kerala which is all the way South"

"And your partner?"

"He is from well, Bombay, well, Bengal actually but he grew up in Bombay"

"He is Bengali then?"

"I am afraid so"

"I have a lot of Bengali friends"

"Nice"

"I work with a lot of Indian artists. I used to know Jatin Das when he was very young"

"Oh ok"

"Of course you know that Bengalis have a long tradition of creativity"

What the hell?

"And laziness"

"It is such a rich tradition - so many artists and intellectuals"

"All very pretentious"

"Its all part of it, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

"Some of it cannot be avoided"

"I guess"

"So does your partner play any instrument?"

"Well, he is trying to learn the violin. Not much success though"

"Which style?"

"He was considering the Suzuki style but he is quite convinved that he doesn't have the ear for it. So its the traditional style"

"I am sure he is musically inclined. He has such a big musical tradition behind him"

Bill. Musically inclined. Am I going to pay the rent or Bill? Maybe that's the question you should be asking. I need to get out of here. Now.

"Yeah well. Can I look around once more before I make my decision?"

"Absolutely. Bring your partner along too if you want to take another look. I look forward to meeting him"

"Of course"

Hot Asian men who are not Tony Leung

The Good


The Bad



The Weird (makes up for non-hotness by being weird)



The Movie

The most entertaining movie I have seen this year. Sergio Leone meets Tarantino in this totally stylish Oriental Western set in 1930s Manchuria (but shot apparently near the Gobi desert). Three things that could have made this a really good movie: a plot, a script and a little bit of acting. But not to worry. Its quite amazing that the movie never has a dull moment despite the absence of such basic things.

Two unmissable scenes: train robbery at the beginning and a 20-minute chase at the end to the score of Don't let me be misunderstood. Delightful.

PS: Yeah, London film festival. Just got to see a couple. Sad work story. Don't ask.

PPS: I like the Good guy though I know, the Bad boy looks like Johnny Depp. But just a boy he is, no?

Anthony Lane at the Olympics

People, please drop everything and go read this if you haven't already. And if you know of anyone who seems to have had more fun at the Olympics, please to let me know. Every line is a classic but I guess I have to pick a few to get you to go there. So here:

It was time for the winner’s national anthem, which began with an ominous pop, settled down for a while, gathered itself for the finale, and then stopped. We got the land of the free, but apparently the home of the brave was no longer available. Did someone foreclose? Accidents will happen, but, as a rule, if you’re going to screw up the national anthem of another country, especially a major trading partner, try not to do so when the President of that country is in the audience. George W. Bush was indeed in the Aquatics Center, standing at attention, and, even across ten lanes of water, I could tell that I was looking at a confused man. Was this insult calculated, and how should he react? The world held its breath. Somewhere nearby was a briefcase with the nuclear launch codes, possibly held by a man wearing trunks. The crisis passed. The President sat down. The semifinals of the women’s hundred-metre butterfly got under way. As for the Assistant Button-Pressing Technical Manager for National Anthem Digital Recording Systems (Aquatic Branch), I don’t know the poor fellow’s name, but his extended family has just been rehoused inside a hydroelectric dam.

...

The obvious precedent for Beijing was the Berlin Olympics, in 1936. Both were showcases for a muscle-flexing nation, although Hitler made an elementary error when he chose not to dress his young National Socialists in lime-green catsuits laced with twinkling fairy lights. By a careful choice of color scheme, China was able to draw the sting from any accusations of militarism, while rarely permitting the result to slide into camp.

...

It will be scant consolation, however, to Lord Coe. Formerly Sebastian Coe, part of the shining generation of British middle-distance runners in the nineteen-eighties, he now heads the team that will bring the Olympics to London in 2012. I tried to pick him out among the V.I.P.s on that first Friday, but without success. He may have been hiding in the men’s room, calling home to order more light bulbs. You can imagine the rising panic in his voice: “They had two thousand and eight drummers, all lit up. Yes, two thousand and eight. And what have we got so far? Elton John on a trampoline.”

Bye then. I gotta go read it once again.

At the Taste

So went to this thing called Taste of London last weekend. Low expectations as she who knows everything about food in this city wasn't very encouraging. But it turned out to be alright. Crowded and all but had some pretty good food. Ya, you might have read a slightly different version over your morning coffee so yes, there is a reason why this reads like it does.

Expectedly, London’s diversity in the food scene is unmatched by most other cities in the world - every region that one could think of is represented here. There is also no question that the city has some of the finest restaurants in the world especially if one were to go by the stars that Michelin gives out every year. However, if the city were to be judged by the food that is available to the masses, most Londoners would agree that the city does not score high. There are some very good markets and some amazing street food but for the most part, the “good” food is heavily overpriced that most of us commoners have to be happy with instant kebabs and pasta from the neighbourhood grocery store. So an occasion like the Taste of London, an annual event that Time magazine describes as one of the world’s best food festivals, that brings together more than 40 of the top restaurants in London and offers up fare at a fraction of the cost sounds too good to miss.

Evidently most people in London thought so too, I realised as we joined the crowd right outside the entrance. The Taste is held for four days in June in the leafy environs of Regents Park, a stone’s throw away from home, another reason why I was ready to pay the hefty entrance fee. The evening event was just beginning as we entered, and the Cuban band performing that night was tuning their instruments.

A special draw this year was Taste of China showcasing the regional variety of the country, and we walked in there first to see what was cooking. At the Amoy tent, a musical cooking session was in progress. The travelling cook, after playing the flute for a few minutes taught us how to make real Chinese food. He exclaimed “Real, as in Chinese food where you do NOT call the takeout joint and ask for a number. This is not number 76. This is a real dish!” Then he proceeded to teach a bunch of Britishers (and two Indians) how to cut cucumber. He pulled out a rolling pin and bashed the cucumber a few times and viola, you have bashed cucumbers which actually absorbs sauces. A few bits of the cucumber had splattered onto the front row and our cook profusely apologized blaming it on the Chinese beer he was drinking. Which prompted us to move on to the next tent which was serving cold Harbin beer which we happily sipped while watching an ice-carver carving a dragon.

The best food in the Taste of China section was served up by a Beijing restaurant called South Beauty. The London restaurants such as Snazz Sichuan and China Tang had good food but came nowhere close to South Beauty’s heavenly steamed chicken dipped in fresh chilli sauce and Kung-pao shrimp balls. We left the China section and I was flipping through the booklet to see where we should go next when I realised that I had lost Bill. I looked around but got sidetracked by a cooking event in the Nintendo stand. Nintendo has a Cooking Guide (a satnav for the kitchen!) which tells you how to make fast and tasty food!

Leaving the tent, I ran into Bill; he was busy finishing up tasting glasses of Tanqueray. An avid gin-and-tonic drinker myself, I joined him and we spent the next few minutes between the Tanqueray and the Grand Marnier booths. Happy with our aperitif, we then ventured into Café Spice Namaste, London’s famous Parsi joint for dahi batata poori. I was expecting the snooty Bombay-bred man to turn up his nose but to my surprise, he called it good chaat. We followed it with smoked monkfish from Salt Yard, the Spanish restaurant with the crazy wait lines. The monkfish was good but the best fish I tasted that day came from Launceston Place where the salmon was smoked right in the stall before it was served.

What is a food festival without French food? So we hit that next – seared scallop at Club Gascon and lobster soup at Le Gavroche. Decent stuff but well, French food is always lost on me. We headed to the Wine & Spirit booth where a Spanish wine tasting was starting and spent the next half hour sniffing and swirling and claiming to recognize various fruits. Followed by a trip to Nahm, arguably London’s finest Thai restaurant where we had the best chicken of the day – green curry chicken with thai basil and aubergines.

All in all, the food was great and my stomach was going to burst any moment. I was ready to call it a night after a tiny portion of the amazing Flour Power brownies butBill wasn't done yet. To round off the night, the Bong wanted the Bengali style minced mutton cutlets at the Cinnamon Club. He loved it and so will you. Just make sure you head over to the Taste of London next year.

Delusion

Last night at random curry house (don't get me started!) in Covent Garden. At the table:

2 partners from across the pond (though one lives in London)
1 clueless American associate (CAA)
3 very middle England junta (MEs)
Moi

ME1: When is R coming back?

R is a junior analyst staffed in a New York project for the past few months.

Visting Partner: Never!

ME2: But we want her back.

VP: We are keeping her. You have no idea how happy the clients are with her.

ME2: Good for her.

VP: Its not her really. I put her in front of clients and the minute she starts talking, it oozes credibility. Instant respect like I have never seen before.

Moi (you know I am smart): Of course. The accent.

VP: Yep. Give me a Brit to replace her and she can come back.

CAA: Do you think the reverse is true? When we have an American on the team, does it help here?

I was going to say something appropriate (Or inappropriate in keeping up with my reputation) but the American-in-London Partner said:

"Of course. It works both ways. Lot of respect for each other on both sides of the pond"

Not kidding. He actually said that. CAA nodded diligently. The three MEs caught each others' eyes for a nanosecond. Then ME1 found something very interesting in his plate for the next three minutes. ME2 looked up at the ceiling for a full minute. ME3 had to excuse himself and run to the restroom.

Dude, weather God, go get a life or something, will you?

SB says its raining in Hyderabad. Amma says its worse than Thulavarsham back home and there is no electricity. Don answers his phone from Cholaland bemoaning the loss of the March crop because of the flooding. Times claims that in Missouri, the water is rising. And in London, it is snowing over Easter weekend.

Brand Britain

The British, well, the British government has gone bonkers. Apparently, they are trying to figure out the essence of Britain. A defining motto for Britain that somehow exemplifies British values. Yes, I know. How more un-British can you get? I mean, after telling the world for about 300 years that they play in a league of their own, now they are trying to play catch-up with the French and the Americans. Really.

So anyway, a few of my favorite readers' suggestions from the Times of London motto contest:

4. Once Mighty Empire, Slightly Used
3. No Motto Please, We are British
2. Yanks who missed the boat
1. Dipso, Fatso, Bingo, Asbo, Tesco

I like this short motto idea alright but do think that since this is Britain we are talking about, mottos have to be longer than six words. (Six words is for the Americans. Uh, maybe not. Three works.) After all, this is Sir Humphrey land. I would prefer something like:

All services on the Empire line are currently suspended due to critical staff shortage and an earlier emergency due to a person under the train. We apologize for the inconvenience and request passengers to make use of alternative routes while we rectify the fault with a little help from our Polish friends.

The good news is thanks to the British Civil Service, none of these mottos will ever get past Whitehall. I can so see Sir Humphrey type character telling Mr. Brown:

Well, it's clear that the committee has agreed that your new policy is a really excellent plan but in view of some of the doubts being expressed, may I propose that I recall that after careful consideration, the considered view of the committee was that while they considered that the proposal met with broad approval in principle, that some of the principles were sufficiently fundamental in principle and some of the considerations so complex and finely balanced in practice, that, in principle, it was proposed that the sensible and prudent practice would be to submit the proposal for more detailed consideration, laying stress on the essential continuity of the new proposal with existing principles, and the principle of the principle arguments which the proposal proposes and propounds for their approval, in principle.

Please feel free to add your mottos in the comments section.

Bill's contribution: The sun never rises on the British Empire. If it does, you are hallucinating. Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.

Best Food Forward - Part 4

You never thought we would get to Part 4, did you? Ha! And this one is special too. This one is paying respects to certian ahem...senior fellows of the blogosphere edition. If we were to do this right, this would have been fish but since we aren't that respectful, you have to be happy with Bangla food in Brick Lane. (Btw, did I tell you that when Bill found out that the chef is Pakistani, he almost got up and left? He changed his mind as soon he saw our beaming faces.)

So anyway, getting to the food, this one is Prof-da special. We are sure that in all the silk road pictures, man spent ten minutes arranging food on the table so that he could get a decent pciture. (Yes, poor TPB, we know.)



And this one is well, who else could it be, JAP-da special. Always to destroy food before you take picture .



Special mention: The best bagels in the world. No, you New Yorkers lose.


The NY Times agrees. Sort of.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3.

Saturday at Borough

Part 2 of Best Food Forward
And Part 3 of BM and Buddhi in London

Saturday + Visitors = Borough market.

The market is great, its a great photo-op, the tourists you see there try to blend in which is always very amusing to watch. The only non-cool thing about it is that the bankers of Shad Thames and City all land up there because its such a quintessentially London thing to do, isn't it now? Yeah, these are the same people who sit around and make fun of poor software engineer types who spend their day in East Ham visiting Mahalaxmi Temple and Saravana Bhavan.

And now that the obligatory deragatory banker reference is out of the way, back to Borough market. The original plan was to walk there. Didn't work too well as Bill and I realised soon enough that we are dealing with two Californians here. (If I were the Falstaffian type, here I would talk about how in Umberto Eco's Travels in Hyperreality, he talks about how in California, the left leg is a vestigial appendage as they have even gotten rid of the clutch etc.) So anyway, we go to London Bridge and BM pulls out camera and starts taking random pictures of corner stores (who also sell vegetables) thinking its the market. We finally manage to convince her that it isn't and she follows reluctantly. Once inside the market, she was like a pattikattan (village idiot) who sees elephant for the first time. Evidence follows.













An hour later we find ourselves at this stall tasting some amazing dry cured ham when my phone rings.

"Hey Anoop"

Bill, Buddhi and BM scream "Hi Anoop". Everyone around us turn around.

"I have news. I should have been in London, I know but now I am making a whirlwind trip to India"

"What?"

"Last minute plan. I am packing right now. My flight leaves in a couple of hours"

"How long are you in India?"

"For a few weeks"

"Are you getting married?"

"Not that I know of"

"Should I call your Dad to check?"

"No, thats unnecessary"

"Hmm..not even sneak preview?"

"No. All will be revealed when I get back"

"We shall wait patiently for Revealations then"

BM, Buddhi and Bill all together: "Bye Anoop". This time, people around us just move away.

Wild boar sausages is where the queue was. So obviously we decide that's where we should be. Problem is its a long, long queue. And we are all ravenous.

"Idea! We got tampanade and cheese right?"

"Why don't you guys go stand in line and I will go get some bread. We will have it while we are standing in line"

"That works!"

Soon we are all standing in long line hogging. Everyone who passes us stares at us. People in front of and behind us in the queue peep in to see what's going on.





Finally the girl just in front of us couldn't take it anymore. She calls her friend. "Where are you?"..."Yes, I am in line"..."Why don't you pick up some olives and chesse along with the bread?"...."Why? Just pick up some"..."I am hungry"..."The line is long".

She hangs up and Buddhi decides to be the friendly neighborhood types.

"You can have some of this bread if you want"

The girl looks scared this time. She mumbles No, Thank You and runs away.

Yeah, yeah, we finally got our wild boar sausage. Here.

PS: BM, didn't you have some amazing cheese pictures somewhere? Or am I thinking of one of Szerelem's old posts?

Three Men on a Wooden Floor

(Part 2 of BM and Buddhi in London.)

Saturday morning. Bill and I pack off the sistahs to the Abbey and set out on another of our flat hunting expeditions. These things usually start with viewing perhaps one flat. And then we walk around the neighborhood, chill at the Park for an hour, go find some nice cafe and bookstores, maybe catch a movie at the local theater, eat some street food etc etc. Yes, I know. The most inefficient of things but who said the point of this is to find an apartment? First of all, we haven't really decided whether we are moving or not.

So anyway, a couple of hours later we find ourselves not very far from the Camden Lock and so we decide to go say hello to our prints guy. Man runs this narrow, little prints store on Camden High, sells everything from movie posters to Michelangelo. Pretentious me wanted to pick up a couple of Degas prints as gifts for some people. Also wanted to see whether he had any new Banksy stuff (if Banksy is your man, please go see this guy in Camden next time you are in London) so it all made sense.

"Didn't BM say she was looking for something?"

"Yeah. Now that we are here, maybe we should call her and check"

So Bill steps out and calls while I picked up The Tub and Before the Mirror.

"Yeah, she wants something but its a little strange"

"Are you looking for anything specific?"

"Yes. This may sound weird but a friend was in Paris recently..."

"Yeah?"

"At d'Orsay I think and she wants this print. The problem is she doesn't know the artist or the name of the painting"

"This is a test!"

"I guess. So this is am impressionist painting. The artist's name starts with C-A-I-L, she thinks"

"Caillebotte?"

"Possibly"

"And the painting?"

"Its three men working on a wooden floor. These are workers. So..well, so they are all able bodied and stuff"

"I think I know exactly what you are talking about"

"Really?"

Man disappears for a second. Comes back with painting.



"Is this it?"

"Yes, this is surely how she described it"

"What's my next test? You want me to do this blindfolded?"

"Not for now!"

"You said this is for you?"

"No no no, this is for a friend. She saw this in Paris"

"If you say so. Here!"