Delhi 6


The Parathe Wali galli was everything I’d hoped for (and more, parathas, I mean)

It’s been a while since the last post, and I’m not sure anyone’s even following this blog anymore. But I’ve always had a single-digit following, so what the hell.

28 items on the menu. And they are all parathas! Ranging from the normal (aloo paratha, mooli, gobi) to the absolute insane (ever heard of a rabdi paratha or a kaju paratha?). This is the legenday Parathe-wali galli, and here, if it’s edible (veg only, mind you) and can be stuffed, they will stuff it. Parathas ranging Rs 30 to Rs 45, this is the gastronomic heart of the Old Delhi.

But first here’s what took me to the Dalhi.
Day 1: Official event, stay at the Taj (company-sponsored of course; twin-sharing, but I’m not complaining), and that meant, dip in the pool (on the shallow-side, because I can’t really swim), and the perfect, impossibly comfy bed. Perfect. Saturday was largely spent at DLF Emporio, watching an incredible number of people spend incredible sums of money.
Day 2: Shopping at Janpath, then milkshake at Keventers at Connaught Place, thanks to RG. Milk makes the Dalhi boys hatta gatta and Keventer’s serves it old-style—close to a litre of the chilled stuff (flavours ranging chocolate, coffee, pista, mango, it goes on) served in one of those old milk bottles with silver foil caps that you no longer get.
From CP, it was a short ride to Chandni Chowk.
Digression: I’m officially in love with the metro. It’s organised, state-of-the-art. And clean (you must understand the charm that has to someone who takes the Mumbai local train to work).
Now, Chandni Chowk. An incredibly crowded area that reminded me of the Charminar area of Hyderabad. And the legendary Parathe-wali galli is literally a galli (a metre-wide lane that magically accommodates thousands of pedestrians, two-wheelers and pushcarts of hot stuff simmering away in hot oil. Some of it looks suspect, but I was here for the parathas, and that is absolutely delightful. We chose one of the many lookalike hole-in-the-walls, this one called Babu Ram Parathe Wale (Regd). The menu of over two dozen parathas also told us that it was mandatory to order at least two parathas! Oh, and that the lassi was made from curd (Didn’t know another kind exists). My mixed paratha was brilliant, and RG’s interesting tomato paratha was, well, interesting. I rounded it off with a childhood comfort food, the sugar paratha. Yes, plain old caramelised sugar stuffed into a paratha. Heavenly.
We wolfed it down, paid Rs 90, and heeded all the signs on the wall, including ‘be careful of your belongings’ and ‘do not wash your hands in the plate’!
This was a food experience to cherish. Blueberry cheesecake at the Taj versus sugar paratha at Delhi 6? The choice is obvious.



Love, Sex Aur Dhokha... A bitter pill

A naive, Bollywood-inspired love story ends up not with a rosy ‘happily ever after’, but in a pit by the highway, murdered and chopped into pieces. This one’s different, and it’s cringe-worthily real. LSD isn’t going to drive the Box Office ecstatic. Rather, it might break a few conventions, on what makes a film, what makes a story, what can be told and what is taboo.

The purpose of art isn’t to please, but to reflect reality, often with a shock value. In that sense, Dibakar Benerjee is an artist, almost with a modern dystopian sense of the profane. All three stories in his digitally-shot, ‘pictures-may-be-shaky’ reality show aren’t meant to have safe, stylised, larger-than-life splendour. His stories are squalid, his characters realistically petty and powerless, pawns of a convoluted social fabric. His middle-class protagonists aren’t the all-mighty, all-challenging, fate-altering Bollywood hero. They are middle-class, sure, but ineffectual, with common, often delusional aspirations of falling in love, finding fame through a raunchy music video deal, and a shooting a prize-catch sting video.

Therefore, the DDLJ-inspired Rahul and his rich-dad’s-daughter girlfriend run away from home, not to be accepted later, but to be murdered brutally by the girl’s brother and party. The shock value of the story isn’t allowed to pathetically linger, though. We move on to the boy who seduces a ‘dark’, and therefore conventionally unattractive, girl, and records a ‘Store Scandal’ footage that sells for a ‘good’ price. The somewhat-cliched third story is that of the aspiring dancer and sting journalist out to blackmail and reveal a B-grade pop singer and the infamous casting couch. While the first two stories are essentially Delhi, the last seems to belong to Bollywood underbelly in Mumbai.

Shot on a handheld camera, a CCTV and a spy cam (a la Emotional Atyachaar), this is cinema made without a grand budget, glamorous stars or pretty camerawork. It’s rather a parody of the glittering dream that Bollywood sells: of romantic soliloquies, tube-well-uprooting action heroes and the morally upright common man. The ‘item number’ in LSD is also a crude parody of the Rakhi Sawant brand of cleavage and sex.

For those who call Love, Sex aur Dhokha crass and dirty, it is precisely that. But appropriately so, for so is the reality that surrounds us. A hidden camera (here, acting as the proverbial mirror) held up to society cannot be rose-tinted, and Emotional Atyachaar’s TRP ratings speak for our voyeuristic tastes. For those seeking safe, un-scandalising cinema, 3 Idiots will continue to define ‘realistic’ cinema.

For the unfortunate few who’ve had to endure my review/rant, go see the film. You’ll love it, or you’ll be shocked by the filmmaker’s guts. Either way, that’s the point.

Caught in a cell


‘So, you want postpaid?’

Yes.

‘You have residence proof?’

What do you mean?

‘Ration card, Voter id, driving license?’

No. You see I’m not from Mum...

‘Electricity bill?’

Yes, but on the landlord’s name.

‘Sorry, not possible.’

Vodafone, Airtel, It’s the same conversation everywhere. ‘Sorry Sir, you’re not eligible for a postpaid connection.’ Why? Not because I’m a terrorist; not because my name is Khan (it’s not, it’s Ray, and it’s Bengali, though I’m not related to Satyajit Ray). It’s because I’m not from Bombay.

Good news, after 10 months in the city now, I am finally the proud owner of a postpaid Vodafone connection! Bad news, it took 10 months, harassment, a score of ‘your service has been disconnected’ and stupid conversations with stupid customer-care employees.

God bless that girl at the Fort Vodafone store though—she is smart, and with a positive IQ, quite a rarity with customer care execs. And bless my HR manager for the letter stating I could get my bill on the office address (it also stated, ‘However, the company will not be paying the bill’ just to make things clear).

So, if you’re new to Mumbai and want to get a postpaid connection without having to ‘please visit the Vodafone store near you for further assistance’ every time your line gets disconnected, here’s the checklist:

Are you from Mumbai and have an ID-proof with a city address? You’re eligible.

Are you a terrorist? Eligible, unless you tell them you’re going to use the connection to blow up their office perhaps. Provided, you have fake documents to prove you’re from the city. Or have bribed the driving school guy to get a real license.

Do you have a friend or colleague from Mumbai on whose address you can take the connection? Maybe/ maybe not. Depending on the Stupidity Quotient of the person who comes for address verification. My address verification, I was promptly informed, happened when no one was home and the verification inspector (woah) concluded I’m unworthy of the connection.

And finally. Is your HR, after some coaxing perhaps, willing to provide a letter stating you can get the bill on the office address? Yes! And that’s how I am finally a privileged Vodafone customer!

So there you go. In a nutshell, go to your HR. Or go to the driving school with a 200-rupee bribe. And do not take a postpaid connection casually, since all this hassling is being done to protect terrorists from sailing in a boat to Gateway, taking a 5-star hotel and railway station hostage and opening fire. Vodafone’s policy deters them severely.

Mr Terrorist, if you are using a postpaid connection with a Pakistan address and trying to call Al Qaeda to inform the body count, tough luck. You might hear the cheerful recorded Vodafone lady go ‘Sorry, your lines have been temporarily disconnected. Please visit the nearest Vodafone store or use the swarm of TV media outside the hotel to get your message across.’

Hands-on-head

One of the best ways to spend 50 rupees in Mumbai

Now, everyone will agree on this. Mumbai is an expensive city. Whether you’re like me, from another city, who at the first encounter with Bombay had a mini heart attack every other day; or if you’re from the city, a pakka Mumbaikar, everyone is unanimous on this one. Rent, food, chaat, street shopping, real estate... you’re in the most expensive city in India. Here’s for a bit of perspective: my friends in Hyderabad pay Rs 2,000 lesser rent than me for a 1,000-sq ft 2 bhk apartment! I, on the other hand, part with precious money every month for a 220-sq ft one-room-kitchen.

In a city, therefore, where ordering lunch everyday costs an average of Rs 100 (and that’s when I’m ordering ‘cheap’), the joy that a meagre 50 rupees can provide becomes remarkable.

Yes, I am aware of the statistic of the BPL in India and what a grand sum 50 rupees is to them. I also work in a fashion magazine from whose pages designerwear sporting 7-figure price tags stare back at me, giving me enough occasions to cringe.

And since not many from BPL India are likely to read my blog (not many above it read my blog either), 50 rupees is still bloody cheap.

By the way, have you seen the revamped version of the ‘Tel Malish’ song for the film Road, Movie? It’s way better than the revamped ‘Mile Sur Mera Tumhara’, if there’s a comparison here at all. And no, I didn’t go for a Tel Maalish on Carter Road or Band Stand, if that’s what you’re thinking. Though they are really popular.

So, if you’re in Mumbai, and badly in the need for a haircut (without any intention of burning a 500-rupee hole in your pocket) have walked into one of those seemingly-safe places that charge Rs 50, ask if they do a head massage. Try it, for if your guy is anything close to being as skilled as the one at '5-star hair cutting salon' in Pali, Bandra, you will love it! Of course, if he’s done a bad job of the haircut, it might just be safe to walk out without letting yourself be subjected to further experiments.

So, that was my big discovery on a lazy Saturday afternoon, when I walked into the salon for a trim (Rs 50 is like the standard rate for any service here, it seems).

You will be asked for a choice: “Parachute or cool?” He means the choice of oil. I, being the brand victim I am, went for the former. Out come two full-size towels he puts over you. And then the skilled hands get to work.

For the standard 50-rupee rate, he gives you a fantabulously relaxing, sleep-inducing head massage. And the bonus is that here, the definition of ‘head’ seems more than that patch of crop at top. 'Head' extends to the back, shoulders and hands as well. And you won’t hear yourself complaining. After a good 15 minutes of this, he suggests using a machine. It’s a soild metal vibrator (disclaimer, refer below), that his palm apparently fits into and then he goes to work on your head again. It looked a tad intimidating, like the bared robot arm in Terminator 2. So I say 'No, thank you, I’ll avoid'. The nearly half-hour massage finishes with a towel soaked in hot water over your head.

I open my eyes and squint as the light after having been close to dosing off. I happily pull out the additional 50-rupee note and thank the man.

Just the other day I heard about a place in Juhu where a full-body massage and exotic oils therapy costs Rs 15,000! I try to calculate in my head how many head massages I could get for that amount and feel happy for the small joys.

Disclaimer: this post has no innuendos, so don’t over read. It’s a good old champi, that’s what this is. Though the experience, one may say, is extremely pleasurable.