The Mega Christmas Wishes Post

Some years ago a friend came up with a very unique idea for a Christmas email. This year, when sitting down to compose mine I remembered his plan and decided that the statute of limitations on the rip off had expired and went ahead and created my own version of a Christmas message.

When thinking about Christmas, its always the memories from your childhood that tend to take centre stage. Good and bad... they come tumbling to the forefront. Whether it is that horrible dress your mother forced you to wear (Bandra girls on this list... you know the one with the bows and itchy fabric) or the excitement of making Christmas sweet with your Nana and the cousins or the thrill of the first notes of the Christmas choir. 

I could have written a deep and insightful (and sometimes humourous) account of my best Christmas memories... but that's not going to be any different from the rest of the festive greetings is it? So, thanks to the wonder that is You Tube, this is going to be an audio visual trip down memory lane!

When you sing in a Christmas choir, the festive season begins long before Advent Sunday. In fact, I remember one year when it was not even Diwali and we'd already begun with weekly practices. Through trembling tenors and shakey sopranos and with 80% of the singers not even able to read music, we somehow each year managed to pull off a fantastic performance the Christmas Eve service. Unfortunately, there are no recordings to share with you, so instead I give you The Carol of the Bells

 performed by a very unique ensemble.

Anyone growing up in North American will be very familiar with TV Christmas specials such as the Peanuts Christmas and A Christmas Carol and How the Grinch Stole Christmas. We didn't have TV specials in Bombay. What we DID have were uncles and aunties and random relatives and family friends who lived in various parts of the Middle East who would tape (yes as in video) various programs and pass out these cassettes to their India based rellies. And thank goodness for their unabashed bootlegging and totally infringement of copyright because otherwise I would have never ever known about The Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton, A Christmas to Remember.

There are so many wonderful songs from this program, both the old and well known as well as new (well, for 1984) ones that Dolly and Kenny belted out in true country style. My all time favourite that I'd like to share with you is a song who's lyrics are so apt, even all these years later. And yes, I Believe in Santa Claus!!

Whatever your personal Christmas traditions, the season is all about getting together. Friends and family from near and far. And over the years, Christmas has been the reason for some amazing musical collaborations that have produced some of the finest tunes ever. There's one such match up that I absolutely love. Here's David Bowie and Bing Crosby and their take on

 The Little Drummer Boy

To all of you on this list that have kiddos (or are about to pop some out), I say to you: Make sure your kid is introduced to the wonderful world of the Muppets as early as possible. Heck, I'd say that EVERYONE should know about the Muppets. The world would certainly be a much better place we all just did things like they do in Jim Henson land! (manamanah!)

So, I end this with this, the best of Christmas wishes to you and yours. May it be merry, may it be bright, joyful and triumphant!  But most of all, may it be filled with the joy and laughter of loved ones. Here's hoping that 2011 brings you the best experiences and wonderful times to look back on at this time next year.

Kermit, Miss Piggy, Fozzie, Gonzo and the rest of the gang have this special wish for you. 

Cheers to a wonderful today, and an even better tomorrow.

Where Have All The Nanas Gone?

It is a truth universally known, that early morning phone calls are always to be mistrusted. For whatever unexplainable karmic reason, good news will come to you during the day. But that phone call or text message or pager that you get in the wee hours of the morning - that will always, always be helped along by an ill wind. And so, when my phone rang at 10:43 am today and caller ID said "home", I knew that picking up the call would definitely put a damper on my day.

It was my mum, calling to tell me that my dad's aunt had passed away. She was the last of her generation on my paternal grandmother's side of the family. I never knew my own grandmother as she had succumbed to ovarian cancer much before I was born. I am named for her and I share her passion for music and her talent for dance. Aunty Eye was her younger sister and almost everything I know about my grandmother came from her; but even after hearing all the stories, I feel there was so much more I could have learned, so many more questions I could have asked.

And that's what troubles me the most. As each grandparent, great aunt and grand uncle passes away, there are fewer and fewer voices that can reach back and decode the mysteries of the past. Suddenly it feels like a race against the passage of time and already I know that I am falling further and further behind. But, I wonder, is the sense of this loss a sorrow for their mortality, or is it that I know that I am just another step closer to mine?

In Memoriam

Today marks a month since Papa passed away. My family will be gathering together, both in Canada and in Bombay to pay respects to him. I am away, a wanderer off on my own. There is no family near by to seek out. Instead, I share these thoughts and words with you Dear Reader; you who have become such an important part of my life and most certainly as close as a family.

Below is the eulogy written for Papa. I had written the original outline and my cousin cleaned it up a bit and added in some of her thoughts as well. She read it out on our behalf at the funeral mass. I hope that through our words you too can share in the spirit of this incredible man.

Most of us who are here are here because we knew my grandfather --- whether as Lauriano, or uncle, or Irmao, or Padrin, or Mr Mendonca, or Daddy, or Papa. Some of us will, indeed, remember him most vividly for pinching our cheeks really, really hard. So since we all know him, it hardly seems necessary to talk about him --- but perhaps this will help us relive some memories.

Ever since Thursday, when he left us, I have been thinking that I will never be privileged to meet a more gracious person than him. We all know that, despite not having much education, he took every opportunity for learning in establishing a career, moving up from being an accounting clerk at West End Watch co, to being the General Manager, the first non-white person to hold that position. But many of us will also know that along with this achievement, Papa never forgot his duty and responsibility to share his success with others and help them make their own successes and build their own futures.

He was such a kind man and a generous one. Generous to a fault maybe, always giving without counting the cost. But generous in giving materially as well as in spirit --- he forgave people who wronged him and didn't hold grudges.

Career apart, he was a wonderful family man --- a loving and loyal husband to Grana, a dutiful and caring son to his mother and mother-in-law, a good father, an affectionate grandfather. He may not have been a modern guy -- you would never see him carrying babies or changing diapers -- but he carried us all in his heart and did whatever he could to protect and nurture us.

He lived a full life in other senses as well. Many of us will remember how fond he was of reading, especially his favourite books, The Count of Monte Cristo and The Song of Bernadette. Some of us will also recall that he was quite a movie buff. And many of us would have enjoyed the fulfillment of his dream of having a house in the hills, at picnics and holidays in Khandala, the house he delighted in for more than 2 decades.

He enjoyed discussion and was quite opinionated, so that birthday parties sometimes seemed like meetings of the debating club. Without question, he was very stubborn -- a trait several of his children and grandchildren have inherited. But this stubbornness also helped him stand up for what he believed in and defend anyone he felt was being treated unfairly. He had such a solid sense of ethics.

We will miss his deadpan sense of humor, making unexpected jokes that were always memorable.

Above all, he was steadfast in his faith. He was devoted to Our Lady. At the end, even when he struggled to find the strength to speak, the words of the Hail Mary and the Angelus flowed freely.

Yes, he was gracious. Till the end, when he had become a man of very few words, those words often expressed concern, hospitality, gratitude. "Eat and go," "How is Mummy?" "Tell her not to worry," "Take care," Thank you, " "Kind regards, " and if you said you were going to visit, "Most welcome." These were the things he said most often. Whatever suffering he faced in the last year or so, he bore silently, without a moan or groan or a word of complaint or frustration. Till the end he was saying "Thank you" to his doctors and caregivers.

He was given to us by God for nearly 96 years. Yet it seems as if we got to walk only a few miles together. Still, I know I'm luckier than many who never knew their grandparents, for they had died or lived far away. And even as we know we'll miss him, and miss the second home that Grana and he made for us, we are thankful for that irreplaceable gift of Papa and the memories we have of him.

Unadulterated Pleasure

My college pal returned to London last Friday morning and a mere 5 hours after he left, I was already welcoming round 2 of visitors!

VBF's parents are in town and staying at my place over the next two weeks. Although it may sound like chaos having someone else's parents over and having to give up your room (and bed) to them, trust me guys, I'm the one in the winning seat. Already, I'm reaping the benefits of their visit. Awesome home cooked meals wait for me every evening and a bunch of the little handy jobs that I had lined up but had been putting off for weeks, are all magically done!

Uncle D and Aunty P had asked me over and over what I would like from India and over and over I had replied nothing. It wasn't that I was being coy. I had just been to the Motherland a few months ago and had gotten everything that I needed/wanted. Besides, I did know that in true Indian parental style they would be loading up on gifts for VBF and her husband and her in-laws. So very firmly I told them NOT to bring me anything. Anything at all.

Fortunately, in equally true Indian parent style they didn't listen. And they brought me something so very special and so very welcome. Four whole Alphonso mangoes. Ripe and yummy and full of delicious golden loveliness.
If you've never had one, well mere words will just not be able to describe just how delicious and succulent these mangoes are; they're not called the king of all fruit for no reason. I have always imagined that the nectar of the Gods was perhaps made out of the juice of a ripe Alphanso mango.

Four mangoes. Four nights of unadulterated culinary pleasure. And yes, there were soft moans that accompanied each session.

Embracing my Inner Gleek

Last season's surprise hit TV show has gotten everyone talking about the age old high school rivalry. Supposedly, if you're in Glee Club (or a version of it) that automatically makes you uncool and the bottom feeders of the high school social hierarchy. Having never attended high school in North America, I don't know just how much of this is true. If it is, then I cannot express just how sad that would be as a reflection of American society.

Why is it that kids who decide to participate in school activities are termed "geeks"? If that is the case, well then, I was (and probably still am) the very biggest geek around. Drama, music, art, science, handicrafts, dance, band, squad, guides; I was part of all these clubs back in high school. And I loved it! I knew I sucked at sports, but that was ok. I was happy to play with my classmates during P.E class, but when it came to competitions I preferred to leave it to the experts. But other than that, I signed up for anything and everything that the school offered. It was the perfect excuse for a "get out of class free" pass!

And boy did the over enthusiastic participation work to my advantage! One time I was punished by the maths teacher as I hadn't completed my homework. The punishment was to stay in at recess and get it all done. Problem was, practice for drama class was scheduled during recess and we had a play to perform at the sectionals in a mere 2 weeks time. The teacher in charge of drama got me out of the punishment. 'Course, I had to promise to have the homework done by the next morning, but hey, I'd have done that anyway. No one was stupid enough to cross the math teacher twice!

I know for sure that I was nowhere near being cool when in school. Or in even later in university. For that matter, I'm still not allowed anywhere near the cool kid's table! What I do know is that being part of every one of those clubs gave me an education far better than any classroom lecture. And I say that with no disrespect to my wonderful teachers. Being part of those clubs may have been gleek like, but they are what form some of my best high school memories.

And really, what is so wrong about wanting to participate in these activities and win accolades for the school? If that's going to keep me at the bottom of the social ladder, well that's perfectly fine by me. In any case, I'm terrified of heights!!

Above: Grade 8 class picture with the Principal (centre), Vice Principal (left) and class teacher.

Can you spot the 12 year old me?

Homecoming

The journey from the UK wasn't as long I'd expected. A very comfortable seat on a very comfortable airline helped with the jet lag - almost none this time.

Familiar faces met me at the airport, took my bags, gave me hugs, filled me in on all the local khabbar* on the ride home.

Its been 3 years. Outwardly, the city has expanded. Buildings are taller and leaner and now full of shiny reflective surfaces that shine and shimmer in the noon day sun. There are more billboards and everyone seems to be sporting a cell phone; vegetable vendors and building watchmen included. The Bandra-Worli link is (finally) complete and rises majestically out of the Arabian sea - if you can even spot it through the city's thick smog that is!

Underneath though, much has remained the same.

The traffic is still crazy and chaotic, with everyone following their own version of road (non)sense.
The shops are still multiplying, and the people are still shopping with a vengeance. (what recession?)
The dogs still roam the streets, barking madly at anything and anyone that dares intrude into their territory.
The noise of the cawing crows still wakes you up at unearthly morning hours.
The clack-clack of the milkman's pails still makes a nice tune as his cycles down the street on his rounds. Now, not as many since most prefer the packaged product.
Hill Road in Bandra is still more of a Hell Road even though this is the first time it hasn't been dug up in almost 3 years!

And yet, after the hellos and the hugs and the kisses and the all important hug(s) to Papa; after the thrill of being back had died down, after I sat down in the living room and look across to where Nana would have usually sat, I knew that no matter how joyous my homecoming, it was not complete without her smile and laugh and her hand on my head.


*Hindi word for news

I'll be Home for Christmas, if Only in my Dreams

Every year around the first week of December, my mum goes in to Christmas overdrive. Boxes of decorations are pulled out from the cupboard-under-the-stairs; each one of them carefully labelled so that we know exactly what ornaments are inside. (I get my love of lists from her). The holly wreaths are draped around the banisters and along the front porch. Nativity scenes are set up. Yes, that was in the plural. We literally have one for every room in the house. The larger rooms sometimes have two or three. Only the washrooms are safe; but only until someone has the bright idea to manufacture Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus mini soaps.

And then of course, we have the centre piece of all Christmas activity: THE TREE.

When we lived in Bombay, VBF would come over and help me and my mom decorate the tree. As long as we were in Bombay for Christmas, this was our ritual for about 15 years. When we were packing for our move to Canada, we had to trim back on what we were taking with us. That included the decorations and tree ornaments. It was gut wrenching deciding which ones would go and which would get left behind. Our first Christmas in Canada, we didn't have a tree. We'd only just moved into our own apartment at the beginning of December and there were a lot of expenses. A tree was too much of a luxury that year. My mum and I were in total agreement about that. We decorated the rest of the apartment and settled down to a tree-less Christmas.

Only, we just couldn't do it! A few days before Christmas saw me and my mum dragging the dead branch off the sidewalk all the way back to the apartment and decorating it with all the tinsel and candy canes and ornaments we could find.

And we've never had to compromise on a tree ever again.

This year, my apartment is as un-Christmassy as it gets. Not a bauble or holly leaf or tinsel string in sight; I truly cannot afford to spend on anything that isn't directly related to food or shelter. But, since I'll be in Bombay in just a few days, I don't mind as much as I know that there will be all the Christmas I want waiting for me.

Back at the ranch, my mum began with the decorating last weekend. The little cousins were over to help her out. Together, they put up the tree and then sent along this picture so that I could give it my seal of approval. I think the kids did well, don't you?

Hand of God

As my wretched cold continued into today as well and forced me into house arrest for the second day in a row, I looked back on some of my travel pictures and found these I'd like to share. Taken on my second day on the Gold Coast, one of the most spectacular sunsets I've ever witnessed.

Girls and Dolls

Ms. Barbie turned 50 some weeks ago and everyone was talking about it. On the TV, over the radio and all over the Internet. Everyone had a favourite story about their experience with the world's most famous doll, and as I listened to the sharing I suddenly remembered about my own Barbie experience from a long long time ago.

It was nearing the end of the the summer vacations of 1988 and us kids were tiring of the long hot days. Even the most innovative of games had grown stale and the unrelenting heat stifled any new creativity. To escape from the daily monotony, one of the neighbourhood girls managed to con/bribe/nag her mother into throwing a "Barbie Party" for all the neighbourhood girls. Of course this peeved the boys to no extent as none of them were "invited" and it led to them plotting revenge - but that's a whole other story.

For a whole week, the upcoming Barbie party was all anyone was talking about. The girl (who I shall call Diva) had her mum make up little party invites that said something along the lines of"You and Your Barbie are cordially invited to a party at..................." The invite also revealed that one lucky girl would have her Barbie crowned "Princess of the Party". Sure, we'd all had parties. Lots of parties. But never one with our dolls. FOR our dolls!

When I got my invitation, I was over the moon with delight. And in 3 seconds flat, that delight turned to despair. I so badly wanted to go to this party, but the only Barbie I had owned was in no fit condition for such an event. Some years ago, in a misguided attempt to make more "feminine" an aunt had gifted me a Barbie for my birthday (or was it Christmas?). I had promptly stripped her off her boring blue business suit and put her into an outfit better suited for some action packed adventures with GI Joe, He-Man and Strawberry Shortcake - who in case you're wondering was just as much of an action hero in my world. Barbie balanced out the team nicely and over the years had participated in some crazy adventures with the gang that had earned her the respect she rightly deserved amongst my playmates, but had sadly left her with broken limbs and deep battle scars that no amount of cosmetic surgery would cover. And there was the bitter realization that like the millions of women invited out to special events - she hadn't a thing to wear!

I knew there was no way I could take my Barbie to that party wearing her current ensemble of tattered T (borrowed from a teddy bear, fitted with safety pins) and home made skirt from my dad's torn handkerchief. So the next time I met Diva, I told her that I wasn't going to attend her party. Diva probed some more and when she found out that lack of suitable ensemble was my excuse, she exclaimed that she had loads and loads of extra "party" clothes for her Barbies (all 17 of them) and would be happy to lend me something for mine.

And so, I went to the party after all. I didn't want to take Barbs over in her "fighter" outfit, so I hastily wrapped her in one of my mum's silk scarfs and went over to Diva's. "Ok, I said, can I have something for my Barbie to wear?" Diva took one look at my Barbie and at me and then proceeded to teach me an early lesson in duplicity.

"Oh, how SWEET!" she exclaimed. "Look everyone, Pixy's Barbie is wearing a homemade outfit." And then to me, "Well, it would be a shame to ruin that special outfit you made her. Just let her wear it to the party."

Of course, I couldn't very well demand that she make good on her offer of a dress and didn't have a choice but to put down my "Home Econo Fashion Barbie" along side all of the other carefully coiffed and dressed dolls. The party was absolutely ruined for me and I remember not being able to eat a single thing that evening even though Diva's mum had prepared a veritable feast. About half way though the evening, I made some excuse about a tummy ache and went off home taking poor old war weary Barbs with me. Hardly anyone even noticed my departure, and as I walked home I could hear the shrieks of delighted laughter behind me.

I never fully understood why Diva had gone back on her promise. Perhaps her aim had been to embarrass me all along, or perhaps she just changed her mind at the last minute - like a lot of 8 year olds tend to do. In either case, she taught me an early lesson about the Divas of the world and that perhaps it was better to use my imagination and play with a bunch of ragged, but loyal buds than try to befriend the cool kids who's idea of friendship was false smiles and broken promises.

Love, Forever True

While pondering thoughts of relationships and love and such, I think it would be a good time to mention that my Papa and Nana celebrated their 63rd wedding anniversary on the 1st of this month. When asked what he gave his wife as a present, Papa replied "Myself. Isn't that enough?"

How true!

Happy Anniversary Nana and Papa. You are an inspiration to us all.

Mr. and Mrs. M on their wedding day. September 1 1945

Celebrating 50 years of togetherness. Sept 1 1995

At home in Bombay. January 2007

Thoughts on a Wedding

As I sat by watching my oldest friend getting her bridal hair and make up done, I knew this was a moment I would remember for the rest of my life. Watching her, I was reminded of our very first meeting - the first day of school back in grade 1.

I remember my mum taking me up to my classroom. When I got to the classroom, I was faced with a room full of bawling girls. (it was an all girls convent school). This was rather perturbing as I couldn't quite figure out why everyone was crying. I was only too happy to going to a "big girl's school", the same one two of my older cousins attended. Suddenly, I didn't want to be left behind in a room full of emotional girls (something I'm still not comfortable with). My mum asked me where I wanted to sit and as I glanced about the room I spotted the only other girl NOT crying. "Her" I said, "I'll sit with her." That girl turned out to be Very Best Friend and we've been partners of sorts for the past 22 years.

The hairdresser asks me a question, and my thoughts snap back to the present. The chaos, anxiety, stress and drama that is the mandatory accompaniment to all weddings have settled down into a dull haze. With just a few hours to go until the ceremony we've done all that needs doing and can only hope that things will go well.

I wondered what I would feel as I watch my Very Best Friend walk down that aisle and take her new partner's hand. As she repeats her vows she will forever be bound to him and his life and on some level, she and I will never share the same sort of friendship ever again. Even as I rejoice in her happiness and that I know that her fiancé is a wonderful man who will make her very happy, I cannot but help feel a twinge of regret as I see a chapter of my life close forever. My friend will be stepping through the gates into a new world, and I will be unable to follow.

Nature's Poetry

O setting sun! though the time has come,

I still warble under you if none else does, unmitigated adoration.
From "Song at Sunset" by Walt Whitman

Holy City of Pushkar, North India

On the road to Aurangabad, India

Covent Gardens, London

Lake Pichola, Udaipur - North India

Lake Pichola from City Palace, Udaipur - India




Bhandipur National Park, Karnataka - South India


View from West Umeda Buildings, Osaka - Japan


Bandra Bandstand, Bombay - India

Juhu Beach, Bombay - India

Recipe for the Perfect Masala

I first heard about author Stephen Alter last December when I was in London. Browsing through the shelves of my friend's home library, my eye caught upon an interesting title - Elephas Maximus - A Portrait of the Indian Elephant. The book was a unique blend of myth, legend, zoology and storytelling about the gentle grey giant of the Indian subcontinent. A must read for anyone who loves anything about those pachyderms! I was curious to read more by Stephen Alter, especially when I found out the subject matter of his other books and then a little more about him. I was finally able to get my hands on a relatively cheap copy of Fantasies of a Bollywood Love Thief recently and haven't been able to put it down.


A first hand insider's view of the world of Indian movie making, ....Love Thief tells about the making of the movie Omkara an Indian retelling of Shakespeare's Othello. Set in the harsh arid plains of North India the story and characters all take on very Indian personas. Othello becomes Omkara, Desdemona is Dolly and Cassio is Kesu. The island of Cyprus is the village of Cypra and instead of warriors and soldiers the story is about a local gang lord and his lady love and his lieutenants.

More than just a telling of one movie, the book takes us through a journey of movie making that is as similar and yet as different from any other. Going behind the scenes, the author explores not only the movie but what lies behind it as well - the actors, directors, producers, musicians and the host of other unknowns on who's shoulders lie the success or failure of an industry that produces on average 900 movies a year.

Growing up in Bombay - the LA to India's Bollywood - Hindi movies were always part of my life. Although I didn't start going to see Hindi movies in the theatre until I was in high school, I remember settling down with my grandmother's maid most Sunday evenings to watch the week' showing. At a time when TV was limited to 3 channels 1 of which was in a regional language I didn't quite follow, we took what we got on TV and we cherished every moment. My grandmother was not really a Hindi movie fan, but was nevertheless obsessed with 2 particular Hindi movies - "Bobby" and "Aradhana" and because they owned the VHS we would watch those over and over until we all knew the dialogues by heart!

When I began college in my mid teens, movies... and Hindi movies in particular took on a whole new persona. There were 4 cinema halls a mere 10 minutes walk from the college and another 3 a short cab ride away. My circle of friends expanded from the very "Christian centric" group that living in a Catho-ville suburb like Bandra accorded, to a more multi cultural group from not only all over Bombay.. but all over India as well. Although everyone liked a good Hindi movie as much as the next guy, one friend in particular was passionate about the world of movies and through his passion, I was drawn into this glittering, gaudy, girating world of Bollywood at the movies.

In his book, Stephen Alter says

"The precise ingredients for a good blend of masala may vary according to the cook, but no matter what the recipe, this pungent concoction of spices excites all five senses.
Masala is the word most often used to describe a combination of elements that go into making a successful Bollywood film. Once again, the ingredients and quantities may be adjusted, with extra measures of romance, sex, violence or suspense, depending on the script. All these are simmered together to form a saucy cinematic curry that keeps audiences coming back for seconds."

And since my life is entirely devoid of masala right now - be it romantically or literally in my food, I turn to my daily dose of Bollywood to spice things up and raise a fire in my belly that keeps me warm through these oh so cold... oh so un Bollywood-like winter nights.

Bandra Speaks

**Disclaimer**
I would like to preface this post by stating most empatically that I did NOT write the article that follows. I wish I could lay claim to its authorship as it is by far one of the most accurate descriptions of being a Bandra-ite that I have ever found! I hope one day to find out the identity of the author and thank him for a belly full of laughter every time I read this!
For folks who live.. Or have ever lived in that delightful "Queen" of the surburbs, this will bring back fond memories. For those who are clueless (ie most readers) - Bandra is the surburb in Mumbai that I grew up in.

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I'm just a regular 'Bandra Boy' from dere only wanting to give back a little something to my favourite suburb. Someone (may have been me) once said 'You can take a person out of Bandra, but you can never take Bandra out of him'. And surprisingly, knowing how no one falls for 'profound' lines like that anymore (my favourite one being - I would if I could, but I can't so I won't), its quite true, because no matter where you are in the world, maybe even in a mall in Frankfurt and you suddenly happen to overhear 'Aaayee Gracie ...See this dress men....' Get the picture!!
Which brings me to the sweet, melodic and ungrammatical feature of Bandra and my ultimate favourite spice of Bandra - The Bandra Mac Accent (with no reference to a certain fast food chain organisation). No matter how much RJ's, VJ's, TV presenters or stand up comedians try to impersonate it, they can never get exactly right because you have got to live in it to, to get it totally accurate, it has to come from the (h)eart ... (Bit like the Scottish accent).
So let me give you a few basic ground rules so that the next time you are shopping in Bandra you can blend in perfectly.
* Always use 'D' for Th.
* Never use 'H' anywhere, they are always silent
* Using 'What' even if there's no question asked.
* Using a Hindi Verb with an English ending
* Using words twice to emphasise your point.
* Just like the Americans use 'man' in their slang, only we use 'men'.
* Just like the Americans use 'like' in their slang, we use 'no'

Correct use of the above grammatical rules will result in masterpieces like:
* 'Ow you men Larry? (Situation: Meeting Larry on Saturday morning in the bazaar)
* 'She was giving me dis dis small pomflits (while showing the size of her palm) for bledy 50 rupees men' (Situation: Larry's wife explaining her adventures in the bazaar, later that day)
* "Aarre, Dat bledy Sandy no, yesterday he lagao-ed solid whisky for the communion party" (Situation: The retired men from the village talking at the local Irani joint during the Sunday morning mass sermon)
* 'You don't have any sense what riding the cycal so fast' (Situation: Spinster aunty yelling to a schoolboy on Chapel Road)
* Cun, Men Savio, Put tru men, put tru (Situation: Classic line heard at Supari talao during a football match, asking Savio to bend the ball like Beckham)
* "Aarre see dere men, dere, arre left men, see dere men, arre big bugger men dere' (Situation: Boys stealing mangoes in the afternoon in May)
* Aaaye, what men basket, why you are saying anyting aboud my mudder and fadder, I call boys now...' (Situation: Often heard after a Saturday nite binge)
* (H)ail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou ... ..Norma, just see whether the back door is latched ...... amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus .......it's closed ?.... ok .....Holy Mary...... (Situation: Family rosary at the Pereiras)
* You know, Theresa, dat day I took little ginger garlic, little onion, so much so much masala dat I ground, put chicken and the curry came good men...' (Situation: Swapping recipes while standing and gossiping at the junction with the black bag of groceries at their feet)
* Dat day no, solid rain came no so I made nice hot hot soup and we had with the khadk gutli which Peter brought... (Situation: Housewives talking at the Cross Feast party)

One of the most common ways of gossiping among the older generation is done in a very six degrees of separation - ish kind of way, in which a person maybe linked up with anyone from the owner of Johnny's Cold Storage at Pork Market Junction to the Cardinal. Ok here goes... another example of conversation.
"Do you know Joe's son Eric is getting married to Diana? - Who, Die-na, men? - Aaree, Diana men, Alfie's and Maggie's daughter... - Who, Alfie men? - Alfie men from dere, Remember, when they were small they used to stay near Brian's house on Chapel road, near the bakery men...He married that girl Maggie from Shirley village. - Who Maggie, Mary's daughter? - No. Annie's sister, Joannie's daughter. You know Annie no, her son Clyde was married to Hazel and they were living for donkeys years in the Gulf, then after Clyde had his stroke, he retired and they settled down here. Their son is dat Leslie he was an engineer very very smart boy now all dat drinking has ruined him. - Yes, yes I know he was married to that nice girl Corina from Chimbai, but then after she had her miscarriage, all his drinking and all started ... and they got divorced... ...and in this way it keeps on going on and on , talking about everyone they know and not going back to poor ol' Joe.

(This account has been purely fictional, any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental)

Walking through any village in Bandra on a Sunday afternoon and seeing the men sitting out in their balconies with their whisky or gin, country music playing from his music system which he brought down from the Gulf enjoying a quiet weekend before the hectic Monday and after a hectic party on Saturday night. You can hear the pressure cookers steaming with their pea pulao and smell the tinge of Lonvas curry floating though the air while the mixture of coconut milk and bottle masala bubbles violently under the aluminium lids of the vessels. The watery orange concentrate drinks in a plastic cup and the hot steaming boiled chick peas given to you after the rosary at the local village cross while the aunties ask mothers what their son is doing in life and discuss their children's lives. The rush of crowd at the cold storage and the bakery closest to the church after Sunday morning mass. The rush of men to the Irani restaurant closest to the church as soon the Sunday mass sermon begins for a chai and a smoke. The husbands in short pants, a striped T-shirt, cap and sunglasses on their scooters with their wives on the backseat also in short pants and a old blouse going to do their weekly shopping in the bazaar on a Saturday morning often stopping in the middle of the lane to have a quick chat with other couples on their scooter going the other way.

Sometimes when you are asleep in the wee hours of the morning just after a late night binge with the boys, the phone starts to ring at 6:30 in the morning, you pick it up and there is an old lady on the other side of the line telling you "Son, just tell your Grandma, that Aunty Mathilda passed away", so in your best hangover voice you sweetly say goodbye and go on the pass on the message to your grandmother who is already up and saying the rosary for world peace and then you realise, that your grandmother doesn't even know who Bloody Aunty Mathilda (may her soul rest in peace) is.... so you made that brutal effort to get out off bed for nothing, then your mother comes in and your grandmother asks her , "Who is Mathilda" .... and she says... "Aarree you don't know Mathilda .....Anthony's sister in law..?"..... Oh Jeez .... here we go again.

Where have all the flowers gone?

St. Xavier's College, Bombay. Main building

I recently joined a group of ex college batch mates and interacting with old friends brought back a rush of nostalgia for the 5 glorious years I spent as a student at St. Xavier's College, Bombay.

For the clueless readers, St. Xavier's has the distinction of being one of Bombay's oldest and most distinguished educational establishment. And I'm not just saying that coz its my Alma Mater... its because its TRUE!

The bias may infact be an inhetited factor! You see, I come from a long line of Xaverites... mum, aunts, uncles, second cousins twice removed.. they all traversed the "first quad" on the way to classes, all sat under the famed arches that give the building its unique look, all "bunked" classes and ran to the nearby movie theatres to catch matinee shows and of course all hung out in the woods at sometime or the other. Many feature make St. Xaviers unique. The woods are one of them.

The first time I came to Xaviers (for admissions) I walked right though to the end of campus... and then turned around and demanded of my mum... "So... just were ARE these woods you're always yapping about??" and was completely flabbergasted when she gestured to the cluster of trees we'd just passed. I counted them. There were seven.

So wait... all this fuss for a measely seven trees? Well... yes! Primarily because Xaviers, unlike many other colleges could actually lay claim to possess a "college campus". However small it may be, it was a place for Xaverites to call a second home. Most other colleges were bland modern buildings facing directly onto a (often) busy street. Students of other colleges had to lay claim to the surrounding streets and call that their campus. We Xaverites didn't have to. And in a city where every square inch of real estate is more precious than the Khohinoor Diamond... for Xaverites, those seven trees was something that no other college had... and hence it was part of what made Xaviers so special.

Sadly the seven trees were down to six by my final year thanks to one particularly bad monsoon getting the better of one of them, but at least till my last day there, I had the pleasure of walking though what truly could be referred to as Xavier's history!

Generations of my family have spent hours under those trees meeting up with old friends and making new ones... rehearsing plays and or just hanging out after bunking class... and later copying notes from those who didn't. And of course there was that one time when an entire First Year Chemistry class had to evacuate to the relative safety of the woods after my uncle and his lab partner managed to blow up whatever experiment they were working on! True story... Guides honour!

1st Quadrangle & Chapel

Fast forward to December 2004 and a visit back to 5, Mahapalika Marg. After what seemed to be an eternity of questioning from the security guard (Customs at the airport was less of a hassle!) I ran though the "tunnel", past the 2nd quad (still gory with Britannia signs) and came to a dead halt just past the foyer. NOTHING....absolutely nothing prepared me for the appalling sight that met my eyes. Gone were the park benches and simple stone settings around the trunks.... and in their place an abomination of unsightly shiny ultra modern benches and strange little shrubs and a path that meandered its way through the surviving 3 trees and (oh holiest of terrors) a bridge (!!?) that traversed... nothing ... and lead...nowhere!!

WHO let this happen?? Would it have happened if we were still there? Does this new generation know nothing about preserving tradition? Those crumbling, pigeon crap encrusted benches and khattas were just as much a part of Xavier's as are the arches and imposing stone facade. In my eyes... it was nothing short of vandalism!

Or was it just a sign that my time at Xavier's had past... and the college, the quads, the classrooms and the woods now belonged to a new set of students who perhaps prefer this new look and are in the process of creating new traditions.

All I knew was.... memories were what brought me back to Xavier's that day.... and memories were all I had when I left.