An Unapologetically Indian Review

 An Unapologetically Indian Review

 

There are two types of foodies in the Tri State area. Those who have experienced Dhamaka and those who are waiting for the experience. We moved from the latter to the former this week. 

 

It was a meal that had a build up like none other. My older one had flown-in from New Orleans. We had invited our fellow foody  friends to join us. The menu had been scrutinized multiple times over with excruciating detail and feedback and tips had been gathered. There were those who had made it before us, some even multiple times, and that tells you life isn’t always fair. Some claimed Chintan was on their speed dial. There were others who were surprised that lesser mortals like us managed to snatch a reservation and started floating conspiracy theories like, “he must have sold his soul”, me not Chintan of course. 

 

So there we were, after braving peak Holland Tunnel traffic on a Thursday evening, at the doorsteps of what has come to be considered the ultimate destination for Indian cuisine this side of the Atlantic. Unassuming is the first thing that came to mind as we were shown our spartan seating arrangements. Chairs that screamed ‘you are not here for the comfort’ and tables that were, well, clean. The décor reminded me of At least 15 other restaurants in various cities across India and those heavily decorated colorful trucks that ply across Pakistan (is it kosher to use a Pakistani simile when talking about an Indian restaurant). We were given the Menus but little did they know that we had already memorized it and could repeat every item in perfect order along with the descriptions. 

 

There was a brief discussion over what drinks to order. So we ordered them all. And despite somewhat corny names (Paaji, really) they tasted good. My problem with most cocktails, especially at non-bar fine dining spaces is the mixers usually overpower the taste. At Dhamaka the cocktails were subtle and the alcohol shown through. Good start.

 

Eateries that have made a mark for themselves can afford to be eccentric in the way they conduct business. So when the server told us we had to order everything at one go and we could only order entrees once and sides and appetizers multiple times, we attributed this to the eccentricity that comes with the turf. So we ordered. And we ate. Most starters finished as soon as they landed on the table.

 

The ajwaini paneer was grilled to perfection and the paneer was soft. I waited for that unmistakable crunch of ajwain in my mouth but didn’t find one. Maybe I gulped it down too fast. The paplet, or fried pomfret for the uninitiated, had more batter than the fish. Tabak Maaz, and we ended up ordering one more serving, would have found a place at any great Wazwan serving in Kashmir, but the piece-de-resistance was the Gurde Kapoore. I don’t remember the last time I scraped the gravy from the bottom of a serving dish with a piece a bread. It was spicy, flavourful and simply delectable. So much so that the initial aversion to eating testicles by some members of our party disappeared immediately with the first taste of that gravy. So far wonderful.

 

There was a toss up between Champaran Mutton and Nihari. We opted for Bihar and left Lucknow for the next visit. The moment our server opened the lid from that clay pot and squashed that garlic bulb (the entire thing just melted in the gravy) we knew this was special. The goat neck biryani was, well, spicy. Forget Delhi spicy, forget even Hyderabad spicy (I have lived in both those cities so I know what I am talking about) this was do-not-use-toilet-paper-or-it’ll-catch-fire spicy. And after that the taste buds just stopped working. So much so that we ordered the only dessert item for formality and while Chhena podi is an acquired taste in any setting, it was completely underwhelming, especially after the mutton and the biryani. 

 

We  had a healthy debate at home on what each one of us felt about the experience. “The most amazing paav I have ever eaten”. This was my sixteen year old daughter. My wife usually refrains from eating Indian cuisine outside but she said she will make an exception for Dhamaka. But the best comment came from my older daughter, who is a foodie like me, “daddy look for the next available reservation as there are 9 more things on the menu that we haven’t tried yet”. I whole heartedly agree.

Dakiya

वो दिन के तीसरे पहर खाकी कपडे पहने बाइसिकल पे आता था
 कैनवास का मटमैला बस्ता टाँगे

 हम बच्चे झुण्ड बना कर उसके साथ घर घर जाते
ख़ास कर जोसफ अंकल के घर
उनकी चिट्ठियां अक्सर गल्फ से आती 
और उन पर रंग बिरंगे स्टाम्प लगे होते 
कभी कभी मांगने पर जोसफ अंकल स्टाम्प निकाल कर दे देते
आज भी किसी पिटारे में पड़े होंगे, बचपन की बाकी यादों के साथ

पापा की इलस्ट्रेटेड वीकली,
मम्मी की सरिता और कादम्बिनी,
हमारी पराग और चम्पक,
स्कूल की किताबों के पार्सल, मार्कशीट्स, एडमिशन के फॉर्म्स सब वोही लाता
और दिवाली की बख्शीश की लिस्ट पर सबसे पहला नाम उसका होता

कभी वो बेवक्त भी आता,
और उस दिन बच्चे उसके साथ नहीं भागते
हम जानते थे किसी का तार आया है

आज हम अपार्टमेंट्स में रहते हैं
ग्राउंड फ्लोर की सीढ़ियों के पीछे हमारे नाम का एक डब्बा है
और उस डब्बे में कोई हमारी डाक डाल जाता है
कौन है पता नहीं, कभी देखा नहीं
यहाँ तक की दिवाली की बख्शीश की लिस्ट में उसका नाम भी नहीं है

मेरे बच्चों ने कभी डाकिया नहीं देखा
वो ईमेल किया करते हैं
कहते हैं ईमेल से ख़बरें बहुत जल्द पहुँचती हैं
वाक्या हुआ नहीं, खबर पहले

पर शायद ख़बरों की इस रेस में संदेसों का अपनापन कहीं खो गया है
डाकिये की बख्शीश की तरह

Zindagi ka ATM

मैं कभी कभी ज़िन्दगी के ATM से कुछ लम्हे withdraw कर लेता हूँ
कभी ये लम्हे करारे नोटों की तरह ज़हन से गुजरते हैं
इतने ताज़े, कि हाथ लगाओ तो ऊँगली कट जाती है
और ये एहसास दिलाती है, कल ही की तो बात थी

और कभी पुराने नोटों की तरह लम्हों के पुलिंदे निकलते हैं
एक दुसरे से चिपके, धुंधले, सहमे हुए से
कईयों के तो नंबर भी मिट जाते हैं
और अक्सर वो खोमचे वाला उन्हें वापिस कर देता है
ये कहकर की साहब नया वाला दो

शायद वो ये जानता है की ताज़े जख्म खुले रहें तो जल्दी भरते हैं

Kahan se Ho

जो मिलता है पूछता है "कहाँ से हो"

प्रश्नचिन्ह से नदी के मोड़ के बीच सिमटा हुआ एक छोटा सा शहर था
बांस का जंगल, बेर के झाड, पीपल के पेड़
होली, ईद, दिवाली और चार बीहू
बरसात की बाढ़ में केले के तने जोड़ कर नाव बनाते थे
और पूरे साल के ईंधन की लकड़ी चुन लाते थे

सुना है आज वहां बांस से कई गुना ऊंची इमारतें हैं
बाढ़ का पानी अब शायद शहर में नहीं आता
लोग लकड़ी नहीं सरकारी दामों पे केरोसीन और गैस जलाते हैं
और शहर के होली वाले हिस्से में अब बीहू नहीं मनाया जाता

इससे कुछ बड़ा था अगला पड़ाव
बरसाती नदियाँ, बूढ़े पहाड़ और उनकी वादियों में बसी हुई शांत रिटायर्ड जिंदगी
कुछ अच्छे स्कूल थे और कुछ सरकारी महकमे
शाम के सात बजे यहाँ रात हुआ करती थी

आज वहां शिक्षा का बाज़ार है
हर मोहल्ले में करियर बेचते स्कूल और कॉलेज
और हर गली में इन स्कूल और कालेजों के पेईंग गेस्ट बच्चे
हर मोड़ पे दुनिया की रंगीनियाँ दिखाते साइबर कैफे
इन रंगीनियों को साकार करने की होड़ में आये दिन छुरे चाकू चलते हैं
पर क्या करें, इस महंगाई में लोगों के पेट भी तो पेईंग गेस्ट से पलते हैं

फिर कई शहर बदले, देश बदले
लोगों के चेहरे बदले, वेश बदले
कहते हैं दुनिया छोटी हो गयी है
पर पलट के देखता हूँ तो जाने क्यों सब बहुत दूर दिखता है
शायद इस छोटी दुनिया में पुराना देखने को नया चश्मा लगता है

जहां से आये वो जगह पहचानी नहीं जाती
जहां जाना है उससे पहचान बनानी है
क्या बताएं कहाँ से हैं
अपनी कुछ अजब कहानी है

Chola Maati Ke Raam...

Since it is being acclaimed as an honest take on “real India” let me start with a bit of honesty myself. The only reason I watched the movie was because someone close made an appearance and didn’t disappoint the least, but more on that later.

I didn’t hate the movie.

I thought I will, as I hate everything in that genre. I hated Arvind Adiga’s White Tiger, I hated the part in Swades where the poor farmer couldn’t pay back the rent, I can’t stand Om Puri, Naseer, Shabana and their ilk. How dare they? How dare they show me what I conveniently choose not to see? How dare they take me out of my comfort zone? I love my blinkers; big, dark, shiny and designer.

I walked into the Multiplex armed with salted popcorn, diet coke and chips. Comfort food you know, as this was going to be a journey outside the comfort zone. Plush 200 rupee seats, nice airconditioning, digital cinema at its best. Around 25 of us in the hall. It was an adventure.

I remember Punita and I were discussing that cinemas in India should stock low salt, low fat popcorns when Natha threw up. And we thought it’ll be all down-hill from there. But thank God Anusha (or was it Amir) decided that it will be disconcerting for people like me to see “reality” and she kept it to a bare minimum. So not a lot of footage wasted on the hungry and the deprived. There were enough punches and enough use of Maa, Bahen and Tatti to make the audience laugh and cringe. Enough stereotypes to keep them engaged; the corrupt politicians, the morally bankrupt media, the useless bureaucrats and an in-effective system. Many an evening has been spent debating and agonizing over the hopelessness of the situation India is in today, and it was nice to see the movie portray this without being patronizing.

As we walked out after the end credits had finally displayed the name we were looking for (the surname was a nice touch), we nodded knowingly at other patrons. There were a few comments on ‘how real’ as people made their way to the multi cuisine food court after the mid-day show.

I don’t want to sound like a pseudo intellectual by trying to critique the movie either way. Any effort towards that will be an affront to the collective wisdom of Anusha, Mahmood and their team. For me the movie works. That one expression of disillusioned disgust on Bhanu’s face summed the movie up for me. I might be biased as I was the only one trying to whistle when he made his first entry but then so be it.

On a macro level, it’s heartening to see UTV come this far from their first release (something with some Khan that I can’t remember for the life of me). This is good news for Indian cinema.

Just one parting thought. The amount of money we spent on this adventure might have been enough to pay off the debts of atleast one Natha…..

Nizaam Ki Bahu

The Hyderabad airport is ranked No. 1 in the world. Its only when you read the small print you realize that it's number No. 1 amongst airports of a certain size. Its like saying Dehradun is the best airport in the world amongst airports that cater to 134 passengers every day.

But cynicism aside, the new airport at Hyderabad is nice. And here I mean functional nice, not the over-the-top-opulent-nice a la Dubai or you-can-almost-live-here-convenience-nice a la Changi. But what makes it stand apart from its Delhi, Mumbai and Bangalore cousins is the 6 lane road connecting it to Cyberabad, once Naidu's dream and today the adobe of IT Giants.

It was past midnight when I landed and as the taxi entered the 6 lane road, the first signboard read, no autos (I think they meant auto rickshaws), two-wheelers or trucks. I started dreaming of a day when similar roads will adorn all cities in India when suddenly the taxi screeched to a halt and the driver started cursing. Amongst the various alankaars in choicest Hyderabaadi Hindi, I understood 3 words...Nizaam Ki Bahu. My eyes started scanning the darkness for some damsel in distress from the Nizaam's family but nothing. And then I saw them, sitting in the middle of that six lane highway, as oblivious to the world around them as Sheila Dikshit is to the plight of Delhiites, 5 buffaloes, doing what they do best, nothing.

Welcome to India, said that little voice inside me. Right through the move from London to Hyderabad I had managed to mute this voice, using a mix of threat, logic and mollycoddle. But this incidence gave it a shot of Red Bull. I hate that little voice, more so when it has a sarcastic edge to it.

It has been almost two weeks since that night. And apart from the occasional barb from the left flank, the voice has been more or less silent. I have started to realise that this voice thrives in the company of my other half. And since we have not spent much time together in the last couple of weeks, its not getting enough encouragement. But all that will change from tomorrow.

Womancipation

“Don’t you care for human progress?” Miss Chancellor went on.

“I don’t know – I never saw any. Are you going to show me some?”

The Bostonians, Henry James, 1886

Replace Miss Chancellor with Ms Brinda Karat and the Southerner Basil Ransom with any of those who were forcibly removed from the Upper House of Indian Parliament trying to voice their protest against the Women’s Reservation Bill and lo and behold, the dialogue finds the same relevance in today’s India as it found in post civil war Boston. Its all about emancipation honey…as they say.

Now this is not an us versus them debate. That debate got over in the Garden of Eden. This is about whose emancipation are we talking about here. Proponents of this bill were quick to point out that in India the representation of women in the parliament is around 10%, and that it is much lower than even Pakistan or Afghanistan. But honestly, does anyone in their right minds believe that women in India have lesser opportunities than places where, as Bill Maher calls it, women are supposed to live in beekeeper suits.

Emancipation is not about representation in politics. Infact in a country like India it should be anything but. Many an intellectual hour has been spent discussing the ugly quagmire that Indian polity has sunk into. And I believe women in India are smart, so smart that they know which profession stinks and which doesn’t. Women politicians in India were either born in politics, married into politics (and here I use the term marriage very loosely) or had an accident which severely impacted their ability to know right from wrong. Does any of them need emancipation?

The media has been fawning over India’s first lady on the determination she showed in pushing this bill through. The same media did not stop for a moment to do an analysis of how many of the 59 woman MPs currently in the Lower House are daughters, daughter-in-laws, wives (again using loosely), mothers etc of men in Politics. I can bet my shirt that the number would be more than 80%. If the reservation bill becomes a law, and I still have serious doubts as I believe this drama was a successful ploy by the government to take people’s minds away from rising inflation, 59 will become 182. And I can still bet my shirt that we will not witness a dip in that 80% figure.

All this talk about up-liftment of women. Making them equals. And how? By turning the Parliament into a family circus. In-fact they can then film episodes of Family Fortunes inside the central hall. What about women cleaning up the political mess? Its not about using surf or harpic. Its about bringing in a value system and values are inculcated at homes and schools while growing up, not in public life.

Emancipation is needed. But not at the top. Its needed at grassroots. How about bringing in a law that makes not sending kids under 12 to school, a non bailable offence. How about capital punishment for female infanticide. How about a bill that ensures equal wages. How about a bill that guarantees primary healthcare. There are many such measures that need accountable implementation. But these measure do not get political mileage, reservation does.

I don’t want to sound like a naysayer. I am all for having equal representation in all walks of life. My doubts stem from the fact that Indian politics has become a self-serving institution, and this bill can become an instrument in making it even more so.

Like Basil Ransom in The Bostonians, I want to see Human Progress.