Greasepaint's Chapter Two...

You might say it’s because Vishal made it. I might’ve known him 20 years, but that only just feeds the critic in me a wee bit more.

Cutting the long story short, I finally watched a Neil Simon play, directed by Vishal- it was his debut as a director on the big stage, however, he’s been into theatre for a longish while now (a veteran even- personal joke- but I had to say it! :P). On one level, the cast (4 of them) and the director had it easy- Neil Simon has just about the funniest things to say, which automatically generate a response from the audience. However, to their credit they were delivered well. I’ve not been an actor ever, but I can probably imagine the nervousness one may have if a joke was not laughed at, especially in a live performance.

One of the amazing things about Chapter Two is the fact that it has 4 characters, distinct, and the play spends enough time on each of them. This in my mind is a great deal for a viewer as the play teasingly touches the boundaries of fun and depth- cleverly- which is not as easy to show. To that effect, I felt Leo and Faye did a great job. While the funny lines had an expected response, I thought the parts where both of them had lines that gave subtle hints of disconcertedness were the real parts. Faye’s dilemma on not being able to sleep with Leo, her constant stray comments on her own marriage effortlessly camouflaged by an odd, defensive laugh, or witty quips, while still alluding to a something amiss in life, was layered but beautifully brought out by the actor and the director. Leo probably was towing the same line as Faye. His remark on “I haven’t ever made love to her (sudden pause), with the lights on” was extremely well delivered. I think I wanted to mention it also as I hadn’t read it with a pause myself. And that, suddenly gave Leo a new dimension. In Act two his almost monologue-ish talk with Jenny, I felt had lesser impact than the comic scenes.

Jenny, I think faced an unfair audience. She said “ept” and someone ineptly shouted back “apt” while we were pretty much talking “ept” there. But I guess that’s the peril of a live audience. My favourite sequence in the play actually was the time George and Jenny talk on the phone and consequently meet. While I thought Jenny quite easily stole the show on the phone conversation, the nervousness on meeting the girl the first time for a “look” was far better visible in George. In act two the heavy dialogues (especially from Jenny) which were probably several paras all at once, were rendered pretty amazingly. However, I felt there were times Jenny rushed through them (maybe it was a directorial thing, which I frankly didn’t quite get). George apart from going “oh-ho” once on stage (which is totally misplaced in a New York setting) was a believable writer. I think apart on the scenes mentioned above, I particularly liked his mean streak to Jenny once they were back from a rather lukewarm honeymoon.

Acting apart, I thought the set was very well done. The whole idea of having two different paintings to denote Jenny’s/ George’s apartment-while still using the whole stage- was a great one, however, the production guys probably didn’t pull it off as intended. The dark breaks in between were at times testing nerves. One as the play is very long and secondly because the paintings were sometimes put tilted, while a purse was left in a couple of scenes where it wasn’t needed. Lights and music were also, well slow to react. On this one scene the light guy perhaps forgot that the scene hadn’t ended, he shut the lights off and Faye stunned him (and the audience) by a “wait” (part of her dialogue) and the audience broke into an unintended laughter. This was pretty much a pity, considering how well the actors were doing.

However, the ideas on lights, background score, and the set (including the books kept in line with 70s New York) were very well thought out. My “director’s favourite bit” scene was the last one perhaps, where Jenny and George eventually make their “own place” and are shown together (in the mind, and to the audience) while still in their own apartments.

End of the play- I was thrilled that I watched it. The amazing lines brought to life by the actors will always remain etched in my head, exactly like this. The next performance will probably never feel the same.

And then we run...

A dance class, gym, badminton, walk (all in one year) and several (now thinking Yoga) "health" regimes later, my parents thought, I was fond of dabbling. Guess, I am. I get bored of things quickly.

Additionally, I've had trouble with running- in school- surely. Amidst this, all this marathon talk sounded all too vague. A month back when I enrolled for one, I thought it was like the zillion whims I casually get into. My parents dissuaded me even the day before the 'run'- 'cos 'em lovely folks think I am never fat but 'healthy' (except once a couple of years back when cashews had showed). They infact shun skinny. However, I think the reason I decided to go through with it was as I wanted to tell myself, I could. It wasn't health/ weight related at all. And, it was just 7 kms.

So I ran. I didn't collapse. I think it was fun.

Acquiring (!) the angry young man's love...

This post is about love. Not mine (rare that) but in reference to my cousin Ashu's wedding where I spent 5 netless days enjoying myself. Ashu married his girlfriend of nearly a decade, and for the both of them, it all went off smoothly.

They are now off to Vaishno Devi tomorrow to climb bare feet taking care of her mannat (she dutifully prayed to have him as her husband). Think a lot of girls do this mannat business, so they didn't surprise me. What did was this- Ashu I've always felt is the guy who's over the top, likes to be the king of his courtyard (ah, well Jammu) and nearly is. He is street smart, loud, strong, and ready to pick up a fight with anyone who says something (anything) to bring dishonour to his word or girl or rather anyone who goes near his ego. He thinks its his natural responsibility to be the hero. The girl on the other hand is flattered by his high and mighty temper, is readily at his behest. She does the Karva chauth (pre marriage i.e. so he lives long to be with her), he gets the bangles.

In the wedding I also met another recently married couple who had had the proverbial struggle to get the parents around so that they could marry and all that. The guy's ego and temper were both easily flammable. Accidentally (or not) something irritated him, and he got all worked up, and said a lot of things moving his hands rapidly in the air, to let everyone know of the immediate impact. He refused to have food, and the girl sat in a corner crying, unable to say anything against her man's pious virtues and pride. The next day, after she skipped dinner for him too, she quietly sat talking - with pride- about how fearsome his temper was.

I decided to simplify their love in my head. I told myself Vijay (Amitabh Bachchan in his angry young man films) was really alive in the small towns. Simplifications hardly ever work so easily. I discovered it wasn't even true of my grandmother realistically. Disconcertingly (for me), it was not about small towns. And then, it occurred to me- was it the affiliation with prince charming who would save the damsel in distress? It was probably the "need" to be protected (from something).

I thought to myself, I have been seriously amazed by these people. I could personally never relate to the 80s Indian cinema, and I was probably surprised to find enough people - my age- who do. Not to say that anything is wrong, just that it's such a different perspective and way of living, that I thought it was well, only in the movies. Guess, some of us like melodrama. To be honest so do I, but not the save me from the demons kind. Infact, perhaps I like to think that all of them are inherently frogs. You get to find the right one for you (or sometimes not).

Relativity...

We were discussing relativity for the longest time today, and then I was looking for a mail ID on my gmail account, and I came across this one mail and realised, things are so darn relative in time. I will throw up (seriously) now, if I sounded as cheesy as I did then. Happens I guess (sshhh that's what I'm telling me). I think (and hope) the cheesiness quotient goes down with age- growing old can't be that bad ;)

Oh and if all the past, present & future were happening in parallel at the same(?) time, then maybe, that's the reason (as per Piya) that we're so nostalgic as a race.

I wonder.

Invention I'm waiting for? Time travel irrespective of how relative it is :)

Generally cos the winter began...

I had these incredibly terrible (I think) dreams the last couple of nights. It had people I haven't had any touch with for the past well, many many days (years too in some cases). I think they were terrible cos I see these folks on gtalk (one even right now) and I don't know what to talk about. Mostly, I am busy to say "hi", and then there are other times when I think they're busy and don't ping- I secretly think that's cos I would probably have nothing to talk about. I guess sometimes distances are for real (I'm hearing you Rahul :)).

So, then, dreams and Facebook virtual ineffectualness (friends/mafia) apart , I decided to start a real farm (well, OK, my balcony- but it's a start!! :D). I have found myself a gardener who's very happy to see me buy plants, and not so happy with the innumerable questions I ask, nonetheless patient to answer all of them! This is how my 'real' garden looks like as of now. Btw, gardening, I'd like to believe runs in my family (My grandfather had a thing for all colours of roses and pansies. I had a penchant for collecting all roses in my little frock :P)

Another thing, the winters have hit Delhi. My hypothesis is that winters and hot showers occur in Delhi between Diwali & Holi. And this

time since the summer's been, nothing short of a big torture, we think ( and hope...) that the winters will be much colder too. Winters mean going out of home is easier, people are less cranky, and food suddenly more delicious. Team outings with a lot of food are more fun too.

So, here's to an upcoming cold winter, a greener garden, more food, and uh-well good outings. Virtualness gets to me, sometimes!

PS: the pic here's from Olive near Qutub Minar on a team outing yesterday with our team & these are our bosses.

Moonlight in Dharamkot village...

You hike about 3kms from Bhagsu on narrow roads and suggested shortcuts (futile for urban feet, but mentioned duly by all and sundry), and reach this open space up the hill. It's been a quiet road, and all you basically see is one bike which passes you by with a foreigner- a usual site in McLeodganj in anycase. After reaching the open space- tired and dying to figure out this mysterious village-which the hotel manager raved about, so much- you see nothing. There are no Indians around you. You realise there will be no temples or waterfalls ( don't say this to anyone- but that actually felt good :| cos no overcrowding, duh!)

The autowallahs on the stand near the open space look suspect as two Indian girls ask for directions to Dharamkot. They even shrug about there being nothing worthwhile in the place. The girls persist though, trusting the hotel manager's judgement, and deciding not to 'waste' the hike. On the small little pavement, which is supposedly the main road, they realise, that the

village is most positively still asleep, sound

ly. It's one in the afternoon, even so. Quite clearly time zones differ, and signs too. The road signs as noticed are not in any Indian language, not Tibetian even, but in Hebrew. Though Indian Gods are omnipresent, albeit differently, artistically even.

You walk through the whole village, which has exactly( or near about) 50 houses and 100 steps, several-at-every-corner tattoo houses, more Hebrew boards, and this string- SEZ even, of cafeterias (Pijjherias, as the manager had said - divine soul). You hurriedly enter in- what seems like a content-to-stand-quietly but not-overtly- welcoming place. Infact the fear is, you may've accidentally disturbed someone's dream sequence. It is ofcourse all sleepy, still. As you're plopping yourself in a casually placed chair, you look around to notice stars and the moon (on the wall) , the fact that it's called Moonlight, so clearly the sun doesn't seem to have an effect. You browse through the menu for breakfast (you haven't had any at lunch time). After the

usual continentals, bread-and-butter-kinds you discover the Israeli one, which is selected. The guy who takes the order- he's comfortable, and well, in some trance like holiday mood. There is no hint of surprise with the breakfast order. Guess, it's the norm.

Some more people drop in, hug everyone else, and sit playing cards, sifting green rolls, and occasionally looking at coffee. The cafe owner (ah, anyone) is in no hurry. Everyone seems to be well placed. The music in the background is the only 'fully awake' beat. It is, as the girls discover Hebrew too. So are the people in the cafe, and the guys making/ serving food. For the longest time, you try and "fit in" and feel "foreign" like you're transported to Israel-on-a-holiday.

The breakfast platter serves Humus, Pita bread, eggs & coffee. The pita bread is not like the ones South Delhi high end places would subject you to, but feels more like roti. You make a mental note to register the taste of "original" humus and pita bread. Oh and there's this most delicious salad. Coffee comes in a big glass holder, and looks more like Bournvita & milk. There is absolutely nothing that you don't want to eat. It's no frills, simple food, like home. Like mom's food which feels better than the sophisticated, over designed varieties*. It's comfortable, tasty. Most of all, fulfilling. Water to say... coke. Oh, and did I mention it's 100 rupees. For everything. Aren't most bad things very dear!

PS *I've never ever eaten Kashmiri in a restaurant, just can't get myself to it

Looking up the girl I once knew...

I got a call o'er the weekend from a neighbour. The guy who would've known me from 0-7. In his embarrassing me to the core words, "As a small child when you used to come to our house at Peer Bagh, you used to sing and dance most of the time. We used to call you Neetu Singh (the Bollywood actor) as you mostly used to sing her songs only."

Then, somehow I thought of it. This post wasn't going to be about Aliya. She infact had to have a mention elsewhere. After all the snooping around I did on Orkut/ Facebook and old school communities, I was still unable to find the girl who ran from one school gate to another looking for me. But my cruel grandparents had not allowed me to go that day cos I was coughing. Bah now, everyone has a cold!! This was the last day before the advent of winter holidays, and perhaps the last time I would've seen Aliya. I never went back to Mallison* since that half baked winter of '89.

My parents probably saw things too closely to muster up the enthusiasm to visit the place again, even though, as we hear, things are much improved. I have obviously not been allowed to go back. To be honest, while in school here (in Delhi), I have never had the strong urge to go back. Guess, as a school kid, right now is so important, that back then doesn't hit much. However, I did off and on think of the girls I made friends with in school- Aliya Khan, Afshan Majid & Namrata Raina. Namrata I recently found on Facebook, and met a couple of times too- and didn't feel the need to be oh-so-close-with. In so many years, ofcourse it had withered, mutually. Though, even going back so many years, I remember being closest to Aliya. Actually, I don't even remember how I made friends. Or what was the first conversation I had with these girls. Exactly, how do children fall into groups? I wish I remembered.

The sudden movement from home that spring meant, no final goodbyes, no address exchanges or leaving with- I'll write to you. That I still feel cheated of. Surprisingly though, I remember the night we were leaving. I was very excited. Since we were leaving at 4 in the morning, my uncle and grandpa had fallen asleep, snoring in a definite rhythm. It was the first night I saw the dawn, the moon was awaiting the sun with baited breath, all at once that night. At that time, I was excited to go someplace else- I always am. The truck we were to move in was stuck in a mud/random pot-hole on the road. At that time even, I didn't think of Aliya. Atleast not from what I remember. I was infact praying that we should move fast.

For the last few years, I have been consumed by the urge to find out what happened to Aliya. What does she do now? And how would I feel if I were to talk with her? I used to fancy at times, I'd go all the way back to the school and dig out her address, and trace her. How tough can it be? And then, something holds me back. Why can't I just go, book my tickets and find her? Will finding her make me feel less unsorted? Of course, I am overtly confident that she'll remember me. It's near about 20 years, but yeah, she'll know who I am. That, I know.

PS: I studied in Mallison from 86-89 (I guess)