Heart's Delight: Restaurant Review of Chougle's Manisha Mess

I had heard a lot about home-like ghar-guti messes in Belgaum that serve spicy Non-Veg dishes. “Laivit astat, be.” My friends have been telling me from a long time, “LaiiBhaari.”

I was a little skeptical about visiting these so-called less-than-standard places, but the foodie in me got the better of me and I went ahead with an open mind and an empty stomach to check out the messes.

I visited a few. But what really requires a praise, first-off, is Chougle's Manisha Mess.

Chougle's Manisha Mess is tucked deep inside Goodshed Road area, about 100 mts from Nartaki Talkies. Situated on the top second-floor, the pent-house-converted mess serves marathi mutton preparation only.

Yes! it is a mess, and is in a chawl-like structure. Even the interiors are very humble: red cement floor; tin roof supported by non-painted thin wood beams; no running water in the basin, instead there is a bucket-tumbler arrangement; simple tables and benches – that's right: benches and not chairs from the sitting furniture. The whole dining area is not more than 250 sq. ft. But the place is kept clean and tidy. The cutlery and crockery are basic: steel plate, spoon and chota plate. And just like the cutlery and the restaurant area, the menu is also limited, and so is the staff – just two waiting staff and 2-3 kitchen staff. But don't let its appearance fool you, because in true global terms it is a signature restaurant – meaning, the owners themselves are involved with the day-to-day operations of the hotel. And this is why this hidden gem boasts of its sparkle.

It is a mutton lovers delight.

The mess is open only for Lunch and Dinner; Six days a week, Monday being closed.

As you climb up four flights of stairs, an engulfing aroma of rustic spices not just greet you, but, knock you off your balance. In a way it's okay to go off-balance a little for very rarely you will not have to wait. Because of the limited sitting capacity the mess is always full, with a minimum waiting time of fifteen minutes. If you are going in a group of four, be prepared for the group-split and its members eat alone. But that seems too small a price when compared to the hot, spicy per-plated Thali that will appear in front of you.

Mutton Thali, the only option there is, is very economically priced at Rs. 90, with the choice of either Kheema plate or Mutton plate or Chops plate – any of the plates ordered extra is priced at Rs. 60. The Thali comprises of a red-hot main mutton dish, redder-hotter tambda rasaa (mutton curry), two just-off-the-tawa Jondla chi Bhakri (served one plus one), sliced onion and tomato laced with curd, lemon quarters & salt, and plain rice. That's it. That's all of it. No Pickle, or Chutney, or Curds. No frills. No shu-sha. Just hardcore marathi mutton na cha jevvan. The food is – and I kid you not – is fit for the Gods. The first morsel itself hit me in the right spot.

The constant sounds of thup-thup-thup-thup of garam-garam bhakri being flattened by the sari-clad ladies in the kitchen, and the crowd's collective hizz-hizzing from enjoying spicy mutton is the only sound heard.
It feels you are home. Other restaurants who boast of “serving home food away from home” can definitely learn a lot from this Hot, Spicy, Aromatic Heaven.

The tastes and the fragrance go bang! directly to your head, like being hit by a cricket stump.

But the real “Home” feeling comes while and after having the well made succulent mutton. Reason being, the Chili-Spice blend used, and the way it is cooked, successfully fulfills the most difficult criteria the chefs world over strive to achieve: It is said that “Anyone can prepare Hot Spicy food, preparing it is no big work, however, the art lies in ensuring that while your audience is consuming the hot preparation he/she should not have a runny nose, or teary eyes, instead should start sweating only near the end of the meal. This can be perfectly achieved while dinning at Chougle's Manisha Mess. Your nose doesn't run, nor your eyes water while your taste buds are having a time of their life. Another acid test that certifies 100% home-made (again, a feat tried to attain by the best of chefs) is that fact that you will not get any heart-burns after you have left the premises – this is not as easy as it sounds. When was the last time you had a very heavy & spicy meal and not worried about acidity. The reason behind Chougle's Manisha Mess achieving this fine balance is because they, themselves, prepare the chilli-spice mixture. If you are lucky you may get a gimps of Chillis or other Spices been laid out for drying on the adjacent terrace, open to hot sun.

The crowd frequenting Chougle's Manisha Mess is mainly working class Gents; however, women can be seen once in a while. Ladies, if you want to go there yourself, I suggest you gang up with your other lady friends or family members, and form a group of 10 to 15 (15 is maximum capacity of the restaurant itself) and book your visit in advance (Afternoon recommended. Ideal time 1:30 – 2:00 pm. Contact number: 0-9844284105).

Parcel service is also available but No Plastic business – you have to take your own Tiffin Box!

The food service is fairly quick, provided you get the place :) Most customers are regulars so they know all the names. “Bhushan, we are three of us. Adjust kar na yaar, lovekar.” A edger customer could be heard every 15 minutes. “Ho! Ho! Kartoye. I am trying. Trying. 15 minutes waiting maar.” Bhushan shoots back with a smile.

Every restaurant is known mainly for its food; its at the heart of it all. Other aspects like decor, service, entertainment etc. become secondary if its core is lip-smacking. And it is at Chougle's Manisha Mess. Experience you will have there is little bit like our Belgaum: simple, elegant, and stays with you.

Rating: Laivit!

Legend:

Laivit        : *****

LaiiBhaari : ****

Chaal-tai   : ***

Hu Ba       : **

Ti Cha      : *

Shimla: A Crazy, Beautiful Muse

They say a picture is a worth a thousand words. Well, if you are someone who is not very good with a camera, the only other options is to punch out the words.
So here it is.

For the record, this is not a travelogue. It doesn’t entail names of the places to visit or of the restaurants to critique; it, however, partially, says how Shimla is and how it is worthy of the predictable adjectives that aptly describe it: Serene, Tranquil, and Pleasant. Also, I am writing this within 24 hours of leaving Shimla, while the memories of Shimla are still fresh and before the pollution and the noise of a metro city contaminate the memories of a lovely week gone by. Hence this is not an detailed account.

We all know what makes a hill station picturesque: comfortable climate, abundant greenery, lack of dense population, and a general feel-good factor that ows its existence to absence of over civilization–well, everything good owes itself to lack of over civilization. The moment I stepped in Shimla is the moment I stepped out of a Time-machine. It was the year 1947 and the date was 16th of August: the British had just left India. And in Shimla everything froze in that time–Shimla was the summer capital of British India. The roads are small and clean and elegant; buildings, along with the whole set up, are neo-Victorian: incandescent, stone white walls supporting pointy, bottle green roofs; cast-iron grills, cast-iron drain-pipes, and cast-iron chimney covers. Cast-iron bus-stands, cast-iron benches, cast-iron lamp posts. Touch any of ’em and they would still whisper: “God Save the Queen”.
Even the firang tourists are of the decent and the family type: no dread-locks or weird body piercing or gaudy tattoos that rampantly walk the streets of Goa or Kasol–the infamous pseudo sadhus of the west on a quest to find quick enlightenment in the quasi-spritual weed pockets of India. Even the monkeys, both red- and black-faced, are well behaved. Red- and black-faced Monkeys both move in packs and never cross each other’s paths, like there is a unwritten truce rule that is being observed. Monkeys are the stray-dogs of Shimla, found more abundantly than the most densely populated stray-dog area in your city.


On a personal note, Shimla for me is my summer sasural. In winters my in-laws migrate down to Kalka as Shimla gets too cold for comfort. And since I got married in winter, it was my first time in the Indo-Tudor city of Shimla. I was a guest, not a tourist, staying at a home, not at a hotel–it’s the little things that make a world of difference. I had access to local food, customs, and accents.
Mustard and Garlic are predominately present in the aromas, which escape out of the home kitchens. Ingredients are fresh and flavorful. Hill grown spinach tastes better that the topical one. Ice-cream lovers are in a for a treat. The softee is available everywhere and across various flavors. You take a bite of it and your head spin delightfully, engulfing your cold nerves, tingling them, teasing them. If you are not a connoisseur of ice-creams but of Scotchs, then you are in for a treat, too. And a more profound one. Because Scotch tastes the way god intended it to taste in the highland climate of Shimla: crisp, symphonic, and oaky; every sip packs a punch as it hits your gut, its warmth spreads from your torso to your fingers to your feet to the back of your head, giving you a heightened sense of things.

The people of Shimla are considerate and helpful and honest. I guess, a combination of extreme climatic condition and surrounding dense forests instill a sense of both nobility and community. If your car breaks down in the middle of the highway around dusk, don’t be surprised if the cars passing by stop and offer to help, without you asking for it, for the locals know that not many cars may pass-by later.

The locals say: “When in Shine it Pours”. And rightly so. No sooner the Sun shines brightly, making you go out and soak some of its warmth, the dark clouds arrive and the thunderstorm ensues. Rain. The pleasant spring turns into a merciless monsoon in minutes. And since it is Shimla, intense is the order of the day. Rain is usually followed by severe hailstorm. We were traveling back from the up hills on a bright sunny day with a plan to visit one of the more famous tourist location on the way down. And there was a crack in the dark sky. Dew become omnipresent and visibility reduced to 10 feet. The Sea of Mountains that stretched way into horizon was replaced by that of a single ghat road on the way down. Cold raindrops and hard hailstones smashed against the car’s windshield. The wiper struggled with its movement to clear the water-ice slush that kept blocking our vision. The bonnet and roof of the car cried as they took the wrath of hailstones and storm got intense. Hyper monkeys on hot tin roof, both red- and black-faced together. There was no shelter in sight to take cover from the sudden, bad weather. Not everyone on the highway was in the protection of a car. The horses and yaks and mountain sheep and their shepards had no choice but the surrender to the cold, hard whips of rain and hailstones that lay bare on their bodies and at their feet, wave after wave. Needless to say, the plan to visit a few well-know spots was disposed off. I saw a different side of Shimla that many don’t imagine exists. I guessed, Shimla was not in the mood to present herself that late afternoon and took a rather horrifying form to make her intension clear and shoo us away from her. We steered clear of the highway for home was where the warmth was.

All good vacations come to an end and it was time to part from the nature, form the mother who had held me close to her and showed me how beautiful life is. We reached the train station as the Sun got sleepy and boarded the Toy Train–or as the toddler in me calls it “Toy Toy”. The Toy Toy is narrow gauge train with chair cars that have big windows. The Toy Toy is not in a rush to reach anywhere. I guess it strongly believes the journey is the destination. The Sun was hiding, the sky red. Whistle blew and Toy Toy started moving. White Clouds crawled over the mountains, kissing them, covering them, holding them, trying to tuck them in bed. The mighty, green mountains in the foreground and the fading blue ones in back were both expression less, like they were unhappy to see me go, fighting tears, not letting one out. Or may it was just me.

It began as an adventure and ended up being a love affair. One that leaves you shaken yet inspired and with a particularly warm feeling.

Chetan Bhagat: Hate the Game not the Player

I can't comment on the quality of his work, but, there's no denying that Chetan Bhagat has rekindled the concept of Novel-reading in India.

I Wonder What are the names of mid-night children?   

Okay, I’ll comment a little on his Novels: They are written in a simple language, they don’t have too deep a meaning, and they are not profoundly moving. But these so called draw backs, as the lit-purist claim, are actually the strength of his Novels. They help them sell; Reason: that’s what the present masses want–Simple story in simple words. That’s exactly what is understood by Generation F (F for Facebook, as I always say). There is no point in writing high-fi NASA Rocket Science stuff if the audience’s ability is limited to paper rockets. Here’s another anology: Imagine an Indian who is not acquainted, or worse even introduced, to Europen cuisine is taken to a Fancy Continental Restaurant. No matter how well the food there is cooked, it is bound to be bad/bland tasting, and be disliked. That’s. Why. People. Who. Like. Indian. Food. Go. To. An. Indian. Restaurant.

Chetan Bhagat is dishing out much-liked, chat-patta, affordable novels that we Indians understand and enjoy. There is no harm in it. In fact, I am glad that he was able to sense the pulse of the nation so accurately and give exactly what was wanted. On a deeper level he has done more good: In this age of Facebook and Twitter and a million TV channels and YouTube and Internet and all of them accessible in the palm of your hand, Chetan Bhagat has re-started the concept of Novel-reading in India. By all standards it was a herculean task given the number of other easier-to-understand options. But he did accomplish it.

Coming back to the quality of his work. I have to borrow restaurant-eater analogy again. In any eatery, it is not the responsibility of the chef to educate the people who walk in to eat, but Chef is there to prepare food presuming that the people visiting have a taste for the food. Similarly it is not a writer’s responsibility to teach the audience high-falutin, rich English or how to go about appreciating and de-constructing a novel (We have schools for that – which fail miserable at it, but wo kahani phir kabhi). If the sensible Chef feels that the food he/she is serving is too “high-falutin” for the audience then Chef’s common-sense will dictate to either change the food or shut the shop.

No one knows me from my nip-slip.

Everyone in service/entertainment industry knows that Audience is God. Had the sight of a girl in full-sleeves and ankle-lengths skirts sitting and chanting holy-rhymes early in the morning given us hard-ons, you can bet you left hand that Rakhi Savant would have appeared donning a burkha, reciting Bhagvat Gita backwards at the break of dawn. People may continue to hate Rakhi Savant but they will also continue to get hard by her simple, non-classical, provocative hip-thrusting dance. And history tells us that anything that is simple and that affects you at a instinctive level can get your juices flowing, so to speak, and hence will hold your attention. (Tell me, when was the last time you spent your interests on watching the highly regarded, super accoladed, super classical, Bharatanatyam performance. Thought so.)

Oh My Bhagvan! This balloon is really strong!

Somewhere I had read: “Count you blessing not your sorrows.” I have always looked at Chetan Bhagat contribution to publishing world, and society at large, positively; and I think he has not only helped India go back but also in bringing life to the dying state of books itself. Furthermore he has made youth read decent English outside of academic books in the era of LOLs and WTFs.

So, it’s best that a higher stand is taken and aversion towards Chetan Bhagat, if any, is reversed. A friend of mine used dislike him but even he knew it was out of sheer jealously – that how can a person who writes just like I can achieve super stardom while I sit with my limp-dick in my left palm, jerking off to Rakhi Savant’s videos.

I was that friend.

across the coffee table

not your makeup
not the jiggles of your jewellery or
of the 10,000 things in the purse as you move
it's your fragrance teasing the air
kissing

not your dress
or the legs left uncovered
or the drinks between us
the smoke holding us
a blanket
a silent symphony goes on
two hazy souls tango
while seated across the coffee table
you and i
it's the time spent looking,
waiting

your lips,
freshly painted
pouting
the parting wet paint
mist and mist
tease
lust
love


two hazy souls tango
while seated across the coffee table
drinks between us
smoke holding us
you and i
fog and first sunlight

Rockstar: Nothing Rebellious About It

Contrary to what most critics have been saying, Rockstar is a bollywood Masala Moive through and through. It has too many coincidences for it to be a decent film, and too many spoon-fed scenes to hold the attention span of a mature audience. But what sucks the most about the film is the namesake-ness of it all. Everything: From its Title: ROCKSTAR, Seriously?; To the basic premise of it being a love-story and still being called Rockstar: [to add insult to the injury] it's so down-right naive that at one point the protagonist is shown he “wants to achieve” a heart-ache, on someone's advise; To the lyrics --  of musically well composed songs -- It's all a mind-less jive. The films oozes of pretension and superficiality. To say Rockstar is made mainly for the crass audience who salivate on films like Dabaang-Bodyguard-Wanted-etc would not be inaccurate. But compared to the said "mast-mast" movies, Rockstar is well put-together.
Rockstar is rich in story-telling; week in story.

However, Rockstar has it’s moments – no denying that; but, the good ones are nullified with the over-the-top, uncalled-for and unexplained circumstances whose only existence, it seems, is to add sure-fire “commercial” components to the film. The film is not a – as the kids are saying – “awesome film”.

The first half of the film is strictly OK; one gets to laugh here and there, but the second half, in spite having the good songs, sucks the life out of the film -- It is too sober for it's own good. 

There are some decent aspects of the film that need special mention. Like keeping a single play-back singer (Mohit Chauhan) as voice of the protagonist – brilliant move, more so because the film-makers did not pull a “Farhan Akthar” and let the vocally un-gifted actors sing for themselves.  

The supporting cast actually had a say in the narrative, and boy, they have made themselves heard – Big Ups.

Also, the non-liner / flash-backing narrative style actually accentuates the screen-play and is not used as a just-like-that vanity stunt (unlike Dil Chata Hai, it wasn’t fully used in DCH anyways, but nonetheless.)

The boy, Ranbir Kapoor, I have been told, is a son of an Actor, does a decent job in-spite of he being a son of an actor. May be because the boy actually stars opposite the mighty Rahman, and not the silicon lipped girl, Nargis -- that is everything filmy she has, just a filmy real name. Rahman is the real-deal here. The Oscar-winning music director breaths life into the film, and the boy gives the film its pulse with his versatility.  

Another good point about the film is absence of a cheap-ass item number – No Mauja-hi-mauja bullshit -- It might have not been needed for Rahman’s magic turns your heart into an item girl anyway, a drunk item girl at that.  

The breath-taking cinematography provides a good back drop, and would have worked wonders had Rockstar been a tourism commercial of Parag (Prague), or Kashmir, or Himachal Pradesh, but unfortunately it is not, so the camera work doesn’t really do any good to the film, but, on the positive side, doesn't do any bad either.
However, this is where the good of the film ends.

The dialogues writing is sloppy to say the least; and the timing... – especially of the wall-flower of an actress – is sloppiest to say the most. Boy, this girl can't act to save her life, literally. All she can do is perpetually gulp air with great difficulty to show any and all emotions. My best guess for her being in the film is that the film-makers wanted Sonam for the role but due to Sonam’s increasing “haters base” took a safe bet and got a Sonam look-alike. Smart move, I could have said, for people don’t hate Sonam for her looks: it’s her voice that is unbearable, and her attitude (read: fake accent. Like the 80s chewing-gum chewing and simultaneously taking Molly Ringwald wannabe), God, an assault to senses; not that this NRI girl’s accent – or voice over is this case – is any different. But these are just the superficial draw back which might have been put in place / ignored to ensure decent box-office collection. But what makes me really NOT like the film is the way the director, or whoever with the strings (and definitely had No Balls), did not put any soul in the film. This is exactly the problem with Rockstar: it doesn’t have any fucking soul. It is all Glory: no bloody Guts. In simple words, it looks like a teeny-winy love story. There is no time spent on shaping the character(s), or the film’s most important aspect (the way it is marketed): the source of protagonist's rebellion. No dark sides explored. No venturing into the sense of in-justice being done. No showcasing of repressed emotions being converted into art -- lyrics, or music. Nothing. A lot of gold-ore stayed so. If Salman could sing in real life, Rockstar would have been his life-story, for Protagonist is just like Salman: famous for being famous. Same typical bad-boy traits (abusive, bad with the press and police), up-kept appearance (very un-Salman like, but still. You get the point), broken-heart bullshit, and as in the case of the film – little ability to sing. All traits to make soft headed girls go weak in the knees. How fucking Original.

Instead, a little time could have been dedicated into shaping the protagonist's character; on showcasing his metamorphosis – from being a emotional Vrigin to his disassociation for self, self-loathing; connection and sympathies, and the way they gets established with the neglected entities that require a voice to get government's attention: groups (Free Tibet, which is blurred. Grow a pair, Mr. Director), Aspects (Corruption etc.), Search of Identity. The way he picks-up the topic for his arts, what influences him, and how he gets influenced. Nothing. But, all we have is a sudden outburst of emotions, or Justin Beiber-ish songs, without letting the audience know as to where the fuel for the fire is coming from, or how one needs to burn oneself to make that fire. Also the presence of "sweet" songs kill the spirit of the film -- Tum Ho is nice romantic song, I have nothing against it, but Holy fucknuts, it's a r.o.c.k-based. ...Motherfucker. The saddest part is only love-lost crap-romantic nuances are highlighted without any regard for the internal journey that ensue after such personal, non-unique (unlike other-wise suggested in the film), tragedy which may rarely, but in most artistic cases, eventually, finds solace in supporting other broken things like societal injustices etc as compensation, and in the process letting the creative genius of oneself surface, and form art. Showcasing only the lovey-dovey part in this rebellion centric film gives an impression that the director is either too condescending to thinks that the audience cannot fathom shit beyond a lip-lock or that he is too chicken to go outside the cookie-cutter – for director's sake I hope the former is true.

But the final nail on this so-called Rebellion-Anti-System film comes when Rabir, who even after being established as a rich “Rockstar” in the film, and is the brand ambassador of Nissan – India in real life, drives a small Nissan to see a girl a dying girl. Jesus.Fuck. This is when the film loses all it’s respect. All it’s credibility. Only other “actor” who can stoop this low to further his brands without any regard to the integrity of the narrative is SRK. So if Ranbir, or any actor who wants to carve a niche for himself, needs to get rid of this SRK trend. And, as for the director whose film, people think, is path-breaking needs to check weather or not he has balls to go all the way. But you know what, fuck all that. Fuck how Rockstar disappoints for what it's not. As I write this, a realization is kicking in: that I am more angry because it all seems to be my fault. My fault all the way. It's not that film's idiotic but, it is I – for expecting something more than a run-of-the-mill love story from this mini Yashraj-ish director, who also has the penchant of casting the worst actress: Ayesha Takia, Kareena Kapoor, Deepika Padukoe, the white Brazilian lady who played Punjabi pind-di-choori / young Neetu Singh.

The film will make it big in Bollywood for it has all the components to: beautiful locales, beautiful people, mind-less story, gripping narrative, romance, great music, and lack of heart and balls.

Rockstar is a stellar opportunity wasted. Fuck.

PS: Comparing this Popstar with Dev.D, the way lot of people are, is Blasphmey. Don't.

Director and Story: Imtiaz Ali

Cast: Ranbir Kapoor, Shammi Kapoor, Nargis Fakhri, Aditi Rao Hydari, Kumud Mishra, Piyush Mishra.

Lyrics: Irshad Khamil

Music: A. R. Rahman

Rating: 2.5/5

Laughter: The best ab work out :) - Simple Weight Loss Methods for Lovelies

To answer the never-ending 'I am over weight' cry of all the lovely ladies, I am listing below

Six best (and extremely simple) practices to help shed weight. These practices have helped a lot of ladies around me to get rid of the gunny-bags thighs, MRF-tyre tummies, and stuff toy face that everyone likes to play -- you know, when idiots pull the cheeks and say, 'so cute so cute' while you actually hear: 'fat cow fat cow.'

These practices have helped the fattest of cows turn into whitest of Swans. But, the change doesn't happen over-night. Just because you are following these steps, doesn't mean a fairy god-mother will come, in the middle of the night, and sprinkle some of the magic dust, and taadaa, the next day you will look like a super-model. It takes time, and most importantly, an iron will to stick to the discipline; it is easier said than done.

I am no doctor or a certified dietician or some one who charges a lot of money to tell you common sense. And these practices are nothing but common sense. There is no medication involved here or any direction towards liposuction and other short-cuts.

These steps are NOT work-out pointers or what-to-eat list, for that matter. The things listed below are universal, and can be of help to everyone, and could be coupled with the routine, you are already involved with -- Gym, Jogging, Yoga etc.

Also, ever wondered why the fairy god-mother never gets old. Because she uses all her that magic dust on her. So, instead of waiting for that selfish lady to show some consideration, its best to take matters in your own hand.

Zeenat Aman: The Other Side.

1. Sleep on Time: Even if Brat Pitt offers you a foot massage at 10:01 p.m., take a deep breath, look into his eyes and Ditch the dude for he is a minute too late. If a guy cannot respect your time, even his six packs cannot make you forgive him and change your FIRM decision of taking the beauty sleep. There is a reason it is called Beauty Sleep. So Sleep. Also, please resist the temptation to sit and chat and discuss other people's life late in the night at the cost of your unhappiness -- that will eventually appear in the form of double chin.
   
   
2. Don't even touch processed-fired food: Anything that is fired and packed, like Chips, fried namkeen etc, should be kept away. Most times, these foods have something called as MSG (Aginotmoto). It's a taste enhancing chemical. There have been reports of hormonal imbalance due to its consumption -- even if its consumed on a semi-regular basis. The ready-to-eat soups have MSG. So unless you want to be seen in the zoo along side Jumbo - the lovely elephant. Avoid MSG. And FYI, MSG (Mono Sodium Glutamate) is a proven carcinogen. While at it, add Cola drinks to the list of untouchables. Its not just the excessive sugar in cola drinks that is harmful, but also the Carbon-di-oxide gas. Simply put: It is all gas.
   
   
3. Early Dinner: I am not asking you to turn into a Jain Muni and have dinner at 6 p.m., but, having dinner atleast 2 hours before bed time helps the food take its natural course, naturally.
   
   
4. Milk: Ladies, you need more calcium. Or rather the calcium need to be replenished more often in your body, than in moustache bearing people. Calcium is a major mineral in our body - pearly whites, bones et al. Even the slightest deficiency in calcium causes the whole system to go yo-mama on your ass, literally. Unless you are the colour-blind Jumbo, you must be aware that milk is an excellent source of calcium. So please block your nose, close your eyes, and have that glass of milk: Cream, Semi-Cream, No-Cream, Skimmed, Ultra-skimmed, Ultra-Blatra-Skimmed, it doesn't matter. Help Yourself. Minimum of 1 tall glass (300 ml) a day will take you long long way. I mean Rehka-long way.
   
   
5. Never Starve: Never-fucking-ever. NEVER. Skipping a meal does more harm than good. Or rather does only harm. Just because you have decided to skip some calories, your system has not. Even basic functions like breathing, maintenance of normal body temperature and blood circulation need energy / calories. I won't go into much details here, but please remember: digestive system is not like boys, who can be kept dangling to add to the romance. If you try to pull a stunt like starving with your body, that dangled boy will eventually have to carry you to the ER. Starving cuts nutrients to our brain. So there is a high chance of a transfer from the Emergency Room to Psychiatric Ward. Instead, munch on fruits and raw vegetables. Sweeties like water-melon, cucumber etc. are mostly water. And hence also make you skin glow. (Dear Lakme, You thought you were the only one. Ha!)
   
   
6. Buy a gun: Keep a shot-gun handy, you know, when ever someone is trying to mock tease you 'moti-moti'. Kill the mofo. End of story. No more stress. World is good again. Okay, on a serious note: Just by the fact that you are a woman, you are beautiful. Men are still half monkeys. I'll be first one to admit it. I know it first hand. I am the biggest one. Even if we can drive with one hand, the other hand is still on the tree branch. We miss the details. We can't distinguish shit from sunshine and tend to follow what's trending. For us, the grass is never the greenest; but we are working on it, and we love you and will continue to. But you, on other hand, are fucking magic. You are the reason the world still has human life. Don't get stressed about the way you look, especially just for a guy. Be sexy for your own self. It's much more rewarding. And results do appear if you work towards something 'for-me' rather that 'for-him' or in some cases 'just-to-show-that-bitch.' You may be a little on the healthier side. So what? Deal with it. Truth be told, no one wants to be with a FTV type stick, we all love katrina. Got it? Get It? Good.
   
   
7. Go on. Have fun. Break Rules. Don't bother too much. Don't stress over following advice and searching advice and listing advice and retiring advice and renewing advice. A Million People will give you 6 million points. Go deaf and listen to your self. And eat chocolate, but in moderation. Chocolate is not just a sweet or comfort food or a luxury item; it is something beyond that I cannot put into words. Its fuel for your lady soul. Darker the better ;)

If you are a girl, be a naughty girl. If you are a lady, be a sexy lady. And if you are a mom, be a sugar mama.

Next time you see yourself in the mirror, wiggle out that hip, kiss your a finger and make the sizzling sound. Its always about the simple joys and little worriers that keep us human. Imagine, if you were the so called definition of perfect, that would be so uninteresting. Keep it real. Make it happen.

 Yet, believe in fairy tales. I do.

PS: Don't listen to any Bollywood Actress, they are all paid parrots.

Originally Posted at Lotus Feel

history

i stumbled upon a picture
she was an old friend
an acquaintance actually
from a time long gone
a decade
or more
i was too young
middle school
acne was yet to appear
i was a best looking guy i knew
we never really spoke that much
she and i
i was a junior
she was in high school
i went to co-ed
she was an all girl convent
we went to the same tuitions
sat on the same mat
cold mornings
she always wore uniform
white and royal blue
white ribbons
i learnt the chapters she already had
she remembered it all
i knew
our batches overlapped
her's left
mine began
in between teacher took breaks
her batch used to stay back and chat
girls
i used to be the early guy
one day we had a history test
the year was about to end
she was in the senior most batch
i asked her who discovered america
i knew it was columbus
she said americo vespuci
it made sense
still does
now i know her full name

Only the Truth (Singha: A Jolly Good Mofo - Part 1)

    After writing my entrance test for WGSHA, Manipal (For Bachelors of Hotel Administration), I was waiting in the verandah for the Group Discussion to commence. Room in the which the GD was to be held was closed for lunch. While waiting, I peeped in through the glass door: It was a small dark room. A guy, dressed as a waiter, came and opened the door. I went in the room. The room stank stale from the ancient carpet laid. Cushioned chairs, with thin metal legs, were kept in a semi-circle. Some eight of us, pimply faced milk-bread kids, were directed to take the chairs.

    All of my fellow candidates in the room were in formals: Ties and Tie pins and Polished Black Shoes; one or two even had jacket and all. I was in a brown half-shirt and a light brown trousers and casual shoes. I took the corner most chair on the left. There was a chair right in-front of the semi-circle, at its focal point. A bright light shone down on that chair.

    A man in a brown suite walked in and stood behind the chair; his hands resting on the chair’s metal frame. He was wearing dark-brown leather shoes, the long pointed ones. He had a little bit of beer ponch. He wore a red tie, without any tie pin. His face square. Clean shave. Full white hair. Eyes Red. He looked like a World War 2 Veteran with his white moustache, long and straight and thick moustache. Like blades of a RAF propeller planes. We all stood up, more out of sight than out of habit. He raised his arm and ruddered his palm, signalling us to be seated. We obeyed. He just stood there breathing from his belly. I had never seen any one carry a suit with so comfortably.

    The brown suite broke the silence his presence had built, ‘MY NAME IS DALIP SINGHA. AND I DON’T LIKE BEING BORED,’ his voice husky, borderline volcanic; like his throat was bruised by either a lot of smoking or a lot of shouting, or both. ‘SO WHAT YOU WANT TO DISCUSS?’

    Now, liberty is something a GD "appearer" never expects. All candidates started staring at one another. One “enthu cutlet” suggested, “Women Reservation”. “Development in Rural V/s Urban India,” said another. I said, “Good and bad effects of Movies on youth.”

    ‘BULLSHIT! THIS IS ALL BEING DONE TO DEATH. SURPRISE ME.’

    No one spoke.

    ‘Yaar... Kya ho raha hai aaj kaal duniya meain?’ Mr. Singha asked.

    No one spoke.

    ‘YAAR, GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.’

    No one spoke.

    ‘ALL RIGHT, LETS DISCUSS U.S WAR ON IRAQ, SHALL WE?’

    One fat IIT aspirant – in India you can always tell an IIT aspirant when you see one – started, ‘Sir, I think it is completely justified. What U.S is doing is completely justified. They want world peace. In the end everyone wants peace,’ The mugged up blah blah blah continued. The fat “IIT” looked at everyone else, nodding for assurance, one face at a time.

    Then I started. I was told, if one has to score high in a GD it’s important that something, anything, is blabbered out early on. I was not completely aware what the hell I was going on in Iraq-2003. I had overheard about the Iraq-war-something, but only a little bit and there. I said, ‘I agree,’ pointing at the IIT looking guy, ‘I think he is right, the invasion is justif–’

    ‘I DON’T WANT YOU TO AGREE. I WANT YOU TO SPEAK AGAINST HIM.’

    Unsurprisingly, I was dumb struck. A girl (only lady in the lot) tried chirping in. Mr. Singha ruddered his palm at her. She went silent. The red eyes looked at me. The beer-belly breathing in and out proudly. I couldn’t come up with anything. I mumbled in order to distract myself from peeing my pants. ‘Sir... sir... sir...’

    ‘I. DON’T. WANT.YOU TO AGREE!’

    I took a deep breath. My tongue continued to be tied: My schooling wasn’t exactly convent;  my chaddi-friends were sons of soil, and our mother or grand-mother only knew their mother-tongue, which is not English. I clenched my fist. ‘Sir,’ I said, hyper-ventilating, ‘America is wrong. They want oil. Rest is wrong. United Nation’s hands are tied. Because America has money, U.N say nothing. America is showing Power. IRAQ can take them themselves care.’ I crashed my back on the back rest.

    The girl chirped again, ‘Sir, I think the gentleman on my left is right.’

    I sprang back to attention. Never in my life was I called A Gentleman. And now I was a Gentleman on her left. And I was Right. I was a Right Gentlemen on her left.

I fell in love with that girl. She was my Pam Anderson – though she looked completely opposite. I saw Me and Her having a life together, where I was her Gentleman and she was My Lady; A farm house, with White Picket Fence; Bunch of Kids on bikes; Our little girl playing in the sand; Two German Shepards – Jack and Jill and everything.

    ‘I DON’T WANT YOU TO AGREE WITH ANYONE. I WANT NO ONE TO AGREE WITH ANYONE.’

    That girl never looked at me again, and there went my white picket fence and kids and Jack and Jill. I was pain old boy again: not a Gentlemen.

    The GD got over – GD and Written test was the first stage. Result came: I passed the first stage, next was Panel Interview. There was more waiting amongst shiny shoes and tie-pines. My turn came and I went in one of the three panels. All the interviewers were old farts; they all wore blue or grey or black suites, and were all seated. Their eyes dull, lifeless. They asked me some philosophical stuff. I answered more philosophical stuff – After all, I was a small town boy, we are big on Philosophy.

    Last round was a Personal Interview. It was with General Sarda. He had a big cabin, infact, a big office. He looked like a distilled version of Mr. Singha. He was seated, but one could make out he was tall: his knees came up to his chest. He asked me to speak on Hotesy for a minute. I spoke for two.

   

    Later, after a couple of weeks, the final results were out. I got made: I was in the best hotel management country – apparently.

   The first day of college was all about paying fees and filling forms. In the corridor, I was Mr. Singha; and that was the first time I saw him walk. He moved like a Lion, a hungry loin. The Swagger: slow and study, like a beast calculating every step. Eyes red, tunnelled, occasionally looking up. Calm and Composed, he moved. Slow. Everyone stood still and made way as he passed by. He spoke to no one, always kept his head down. Some people wished him, he wished them back: looked up for a second, stopped, kept walking.

    It was during the orientation ceremony that he introduced himself, ‘I AM DALIP SINGHA.’ That's it: No designation, no qualification, nothing. We all knew who he was – The Vice fucking Principle of the of most glamorous college in the country. During the ceremony, all faculty member were to perform a five minute gig: Song or Dance or anything. Most of them told a joke, or sang hindi songs; I don’t remember much. But Mr. Singha went all Bob Dylan on the stage with “Blowin’ in the wind” with with hand gestures and all, but he had a bad voice for singing –  My God Bad, My god Husky. But he sang, and sang with rhythm and melody. One hand holding the mic, the other, painting a picture in the air.

   

    When seniors joined us, two weeks later, they told us: ‘When it comes to Mr. Singha’s, stay the fuck out of his way. He is a crazy fucker. And will come and hit you if tick him of a least bit.’

    No one in my batch got hit.

   

    First two years of college were bad. First year was a one long culture shock – if Manipal is a “forward” place, then WGSHA is a thrust that keeps it forward –, plus, I sucked at studies. I couldn’t understand what was being taught. The medium of instruction was only English, and it was all high-falutin to me. I feared academics and kept running away from it. And, closer the exams got, more helpless became, with the final academic paralysis manifesting itself as I wrote the papers. I just couldn’t express what I knew: I couldn’t find words – and I knew very less. Maybe because I had science in my class 12 and was used to writing technical stuff in bullet points; the Objective type answering was alien to me. I broke my head to get average marks. Also, to add insult to by Academic injuries, the Hotel Management Colleges have a lot of vanity attached to it: Projects and Assignment and stuff, and that meant giving Presentation and stuff in front of the whole fucking class. There wasn’t an excuse I exhausted to avoid classroom dais. I was terrified of the monster called the ‘White Board’ and its ugly cousin, ‘The projector’.

   

    In third year, Mr. Singha had a subject: Dynamics of Human Resource – formerly, Applied Behavioural Science. Simply put: Introduction to Organisational Behaviour. But for the minds of only 19 years, it was anything but simple, and we had had been hearing as to how difficult the subject was to pass and how merciless its teacher was when it came to the evaluation of papers.  

    First Class, and Mr. Singha goes, ‘WHAT IS OF IMPORTANCE IN A WORK PLACE FOR IT RUN SMOOTHLY?’

    No one spoke.

    ‘IF YOU DON’T RESPOND, YOU GUYS ARE NO DIFFERENT THAN THE FURNITURE YOU ARE SEATING ON.’

    We gave some stupid answers.

    ‘IT’S COMMUNICATION. NOW, WHAT IS EFFECTIVE COMMUNICATION?’

    Some more stupid answers followed. One of my friend said, ‘Complexity of Words.’

    Mr. Singha started laughing. ‘LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING, AND THIS WAS TOLD TO ME BY MY PROFESSOR, A BRILLIANT MAN,’

    All ears went Sharp like Jerry – of the Tom & Jerry’s.

    ‘SIMPLICITY... IS THE ULTIMATE FORM OF SOPHISTICATION. SIMPLICITY. IS. THE. ULTIMATE. FORM. OF. SOPHISTICATION.’

    He went on to explain what it meant in a few simple words. We all understood or at least we nodded like we did.

    All of his lectures were interactive, made us think about ourselves. 

    For the first time, I did not doze off to sleep in my Air-Conditioned Classroom – Initially, I used to get sleepy out of habit, but during Mr. Singha’s class I did not so much as yawn: I was afraid he would shoot me if I did.

   

    I wrote the first "quarters" (sessional exam) and passed border line. I was good at his subject, I understood it; but didn't manage to get marks. Story of my life, I cursed. I wanted to improve, I knew I wanted guidance, but had always felt ashamed to go a professor and ask for pointers - smart phones and laptops, and God Google had not caught up on life full throttle to go online and check everything up - plus, I always thought, profs will dip my dignity like a biscuit during their pretty little tea time and have an educated laugh over it; but Mr. Singha didn't move in a pack. And with the year already three months old, time was running out. And, regardless of teachers' degree of willingness to genuinely help, I had calculated: I will only approach them once - that was maximum number I could pump-out from within myself to hold my faith. So I decided to seek help from the man himself, Mr. Singha. I had one shot, So What the Hell, I thought. I gathered all my boota and went to Singha sir's cabin - It was just like the Principal’s cabin, but no one went there unless called in. Till the last moment I was having second thought on approaching him - I used to think the Mr. Singha has a dungeon under his office where he stuffs and displays the heads of annoying students. I took a deep breath as I reached Mr. Singha’s secretary’s table. She gave me very warm smile; a very nice lady, she is. ‘SEND HIM.’ A scream came thought the glass partition. Had it not been for the window blinds segregating his office space and that of the secretary madam’s, I would have never found the optimal “blankness” to zone-out and ponder on the moment for a moment: Mr. Singha had once told us, “On the other side of fear is freedom.” ‘SEND HIM!’. I gulped some more air. The good lady smiled again and nodded her eyes in assurance. It was time to roll the dice: I knocked.

    Mr. Singha offered me a visitor’s chair. I looked around, there was no other door in the room, you know, for dungeon or something. I felt OK. He was reading something, he finished with it, closed the book and asked, ‘Yes, tell me.’ I told him my dukha bhari Kahaani. He heard it out without interrupting, even with a nod. When I was done, he placed his hands behind his head,  pushed back on the chair’s back rest and stretched himself out while letting out a yawn. He came forward - eyes red - and said, ‘Abe Yaar...’ He gave me pointers.

    I followed them.

    Mr. Singha used to conduct extra classes, in the college, after college hours for students who couldn’t pass DHR. He asked me attend those. He knew his subject was a motherfucker, and that some students needed more inputs. I had passed – with fuke, I guess – so I attended the extra classes, with all optimism and rainbows and sunshine. And I felt good, not because I was the only “pass”; and neither I was taken as a condescending pedant, but because there, in the evening classes, no one was a “convent background” or a “vernacular background”. All the confidant kids had passed, the ones who did not, were no longer had their supply of confidence in that class. Therefore, in the absence of over-confidant kids the concepts of insecurity ceases to exist; just like, the concept of light without darkness. Everyone was comfortable being their ownself. We were new born’s: open to everything, uninhibited to learn, un-bothered about the ways of the world, naked. No topper or sixer (Sixer is a student who has failed in all subjects). We were all Failures, We were all Equals, There was no judgement in anyone’s eye; only empathy for one another. We all asked doubts fearlessly, without being concerned as to how silly the question might be, or, how incorrect the syntax of the question could have been. It’s only amongst the down-and-outs, one gets to recognise, and cut the bullshit, and work towards things that matter – in this case, learing.

   

    In next quarters, I passed with a decent margin. I understood concepts more clearly and my performance in other subject improved. For the first time in my life I knew what I was reading. I could hear it in my head.

   Third year came to an end. It was the last class. Mr. Singha came and sat amongst us, on the bench, and gave some gyan on life and everything. None of the Professor had done that. He was the first one to come down and sit amongst us. For other professors – I felt – we were a nuisance, a chore, a "good-for-nothing". But Singha sir came down and sat with us. Eye-to-Eye Shoulder-to-Shoulder.

He told us, ‘You know you are living it right when people don’t come and suck up to you. All sycophants can recognize a man with integrity. And Everyone, deep down, hates that man. Mostly because, people don’t have any in them. Go on, have a life. Have all the success. Be a big man. And if you happen to bump into me sometime, and if you forget to call me “Sir” or “Mr. Singha”. I will shoot you in the head, twice.’

    We all nodded.

   

    After our batch, the next batch came in, the 19th "Course". Mr. Singha taught them for about 4 months. Then the 19th course ran out of luck: Mr. Singha got admitted for slip disc. 

   Students were rejoicing.

   

   I went and met him. Heavy weights,attached to his legs, suspended down. Our job placements had started, he knew. He joked about here and there. He said, ‘You know the other day....’ He told me a very graphic joke about placements. I laughed, my eyes went moist. Mr. Singha kept laughing. He was soon discharged, may be after a day or two.

    In about a week's time, he had a paralysis stroke and was hospitalised. He had to immediately under go a major brain surgery. Coincidently, I was hospitalised a day before, in the same hospital – there is only one major hospital in Manipal, Kasturba Medical. There was nothing serious with me, the hot NRI post-grad-docs at Kasturba had kept me under observation. Thank God they do that – Else, one has to be back in the WGSHA hostel at O’2200 hours – the principal was a Retrd Maj. Gen, don’t ask.

    When I got the news, I was strolling around the hospital in the night. I went and saw him. He was in ICU, just out of surgery. He was silent. Unconscious. Quarter of his head was missing. There were tubes and wires coming out his nose and mouth and from his arms. His head was covered in gauge. For the first time I had seen Mr. Singha quite. I thought he was playing a prank or something and that any moment we will get up, pull out all the tubes and say ‘Got you. Ha!’

    I stood there for a minute, he didn’t wake up. I knocked on the glass door. He didn’t respond. The nurse gave me dirty looks. I went back to my room, and stood next to the window as I waited for the toilet to get vacant – the student room is on sharing basis. My college was visible under the moon light.

    I got discharged the next day. In college, not many students spoke about Mr. Singha’s health; and those did, spoke bad about him, cheerfully. “That Bastard Met his Fate.” “Nice happened.” “Let's see how he flaunts his style now.” “I bet he can’t really womanise now, can he?” Some of them were my classmates and some were juniors.

    I knew, Mr. Singha had never done any wrong to them - if any one did any good or bad the word spreads in a residential college, and I had heard nothing about him. He is a good man. I don’t know if he Womanised or not because not a single lady thought so, or complained or commented. Yes, he has style and Hell Yes, he has panache. But it isn’t hallow. There is enough and more substance to support that gait, that lion’s swagger.

   

    A while ago when I quoted him on my FB status, some people commented negatively on it. There was a time when even I was jealous of Mr. Singha, but that was before I got to know him. Once, in the course of the conversation, a beautiful lady in my class said, “Singha ki to baat hi alaag hai, Yaar.”

    People who speak ill of him might have had a bad experience with Mr. Singha, so did I, and on many occasions. Initially, in “failures’” class, he constantly dismissed all answers as “BULLSHIT”. Even in my answer sheets he wrote “B.S!!” in big red capitals and “THIS IS NON NONSENSICAL!!!” “WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY???” “STOP WASTING MY TIME!!!” I took a minute to reflect, got in his shoes, and checked. He was right, rather accurate.

    But whatever the reason, no matter how harsh and raw he came across as, no one should celebrate a person’s misfortune and wish for his death. Singha is a state idiots can’t even imagine to realize. May be that’s why they curse him: It’s either out of their insecurity or maybe that’s the maximum numb-nuts can do for the sake of excitement with their other-wise empty lives.

   

    After he discontinued teaching, a junior asked me, ‘Who was Singha? How was he? Thank God we didn’t have that asshole.’

    I told him, ‘Singha was the Return on Investment that your parents have done so generously for your education here at WGSHA, you dumb fuck.’

    Mr. Singha is NOT a life guru or a preacher or any of that pseudo-psychological faggoty charade. He is just a man who lives his life on his own terms. A walking id. He speaks his mind and always tells the truth. He loves his family a lot. And unlike his haters, is unafraid and unapologetic about his existence. There is nothing wrong in that. I guess some people never get the point, the point he was trying to make. Not by his words but by his behaviour: Be yourself, otherwise there is no point.

   

    Even after college I go visit him every year at his home in Gurgoan. During my visit, he got me drunk in the middle of the afternoon!

    He can’t walk the way he used to and now carries a stick, but walks on his own. He can’t speak the way he could, but laughs out louder than ever before.

    I was about take his leave. He said, painting a picture in the air, ‘You know the other day...’