Where Have They Gone?

Believe it or not , each of us are riding on our private space shuttles. Sometimes we embrace change to avoid unpleasant memories or leave behind unworthy opponents. We spearhead into another dimension, erasing habits, cruising along the bylanes of ‘happy times’ trying to make a forever stop. As we move from experience to circumstance to phenomena there are some artifacts which get left behind, which history stops producing and we stop consuming and this blog is dedicated to those lost crafts.

The Dooley: In Anglo Indian houses , in times before the refrigerator became a necessity, there lived a small wooden cupboard with a netted front. This was called the Dooley or meat-safe. The Dooley was a cool dark fragrant cupboard, which nurtured in it’s recesses, left over meat curries , sambol, tomato rice and Christmas cake . No one quite knew the science behind the Dooley or how it kept Christmas cakes from spoiling from December to March. It was store crafted by the ‘hand of god’ and many grandmothers and grace said, we left it at that. Goodbye Mysterious Dooley..the flies have flown to Canada.

The Round Oven: In little cantonment towns , thirty years ago there lived a small steel round oven with a black coil which shuddered and sparked and sometimes sang ‘ping’ when it got too hot. These towns were home to army colonies, forest rangers , mining engineers, and were also known as temporary posting sites. In these sleepy little nooks where life revolved around the mines or the dam or the army, the local excitement was provided by the monthly trip to the ‘nearest big city’ and afternoons spent in competitive baking. Pies, cakes, biscuits, breads and toasties were manufactured in those little tin ovens marking the ‘true colony wife and mother’ from the ‘ just landed new-bees’. Goodbye Round Oven…Your coil is going to remain forever unchanged.

The Aalna: The clotheshorse or aalna has become a ‘curiosity piece ‘in heritage hotels. Yet in a time not so long ago, there lived in the red tiled, flowered patterned corridors of old Calcutta, the mighty Aalna. An aalna was truly an essential piece of furniture in a tropical land. It had a wooden frame with two beautifully carved side stands which held twelve rods between them. You took off your once worn cottons , drenched with the afternoon sun, spread them across the aalna to dry, sprinkled some talcum powder on it , switched the fan on and let it be. You bought time for yourself, you could stare at the aalna, and contemplate on the dirt quotient of your clothes, without them getting in everyone’s way. You could decide if you should iron them out and wear them once more or did they need to go into the wash a.s.a.p. Nowadays, the choice does not exist. OCD freaks like me possess a bunch of faded clothes since everything goes into the washing machine after a one time wear. Or you spend your time sniffing naphthalene and day before yesterday’s perfume on people with bright clothes.( It went straight into the cupboard)Goodbye Aalna..you are sorely missed.

The electric water heating rod: In cold, paying guest accommodations across campus towns there lived a wicked, heating rod with an evil temperament. In Hudson Lines, North Campus, PG’s were treated worse than dung beetles. They had no coolers, no working kitchens, no dignity and no company after ten, when uncle ji locked the gates. In this waste land, the only kicks one got was from using that little bit more electricity, without informing the landlord. To stay alive in the cold Delhi winter, students would hide electric heating rods under clothes and behind books. The rod would be attached to a bucket and it was a mean ingrate. It would give us shocks so that we sported permed frizzy hair , burnt our buckets, tripped the electricity and got us caught. I for one, am very happy that the electric water heating rod is no longer a part of my life. Goodbye and good riddance!

The Sataranchi: Parents of the seventies did not have ‘Little Champs’ and ‘ Voice of Young India’ to indulge in, so a whole lot of us were chased off to learn classical dancing on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Friday’s . An important part of the Indian classical dance training experience was the ‘on the deathbed’ guruji, with absolutely no teeth but enough spirit in his bones, to whack you on your legs whenever you bungled a move. This cadaverous old gentlemen would be seated on a sataranchi, which looked like the illegitimate union between a wooden platform and a bed. There would also be a disinterested ‘tabalchi’ seated beside him, keeping lack lustre rhythm and looking out of the window. The guriji would more than make up for the tabalchi’s lack of interest, by keeping his own beat. He would hurl the child beating baton against the sataranchi beating out ' dha dhin dhin da' ( if it was a monday it would be kathak) or ' talanku jhum'(if it was a wednesday it would be bharat natyam), as the occasion demanded.
Who knows if in some small dancing school in the middle of a market , a podgy little cross eyed child is still trying to measure her footsteps to the ‘na thin thin tha’ of a beaten sataranchi?

The Festival Of Food

Come October, nostalgia fills the air. Airports get clogged as the 'last minute Kolkattan' rushes back home to participate in the Durga Pujo binging . In little and large corners across the world, pockets of Bengalis gather, get organised and chomp their way across 'cultural programs' and ' Kabiraji cutkets' , the focal point of all pujo celebrations.The important questions which dot the day are- 'Which artist is coming?' ' When is the Sit and Draw competition', ' Did we finally get that biryani stall we wanted?'

While the rest of India, goes into a nine day fast, the Calcuttan goes into a 5 day hyper-food festival mode, with 'Silly Chicken' and 'Moten Biryani'. Continuous feasting without fasting. The best thing about the Pujos though, are that they are completely divorced from religion. Growing up, it was as much a part of Indrani Chakraborty's social calendar as Elina Da Silva's or Nitasha Islam's. We didn't grow up thinking we had different gods, just specific cuisine occasions. Come Id , we would line up outside Nitasha's or Shabnam's door, come Christmas the good Brahmins would sit on the overstuffed sofa tucking into the 'beef vindaloos.'

So come October, no matter how far we are from the many miked lanes of old Kolkata and the lights which showcase the political satire of the day, if we want ,we always have a way back in. You may be crossing a Manhattan street, or nurturing a Soho beer, you may be picking mangoes in Darwin, or freezing your little bits off in Toronto. You may be eating idlis in Bengaluru or commuting in a matro between Gurgaon and Dilli. Come October, all you need to do is close your eyes, and connect with the memory of the dhak ...and suddenly you are enveloped in a circus of senses...fragrant arati , women dancing, the lingering taste of ashtami mutton, a hot kolkata evening and a gorgeous mother, who only comes visiting once a year :)

Shubho Bijoya everyone and much love

A story: How to attend the wedding of an ex – spouse without losing your sense of humor.

Mea sat on the sofa, trying to blow smoke rings.
She had just been invited to her ‘soon to be wed’ ex-husband’s nuptials. The ex was going 'next' and there she would be, cheering him on from a ring side view. Come to think of it, he had been beating the re-marriage drum for quite some time now, almost from the minute the divorce had come through. He had thrown imaginary names and invites at her through many a whisky sodden schizophrenic night text. But this time, it seemed like the real thing. She did the only thing she could do, laughed her head off and heard herself assuring him that she wouldn’t dream of missing it. And now here she was, blowing smoke rings….
An action girl, Mea stubbed her ‘Ultra milds’ and started making notes…

1. Appear: Desist from putting the invite through the shredder, hitting the bottle and watching ‘Love Actually’ for the 3000th time.

2. Inform: Mother not to turn up gushing with best wishes for the new couple. Given the mutual dislike which mother and EX share for self, this is a definite possibility.

3. Call: Best Buds meeting to define entry strategy, cover topics such as clothes which hide the ‘long’ lunches and ‘ just-for-today deserts’ , make-up which makes one look ravishing not ravished, and shoes which are comfortable yet sophisticated.

4. Compose: Sparling conversation starters for people like, the ex mother-in-law ‘who could give Vodemort a run for his Deathly Hallows, and …….sundry other predators.

5. Practice: The congratulatory body movements when meeting the couple. The polite handshake coupled with the ROFL glint for the ‘EX’, and the ‘Oh you look stunning, I wish you happiness’ gasp for the ‘Next.’ This line has to be delivered with a well-balanced, glazed yet piteous glance to assure the ‘Next’ that her sorrows have just begun.

6. Cajole: (failing which blackmail): The best looking friend available on the open market to accompany self. Ensure that companion is draped around self in manner of immense obsession or fascination at all times.

7. Remember: To brush teeth, swallow bottles of mouth freshener to negate the whole non chic ‘alcohol-cigarettes-pick me up reefer’ breath which will be consumed pre- attendance.

8. Communicate: In a tinkling voice, names of exotic places one has visited, exciting things/people one has done, conjuring impressions of wealth and fortune when random curious second cousins and neighbors balloon up to exchange gossip.

9. Leave: The wedding as soon as possible. Scheduled time-Mandatory Photograph(catch the better light, 1 min), Sparring with Predators(10 mins), Exchanging Gossip(building value proposition, 15 mins), Pretending to whisper into companion's ear(establishing that self has exciting new life,15 mins).All done in 41 mins.

10. Pray: That this is a once in a life time experience and I won’t be making a career buying wedding gifts for exes.

Mea stopped typing and thought,'I should really write a Self Help Book, this is completely unchartered territory, maybe this is how i make my first million.'

Chasing The Rains

3 weeks back we went chasing the rains across the ghats of Goa.
Since i have a memory bordering on severe dementia, Indrani thought it wise to threaten dire circumstances if the highlights of the trip , failed to get penned.
The purpose of all this documentation does not flow from an appreciation of my wit or writing capability but from our combined corporate cockroach sensibility of ,' Lets template everything because tomorrow we might be asked to produce a new measurement metric'.
The purpose of this excercise is to wrap something up in the leaves of Blog spot , hoping it will still be around when we do our 40th 'Chasing The Rain trip' at age of 74.....The brief snippets.

1. We were so busy making the most of our prepaid weekend, we forgot to visit the beach.
   


2. Well actually , Hina and I did visit the beach early one morning. The other two kept driving past them , declaring that wet sand was well wet!. They assured us that nothing gave them more pleasure than scowling at the distant beach from various available cliff tops which dotted our drives.



3. We raced across the borders of 3 states, chasing the rains , driving around in sub zero visibility until we reached the waterfall hills of Amboli.



4. Lake sodden grasslands , rushing rivulets and picturesque tea shanties dotted the misty roads while the ipod lustily sang 'Pi Lu', the popular romantic ballad of our time.



5. We ate hot pakodis and garam chai , at a fog hidden , monsoon drenched cafe , lost in the half shadows of smoke shrouds .



6. We fought with a drunk beach shack owner one night , who specialized in extravagant overcharge, and nearly escorted him to the police station when he threated US, with police action. Indu , just to drive the point home (and because she works in a sales driven financial organisation), gave him 'ma-behen ki gali' and insisted on slowing the car menacingly next to his shack , for a last invitation ...while the rest of us were trying to make a dignified exit.



7. On the bank of stringy tissues , drunk, with richad stained fingers we formulated ' Templar Associates,' who would use the blurry Cloud to provide ' Every bluhfy friggin kind of zolution..from woperations to EIIICH RRRRRRRRR.'



8. Next day, nursing hangovers we went to a little book shop called Litterati , and had warmish iced coffees . I completed my Tariq Ali,'Islam Quartet Collection ', Indu bought the William Series, Hina bought 'The Subtle Knife' and 'The Amber Splyglass'. while .....Pritha fell asleep in the dark musty, bookshop , with it's high beamed ceilings.



9. Hina , wanted me to make friends with the owners, so that we could understand ' their operational store management model' which going forward would enable us to one day own our own bookshop by the sea.



10. The owners however did not oblige, they were 2 Bengali women...who acted terribely busy, were quite flaky , and refused to engage in any chit-chat whatsoever , when approached , they wanted us to contribute to some charity work they were participating in !....We will have to look elsewhere ...



11. We gorged .. 5 hour breakfasts, which seeped into lunch, which waned into slow sonorous dinners .Every kind of available sea & land animal, spirits of different hues was, as they say in the mother tongue, 'Conjumed' ...leaving behind a rose tinted bubble of floating happiness.



12. 18 days left for our next adventure...to a cold mountain desert, with barrel chested mountain yaks, and blue lakes. Getting all ready to make the next bunch of memories..............for the old creaking chair , the cottage which we will build in Amboli, the herb garden which Hina will tend to..after she retires as IBM's Cheif Strategy Director......................................after Pritha has sold her company(possibely to IBM..that is the last deal Hina will broker as she officiates as CSO ) and has got enough money to build that cottage....................and after Indu retires from AIG and becomes an undercover agent for the Mossad ........Sweet Dreams are made of these.

Mid Life Crisis: MLC Top 8

The thing about mid life crisis is that it can hit you at any age. Because no one grows old anymore. So mid life has taken on a spectacularly broad range, from 30 to whatever . You know you have MLC when....

a)You leave your job, for no apparent reason but because of a vague believe that you are meant for higher , better things. In your mind you can just see yourself hosting one of those ' Alaska in My Pajama' type shows on TLC.

b)You suddenly believe that you are immensely talented or athletic, and therefore pull out whatever stringed instrument you did not play in college, the theatrical masks, the bronzed with age dumbells, the old cult book you never read. Of course MLC makes everyone a great yakkidy-yaka storyteller/author/poet,movie maker. Tales of betrayal, lust and all the awesome things which never happened just flood your imagination, dont they?

c)You have an affair. You realise your life has rushed past .The love of your life, is probably married to you..and that means sex on national holidays and birthday's. Your children sometimes think.. but they don't necessarily think about you . So you rush off into the freshly waxed /pumped arms of another MLC patient.

d)You buy a really expensive bike . You think you would be happy that you suffer from a great Monday morning excuse called Bad Back, but NO, some red , silver, olive sheet of metal twists your heat into little pellets of Rosy love .And life seems meaningless unless the Big Baby gets his Roadie.

e)The female equivalent gets botox followed by liposuction ,a gay parade hair cut , a soap cougar personality and an evil tatto. When MLC wacks you across the many layers of your carefully acquired jingling tiers , you suffer sister, and you sincerely believe that if you change the way you look, life's gotta give. No comments, women never learn from their mother's do they?

f)MLC also finances a significant amount of the adventure touism industry. Honeymooners can salivate over their luxury hotel packages, but it is the MLC protagonist who wants to stomp the length of Antartica and width of Africa ...it is She/He who is solely responsible for all those crazy spikes on the road less travelled.

g)Our grandparents coped with MLC through religion , newspapers and frequent changes in their Wills which threatened to cut off all those children , friends and relatives who were out of favour at the current moment. But man did our parents show them how it was done. A friend's dad went off , one new year's evening to get a bottle from the corner store. He now lives in South America and is known as Ra The Lama on Facebook.

h)So here we are, getting older , filled with angst and lack of definition. Getting really pissed off with all the time that has slipped away without gathering a single rosebud. What do we do?

i) I say if we are going to do this, let's do this right..Lets get organised ...
Let's Get Started with some group discounts on motorcycles, wine ,botox, and adventure travels.
Let's start a ,MLC social networking site to exchange tips about rare recipes, installation art and of course the three most original ways to help us script/produce our Magnum Opus.
Let's get a, MLC channel which hosts progams like ' How i hate your mother,' and ' MLC Idol' , and ' How to become a Supermodel@ 40' .A channel which will guide us towards making the 'correct' wacky mistakes.
I would personally like to be an MLC Oprah...takers any one?

Mea's Story : The Day They Came

It was a cold creaky night. The wooden boards of the verandah sighed, as though stricken from a bad bout of gout.
Mea crouched on the steps of the small verandah, nursing a smoking cup of hot chocolate.
She could feel Little Bozo trying to get his sticky hands into her pocket .
‘Mea are you sleeping?'
Mariamma’s check chant bounced off the stone walls, every fifteen minutes. Closeted in her warm kitchen she talked to her rosary and her God.
Mea nudged Bozo.
‘Ssssh, or she will come checking'
Bozo inched closer to her, put a grubby finger on his lips and smiled at his elder sister.
Hand in sticky hand, the brother sister duo sat and looked for the gate at the end of the garden. The cold night fog had hidden it completely. Sometime soon , the gate would open. A flicker from a lit cigarette would pierce the fog. The cement walkway would dance with the music from mama’s clackers. Then the gate would go swing-click-shut and papa would cough.
That would be their signal to leap into bed.
The waited silently. They counted five Mariamma calls . The chocolate was licked clean from the tip cup, but the gate did not swing. Suddenly, as though called for another urgent appointment, the fog vanished, leaving behind a night with a thousand stars.
‘Mea shall we go up, to the roof of the world?’
‘We can’t, that wicked witch locks it every night and eats the key up.’
Bozo smiled beatifically, reached for his pocket and pulled out the misshaped bronze key.
‘Where did you get that from?’
‘When she kissed me goodnight, I took it from her neck.’
Mea , spontaneously reached forward to twist his deceitful little ear but Bozo was already running towards the stairs.
The roof of the old wooden house , was bare except for some cans of paint.
In the distance, the black night had swallowed the brown mountains, the river had turned silver and the fields lay bare, shorn of everything but small, silent paddy.
Bozo saw them first.
‘Look Mea , by the river , look.’
Shattering the stillness of the night , a herd of wild white horses came galloping.
Their manes flying in the air, their grunts echoing through the night like cymbals.
‘Mea, they exist, papa told me a story about them, but I didn’t believe him. Mea they are real.’
Bozo was leaping from one side of the roof to another. Mea stood transfixed.

The pack moved with a single rhythm, as though choreographed for some grand carnival.
Their hooves played the bass in the night air, leaving behind little whirlpools of white dust.
The young foals in the middle, the larger horses at the front and the rear.
They streaked across the cold valley , proud , free, fearless.

Suddenly the fog descended again and they moved into darkness.
That was the day, Mariamma’s God was very naughty.

Mea spent her entire life, searching for the beauty of that single moment. When she was twenty one, she announced to the world that she was a free spirit. Her life post this declaration, followed the psychedelic yellow brick road to innumerable rehabs. The one addiction she could not be cured of ,was her need to fornicate with men who resembled horses.

Bozo spent his life, searching for the divinity of that single moment. He joined several orders, missions, the Peace Corps. He was last seen vanishing into the mountains of Afghanistan, at the rear end of a straggly group of defeated Al Quaeda soldiers.

There is probably a reason why Mariamma’s God doesn’t share the raw beauty of the naked universe with little children. They don’t handle it very well, do they?

Holidays i like

Wiki says that the word holiday originates from the phrase Holy Day, a day of special religiosity.
A holiday for me does bear a special religious significance, but that's because a large part of me, lives only for my next break. I like my holidays spectacular, i like my holidays to be so far removed from the normal humdrum of being, that when i look back at them I feel a quite sense of pride,accomplishment and some misplaced glory.
Glorious holidays motivate one to soldier on.
I sometimes keep a screen saver of where i want to go next. Whenever, i tear my hair or gnash my teeth and the phrase 'Why God Why' dances on the roof of my skull with tantric fervour, my screen saver serves up an answer.
Someone had said that the best things in life are not really things , they are rare and beautiful nothings. That certain someone must have been smitten by a random sunrise , sunset , bird call or an insect getting some action on a particularly green leaf.
Unfortunately while i am on the best of terms with God's Blue earth, i like my pillows fluffy, and room service, thank you very much!
When do you enjoy the rain, most?
When your at home with your feet up, sipping a cup of tea or
When you are waddling through drain waters, trying to bribe public transport to on board you.
Similarly
i enjoy trekking across mountains only if it's followed by a massage at a mountain spa.
I love drinking chai from the dhaba , as long as i get my 3 squares with embroidered napkins and a dash of silver wear
I love ancient rocks , as long as it form the wall of the unique heritage hotel at which i am staying .
I love citizens from all over the world , as long as they are behind the counter , look like their promised travel catalogue pictures, don't steal my passport or make random conversation or obscene gestures at me.
And of course i love my fellow companions, as long as they agree or simply fall in line with the above expressed points of view.
I do want to see the world, but i don't want to see it in a grain of sand , a cracked tea cup or a Patel tour.
Is the good Lord listening? Request : I dont want to hitchhike across the galaxy, i dont want to understand the zen of motorcycle maintainance , but i do want money money money, because it's rich man's world.

Moving On

Life is non stop drama And the catch word is ,' Moving On.'

Today, we are smitten by our recent cricket victories. Tomorrow, we will be horrified by the Politics Of Scams. The Day After , we will be besotted, with a new social collaboration site to connect on.

Everyday, Someone, Something, New to love, to hate, to get obsessed with. Thakela nahi mangtha!!

And what of the past? Does celebration of nostalgia only have it's place, in regional movies by pseudo-intellectual directors? Is everything about the past , all about the goodbye? I don't have the answers, because I embraced 'moving on' with such fervour that I have lost the claim ticket for yesterday's baggage.

It may be an escape mechanism, i may be irresponsible. It's not easy, that's for sure! Yesterday, visits me everyday. In my dreams, the way i laugh, the values that mould me, the truths i believe in.

So, this is how i deal with it......

I forget my old circumstances, But I cling on to those lunatics who for some reason are still celebrating my birthday.

I dont crib about my lack or luck in life , But allow myself to laugh at the havoc that i have spread, whenever i have suffered from existential angst.

I let go of all my old loves, But whenever it rains , i relive those moist moments of Being, as verse for new poetry.

I forgive my past and all the people who never believed in me, Because though i wasn't born with balls,just look at the steel ones, they helped me craft. I laugh With,For, & At Yesterday

Because it has taught me to brew vintage wine from the grapes of wrath. What other skill is there worth learning?

Salut! To Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow. To All Time For That Matter. The trick , is to Ride the circle , not Walk the Bloody line..

Summer Again

Still , silent summer
The noisy city bedecked with
silent motionless flowers
whose colour can only be described as
transparent blush
Lat summer i had time
time to notice the camel's bells
As it offered joyful rides
to the children down the road
Last summer i had time
time to write poetry on ashphalt
This summer i am
Untouched by the heat,
or by the victorious cricketing India
This summer i suffer
The patterns of every day work and life
I search the sky for one rain cloud
for dissent , for fury, for action
For release from this stillness
This encompassing quite of a summer
I search for freedom from
The Summer Of My Life

A Forewaring to my sister on entering the corporate world

My darling Puchus,
I am sure you are all agog and you have shopped till you drop for your new job.
Welcome to the corporate world, to the Dark Side Of The Moon
Today I am going to share with you some of the nasty truths which i wish someone had told me on Day 1....So Bite the bullet ..Here Goes..

1. Dilbert is not a comic ...it is the only version of the truth of our lives.There are no human beings left on this corporateplanet, we are all robots of process. We are employee numbers ,hardware tickets and meal coupons..and God has been replaced by an entity called the Corporation..which is a mythical beast lost in the future called The Cloud Platform.
2. The most important learning of your life will be -My boss is always right.Accept this truth and you will live.... better.So every time you are flogged, heaved over the coals and made to feel like vermin..remember He Who Does Your Appraisal , is your master and you shall know, no other master but him.
3. Your co-workers at any point of time or at all points of time are bound to be dismissive of your efforts, jealous of your intelligence, better at gaining brownie points with THOSE WHO MATTER.They will try to ignore you, failing which they will gossip about you, failing which they will laugh at you publicly and exhibit your weak points to their advantage. Don't get upset, GET EVEN.
4. Do not take on the responsibility of collecting money for birthday gifts and baby showers. Do not become a part of the Fun@Work organisation committee. People then tend to believe that you have no work at all and though on the surface they praise your efforts, deep down they will belive your useless, since managing time is not a quality which TRULY IMPORTANT PEOPLE should have.
5. If you want to rise quickly in the haloed halls of power, try and look terribly busy, bury yourself in process, write endless mails which position what a great job your doing and yes....make a lot of trips to the copy not coffee machine..mumbling to yourself.
6. Always use words like synergy, facilitate,teaming, and if possible deliver these words in a deep sonorous voice.People will start thinkingyou have people management qualities.
7. Looking the role is important. Being a great professional has nothing to do with getting the job done.Presentation, is everything. So go shopping instead of brushing up on content.
8. Build your own brand,market yourself, and dont enjoy anything that you do. When your truly miserable at your job and your smile has been lost to an expression of complete loathing for humanity you will find yourself doing rather well at your work place
9. Just like gender and sex are different concepts, so is a job and a career....if you want a career ...learn the job..master it, QUIT IT and become an entrepreneur like Pritha. Possibely then you may have a career.
10. And of course since i have failed miserabely at doing all of these things , you can always rely on me to give you moral and emotional support every time you get the Sunday Night Chills and the Monday Morning Blues.

Welcome my little sister to the Dark Side Of The Moon...and dont worry we Will Hold You Hand ,get you through your first appraisal and teach you the Dark Arts Of Survival In The Corporation.

Lots Of Love

Tina Didi

The drama of the domestics

Every ordinary day unfolds with it's performing players, the cook , the maid , the delivery boy.Meet the actors of I Nagar, a little woody nook in a busy, angry, cyber city.

THE EXTRA: An important player in every crowd scene
Babita , the cook cycles furiously down the road, with her lunch and her hanky clanging and fluttering against the handle bars . The reason why she is an extra in this everyday drama is because you will never actually catch her playing her part. Capturing Babita in any kitchen for more that 5 mins is an improbability. Before you can blink, she is gone. She is a unique professional. In this BPO city she likes to charge by the number of dishes she messes up every day. A little disaster package,a mini-caterer on wheels, whose only known ingrediants are chilies and karri putta. If you want to loose weight hire Babita.

THE ORDINARY MAN:A player who is the recipient of the chain of events launched by the protaganist
Every scene needs an ordinary man who cant quite wrap his head around the plot.
Door bells often ring with 'Sahadev-The Boy From Chapra'. A year back, this lad of the oily locks , used to peer out from behind his unruly fringe and gasp for joy when someone promised to pay him Rs 300 for washing cars. Then Sahadev was hired by a 'visiting fitness freak from international waters'. Instead of washing cars, the 3 footer's new job was to run behind the madum from 4 to 6 in the morning across 5 kms of granite city, carrying her water, fruits and possibly also offering a notional vestige of protection. Needless to say 'The Boy From Chapra' now sports sexy sneakers, designer tracks , a baseball cap , 2 mobile phones and a ear-ing. His madum has changed his style and aspiration quotient forever. Maybe one day when she leaves, young Sahedev will open a gymn and become Shay-The Fitness Guru.

THE HYPOCHONDRIAC:The comic element who lightens up the play
Uma, the neighbourhood charwoman fulfills this role with great aplomb. Uma is convinced that she should be in hospital. Uma has recently discovered that if one complains of exhaustion one can be admitted to nursing homes and be put on drip. This notion of the drip coincides with all the death bed scenes that Uma has viewed in Kannada cinema and as she glides across rooms barely touching the floor with her broom, she plays the role of the tragic heroine, who is breathing her last , exempt from the drip. Oh Poor Uma!

THE HERO:Important , because he sells the tickets
Bappan , a guard is one such hero. He is a cut above the other guards who loll around in their blue and bluer uniforms staring at the surrounding houses. Bappan does not wear uniform. He differentiates himself by holding a day job with a medical laboratory. He is a fair , smiley, helpful lad who has successfully positioned himself with the building dwellers as a Man Friday and not a guard. He picks up a quick buck here and there by moonlighting as a house agent, a delivery boy, an electrician, a payer of bills. Bappan owns a swanky phone which belts out the latest tracks..and yes, sometimes he listens to Inglis music. The maids all swash just a bit more , giggle and chat an octave louder ,when they pass by the house which Bappan deigns to monitor.

THE OHER ACTORS: Important players who complicate the plot on several layers , lending the audiance unanswered questions to take home , and hence feel intellectually challenged!
The other actors in the drama of the domestics are the delivery boy , the drivers, the man with the Iron and of course the people who live in their little EMI castles.
The delivery boy is a lean, mean, efficient machine. He belongs to a shop called,' Top In Town', and is something of an ATM with plenty of ready change bursting from his pockets.
The drivers play cards and compete with each others on cutting edge petrol pumps, with the best bloated bills.
The Iron Man, trundles with bags of overflowing clothes ,which he burns, singes and spoils.
He nurses great contempt for the owners of the apparel, a miserable bunch of people whom he believes, have no right to complain about his work, if they are too lazy to do it themselves.
The people.. Who are the other people who inhabit this world? You catch snippets of them rushing off in the morning to their jobs and rushing off for weekend getaways when the week is done. Otherwise they remain a faceless, nameless, transient population..with little to show of their existence . If it werent for all the main actors, who service their world..who would know of their presence?
Except the squirrels on the trees, and the autumn leaves which are sometimes brushed away by an unknown hand, the pot with the wilting plant which is watered occasionally, and once the crow espied an arm flicking a cigarette over the balcony sill. Poof....
The play can carry on with or without them..