Spending time with my brother on Saturday. The tandoori chicken and rotis he served for lunch were fine but I just could not get him to sign over his share of our family inheritance to me. I even bought him medicine, picked up his long overdue laundry and dropped him to the airport. Must try harder next time.
Buying 10 kilos of fresh fruits and veggies from the Godrej Nature's Basket. Wondering why the hell does galangal cost Rs 650 a kilo. Biting into my first litchi of the season. Passing by alphonso mangoes without batting eyelid. All this with hip hop music droning in the background. It's no wonder I walked out of there leaving behind a bag of my favourite musk melons and Fiji apples. I did get them back thanks to an enthusiastic sales assistant but what of the irreparable damage caused by afore mentioned hip hop music (!)?
Buying 5 kilos of fish from the City Light market in Mahim. Looking after a bag that contained Rs 1 lakh while my fisherwoman friend went off to wake her sister from her nap. Walking away with the bag of fish instead of the money bag. (I can make a mean fish curry but paper notes will not taste good in a coconut based gravy, trust me!) Making a deal to trade places with fish lady next week. (My incessant bargaining led her to throw her hands up in the air and exclaim "Why don't you sit here and sell fish if you think I charge too much?")
Eating yummy cold pani puri at Juhu Scheme after watching Cheeni Kum. (A movie I do not want to remember. It's just a bad film period. Not every hatke movie made by a clever adman starring superstars shot in London with an insane number of forceful jokes is good. Film making is a craft, not a computer programme that will run on a bunch of string commands.)
Sitting next to an 80-year-old man who was the only one laughing out loud at Amitabh Bachchan fumbling at the chemist's while asking for condoms. My old friend found it so funny that it was the only thing he could talk about during the interval. His wife's pleas for caramel popcorn fell on deaf ears as he kept repeating Amitabh Bachchan ko condom maangne mein sharam aata hai...hahahahahaha (Amitabh Bachchan feels shy to ask for condoms).
Meeting a wonderful family who made me feel so much at home that I was propelled into asking my usual insightful questions (Are you sure these are your kids? Because I'm sure the younger one looks a lot like the guy who just served me tea. Is that your mother in the family portrait? I thought it was Jawaharlal Nehru in drag. Why don't you buy real diamonds? This ring I stole from your dresser is not going to pay my rent next month.) I did manage to get away with drinks and dinner and an invitation to come again. I think next time I will carry my bag of soiled heavy duty laundry. The washing machine looked pretty sturdy.
Playing carrom after years, eating boric powder laced potato chips and peanuts mixed with chopped onions, green chilli and mustard oil, realising I'm still good at the game, wishing I still had my old carrom board, trying to walk out with the nice family's carrom board, being stopped at door by man who served me tea and who younger child suspiciously bears close resemblance to.
Chatting about dealing with the past, spiritual healing and auras till 1 am in the parking lot of my building. Chasing away friend who kindly dropped me home, because she asked to come up for a cup of coffee and to freshen up. I absolutely do not encourage visitors to my home anytime before 3 am and after 5 am. I lead a very disciplined life.
Spending 3 hours at Crossword on Monday evening and reading nearly 10 self-help books from which I learned nothing and which my fancy book cupboard at home would instantly reject if I walked in with them. I tried walking out with my low sense of self-worth and wallet intact but was forced to buy 3 books (one for each hour I had idled away). So now I'm stuck with A Short History of Tractors in Ukranian by Marina Lewycka, The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini and Lord of the Flies by William Golding. At least the security guard at Crossword has good taste. I only wish he had forced me into buying a dictionary as well. How my pea brain will comprehend the afore mentioned books I will never know. After all, my highest level of reading is the Mumbai Mirror.
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2 comments:
Depressing choice of books though.
Even A Short History of Tractors?
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