One night @LIVE

Last Friday was destined to be a special night.

Good live western music in a city drunk on remixed Bollywood and bhangra numers is indeed a rarity. Even more so when the act happens to be one of the living legends of 'urban' folk, and not just another one of those teen bands struggling to break through, playing covers of Metallica, Megadeth, RATM, et al.

After scanning the Whats Hot! edition of the TOI for the umpteenth time in the morning, my eyes fell on a dark corner announcement about a certain gentleman called Sushmit Bose, who was apparently in town and set to perform at one of the few places in Delhi with a taste for good western music (no, its not TC). Its a small, relatively new joint, belonging to the QBA restaurant group, aptly named @LIVE. For those who've not heard of Sushmit Bose, well, he is a modern day troubadour, a film maker and a social activist, all rolled into one, and is blessed with an amazing voice, highlighted by a deep baritone.

So after leaving my office early and picking up my fiancee from her office, we headed to @LIVE, loacted on the K-Block of the Outer Circle of CP. On arriving there, much to our disappointment, we found there weren't any tables available on the ground floor (where the action was about to take place). Instead, we had to make our way to the only available as well as the most distant table on the upper deck. After a fair amount of pleading with the captain, we were assured of at least the first right to any table down below, subject to its vacancy. Having settled for that, we ordered our drinks- she, a tall LIIT, and me, a pint of Kingfisher (courtesy the astronomical prices of everything else)- along with the hors d'oeuvres. Sipping our drinks, we waited eagerly for the gig to begin. The opening act was a Goan chap called Norman, who did the most amazing voice imitations of the artistes he was covering (probably the best Day-O cover I've heard). Couple of songs through his act, we were informed, to our absolute elation, of a vacant table downstairs. Without pausing for a single moment, we grabbed our drinks and rushed downstairs for fear of it being given to someone else. In our excitement, we left our lamb rolls and fish chops upstairs, which were taken away by the waiter by the time we realised it.

Things started getting better as Norman belted out quite a few decent covers, and the crowd roared out its appreciation. For the first time in years, I was getting high on music (hadn't done that since leaving Pune) and predictably changed my order to whisky (Ballantine's Finest). Norman got the crowd foot tapping and after a couple of encores, rounded it off with 'Ticket to ride'. By this time, I was down a few drinks and was swinging, standing up to applaud every number.

As Norman got off to a rousing applause from a very appreciative crowd, my fiancee and I twitched in our seats nervously, waiting in anticipation for Sushmit to take centrestage and entertain us with what he calls 'urban folk music'. And by golly, did he he entertain us! This guy is a self confessed fan of the pioneering 'folkers' like Pete Seeger and Woody Guthrie but his greatest admiration is reserved for the greatest of 'em all- Dylan. His entire style is very Dylanesque, right from the rasping voice, to the harmonica slung around his neck, the acoustic guitar, lack of percussion elements, and finally to his lyrics. Predictably, he started off with a few, very predictable Dylan numbers (guess I don't need to name them) before launching into his own catalogue of some superb songs. His first song was titled 'Certain Thoughts', which was more of an appeal for introspection, and was followed by the superb 'Walking Talking Contradiction'- one of his big hits and a song he wrote during the flower-power, hippy, revolution-in-the-air era. His reverence of Dylan comes across in one of the lines of the song, which goes "I'm Dylanising situations...". In between his songs, he constantly kept interacting with the audience, urging people to sing along and even getting off the stage to strum right among the crowd (and people think folk ain't much fun).

We waited patiently for our favourites, 'Hey Bob Dylan' (another ode to the great man) and 'Friend of a Friend' but were a mite disappointed when he didn't play them. He, however, more than made up for it by belting out a brilliant, Baul folk song called 'Niraakar Noire Bhojon'- anyone who hasn't heard that would be all the more poorer for it, in my view. He was accompanied for this gig by his music pals, Rukmini (vocals) and Deepak (guitar), who also played the banjo for 'Niraakar..'. By the looks of it, it was quite evident that there wasn't a single person in that joint who wasn't having a good time. One person in particular, a Yank from Chicago, was visibly moved by the rendition of 'This Land is Your Land'.

The show was rounded off with a superb Bluegrass version of 'Bye Bye Love', again highlighting the supreme musical talent of the performers and their ability to adapt to different styles of music. The two of us were so taken in by the whole gig and the alcohol that we didn't even bother ordering for dinner. Post the show, we went up to the great man and conveyed our personal gratitude for the splendid entertainment he provided us. Heck, we even bough his CDs right there to add to our eclectic (hmmn..) collection. All in all, it was a smashing evening of 'too much wine and too much song', not that we minded it one bit.

More Friday's like that, and Delhi might actually be an interesting place to live in. Cheers to that thought!

Jinxed!`

Circa 1996. A starry eyed, dreamy, laidback 15 yr old boy waited with bated breath for the revealing of the surprise his mother had promised him. At her call, he rushed out to the verandah, trying hard to control his excitement, to take a look at what was it that she had in store for him. The first sight of the brand new 150 cc Bajaj Chetak, glimmering in the August sunlight, was one he would never forget for it filled him with a sense of utter disappointment and despondency. As any other hormone pumping lad of his age, he had also dreamnt about owning a motorbike- the ultimate symbol of teenage male machismo. However, that was not to be as his parents were apprehensive about the perceived risks associated with bikes (still think they were wrong). Hence, he had no other option but to reconcile to his fate and start using the scooter.After the first couple of rides, his view of the scooter underwent a significant change. To his delight, he found out that it was not as bad as it looked and the ride quality was fairly decent and almost at par with that of bikes.

However, he soon realised that in quirky ways, the scooter invariably used to land him in trouble. It started with his first major ride on the buzzing city streets when he almost collided head on with an Amby, and only by an extremely panic stricken swerve, managed to steer away at the last moment. The rear view mirror got knocked off though, and the pillion rider got the shock of his life. From then on, things started going downhill. A collision with a cycle rickshaw nearly crippled the pillion's knee, and a heavy downpour nearly crippled the engine as the scooter got caught in a mud deluge.

A few years later, the young lad, all of 18, went to Pune to pursue higher education, leaving the scooter behind to be used by the driver, and occasionally, by visiting relatives. His parents were again apprehensive about the traffic situation in Pune. There, to his dismay, he found out that pubilc transort was almost negligible, save the auto-rickshaws with a penchant for daylight robbery. Therefore, after some considerable persuasion, he finally managed to convince his parents of his desperate need for the scooter, and brought it along with him to Pune. His ill fortunes, however, continued as the scooter started guzzling down a considerate amount of fuel, invariably leaving him high and dry (literally) on a lot of occassions.

The last straw came when one sunny August (coincidence??) day, the strapping lad, now 21, went rushing to the railway station to welcome his lady love, who had decided to pay him a visit from Delhi. With his head swimming in the clouds, and heart pounding, he failed to notice another similarly 'lost' biker, attempting a sharp u-turn at a potentially dangerous crossing, untill the last few seconds. Upon being tapped by the pillion rider on his shoulder, he applied the brakes immediately but the wretched machine didn't stop. Nor did the 'lost' biker. The result was one ferociuos collision, which flung all three occupants, high in the air, and on to the road. Miraculously, all three survived, spare a few cuts and bruises. The pillion, as always, came out worst as he had an ugly gnash to the side of his belly. The lad got away with only a swollen foot (not broken) and only a earful from the pillion (mercifully, no fists). The scooter's nose was smashed. Somehow, he managed to take it to the mechanic's shop, and soon got over the entire incident, once he was in the company of his girl. Thereafter, minor incidents and hiccups continued till the lad came to Delhi.

In Delhi, after dilly-dallying around for a while, he managed to get himself a decent job which was not only well paying but quite interesting too. Here again, he found he couldn't quite rely on his Basanti (monicker given by his girl). It would stop on him at trying times, and would lead to a miserable attendance record. So he decided to dump it once and for all. He got himself a brand new Yam, a machine he had always wanted. The new bike was like a dream; everything from the ride quality to the handling were huge improvements over the old coot. The young man couldn't stop raving about his new toy, and subsequently, left the scooter to rust in the parking lot.

Soon after, he bought his first car and couldn't stop raving about that too. Now, however, he was beseiged by a peculiar problem. He had three machines with him, and none of the Delhi apartment societies would allow for more than two per flat. So the young man decided to do away with his old scooter, and embarked upon finding a suitable buyer. Finding no takers, and on the insistence of his parents, he decided to send it home from where its journey had begun. As train timings didn't blend in into his hectic work schedule, he decided to avail the services of a packing company. That turned out to be another mistake as this packing company conned him out of a considerable amount of money. Also, it took them a hell lot of a time to deliver the scooter home. The man is now contemplating legal action against the packing co. but deep down he keeps wondering how jinxed the scooter has been. Now that its back to its original place, maybe it'll rest easy.

Was all this really misfortune? Is 'Basanti' really jinxed? Or is the young man to blame in some way or the other for a lot of what has happened ?

I really don't know...only time will tell, I guess.

Uisge Beatha

Whisky or 'uisge beatha' (pronounced 'oosge bah') in Gaelic, literally translates into 'water of life'. I couldn't agree more.
Growing up in a place like Guwahati, it was inevitable that I would have my first taste of this glorious, amber liquid before I turned sixteen (people from Guwhahti can relate to this- a juvenile form of peer pressure). I come from a family of heavy but responsible drinkers. Everytime there was an occasion worth celebrating in the family, my dad, his brothers, brothers-in-law, their brothers-in-law, along with various other uncles and grand uncles, would gather in our cosy living room and help themselves to generous amounts of this ambrosial liquid. Blended Scotch was always the top draw, and if that was not available, ersatz in the form of 'Peter Scot' would be drowned by the bottles.
As a kid, I couldn't fathom for the life of me, what was it that made whisky such a cherished, sought after drink. Whenever I used to dip my finger in my father's dram and lick it, I would recoil in repulsion at the bitterness of the drink. To me then, chilled beer always seemed a much better option. It was only in my formative, high school years, in the company of my friends and cousin, that I decided to take up whisky swigging seriously. Initial reactions were those of disappointment as I realised that all I was doing was falling prey to peer pressure. Swigging third rate whiskies like Gilbey's and Officer's Choice, that too neat, straight from the bottle, just to prove my machismo, was the worst possible initiation to whisky drinking at that time. Sensibly, I switched to rum and coke in my initial college years. It was sweeter, went down easier, and also lighter on the pocket (long live those Army bootleggers of Khadki).

However, in my first semester of post graduation, something happened that altered my take on whisky forever. Seagrams introduced the smooth, student-friendly (read economical) Imperial Blue Whisky, which soon became a raging success with us. For the first time, whisky was not bitter, my tongue wouldn't swell up after the first couple of drinks and I wouldn't have to go through the morning after ordeal affectionately known as a 'hangover'. Rum was dropped forever, and whisky started ruling our senses. From then on, I've become a hard core whisky aficionado, or at least I'd like to think so.
When I shifted to Delhi, I received a pleasant surprise in the form of initiation into the world of single malts by my extremely generous maternal uncle. I have not looked back since, and have endeavoured to attain every single bit of information about this magical invention of the Scots with a vigour I never knew I possessed. The entire world of whisky fascinates me, right from the type of barley used, to the type of water, the kind of peat and the whole distillation process. Elements like the quality of air- whether it is mountain air or sea air, the porousness of the oak casks, bog peat, etc, all leave an indelible mark on the finished product. However, my efforts at knowing everything there is to know about whisky have led to an undesirable situation wherein people's perception of me has degenerated to that of a 'bewda'- a good-for-nothing whose existence revolves around the world of alcohol. My fiancee, thankfully, has got one smart head on her shoulders, and is not affected at all by this needless brouhaha. I wonder if I should bother trying to do something about it, or simply let the dogs bark. Your call.
(For those of you who don't know the difference between a blended Scotch and a single malt, and would like to know, kindly wait for my next post which will be a detailed treatise on my favourite subject.)

Home and away

Home! The word's meaning seems to be undergoing a sea change for me with every passing day. When I was a student in Pune, home was where my whole world was. Not a day used to go by when I wouldn't think about home, when I wouldn't be in awe of Paul Simon's genius. Everything good in the world I knew, I would associate with home- my family, my friends and most importantly, my love. Things changed a tad when I shifted to a hostel during my post graduation days as I made a lot of good friends there, and experienced a lot of genuinely good moments.

Then I shifted to Delhi, and till date, regret the fact that I did. Because now I realise that Pune was a much better place than I ever gave it credit for. In hindsight, maybe I should have hung around in Pune for a while, I would have surely landed myself a decent opportunity. However, since there's no use in crying over spilt milk, I've tried to make the most of the opportunities available to me here, and do a certain extent, have been successful. In doing so, I've, at some level of consciousness, adapted myself to my surroundings almost seamlessly (almost being the operative word here). Undoubtedly, Delhi has got more going against it than for but comparatively superior infrastructure holds a charm for me in a way I never thought it would. For me, now, home is my tiny flat, filled with things which are essentially ME- rock music, Commando comics, Calvin and Hobbes strips, Louis L'Amour, sports and travel mags, freezer full of cold cuts, and last but not least- whisky, and single malts at that.

Hence, when I went home last week for a frenzied four day trip, I felt, for the first time in my life, that I did not belong there. Now I might be wrong, it might just be a temporary feeling, and for all you know, I might just decide to pack my bags here, go home and start a new restaurant chain (my burning ambition) but for all its shortcomings, I can't help but feel that my future is in Delhi. Sure the majority of the population is uncouth, traffic unruly and the weather extreme but I feel home is where one is comfortable, and I'm comfortable in Delhi right now.

Things might change.....things have changed!