Aadaab, New York! Bollywood Haazir Hai
There is some seriously good Urdu cinema coming to Lincoln Centre.
Curated by Richard Allen, chair of cinema studies at the Tisch School of Arts, New York University and Ira Bhaskar, associate professor of cinema studies at Jawaharlal Nehru University in New Delhi, a beautiful set of Bollywood films will be screened between May 19 and May 27, under the title Social Dramas and Shimmering Spectacles: Muslim Cultures of Bombay Cinema.
My special recommendations from this stellar lineup are:
1. Garam Hawa (M. S. Sathyu, 1973, 146m) on May 21 & May 24
2. Mammo (Shyam Benegal, 1994, 124m) on May 22 & May 25
3. Mughal-e-Azam (K. Asif, 1960, 173m) on May 21 & May 24
4. Pakeezah (Kamal Amrohi, 1971, 146m) on May 21 & May 25
5. Salim Langde Pe Mat Ro (Saeed Akhtar Mirza, 1989, 111m) on May 21 & May 24
Conquering the Brussel Sprout
It was an important decision, which is why my mother and I were fighting about it. My room was an unholy mess, stacks of books on my bed and clothes on just about every surface. On the floor were my two gigantic suitcases. When I bought them, they looked big enough to fit provisions for a small army. Now I was finding out that they weren’t big enough for both my ideas of life in a foreign land and my mother’s concerns for her son’s comfort. I was already irritated that my suitcases were too heavy when my mother gave me six kilos of rice, double wrapped and vaccum sealed. I had just squeezed in some spices and lentils that I was sure would be hideously expensive in America. There was no room for the rice. “I am going there to study!” I said a little too loudly, “Not to eat! I am not throwing my books out so I can fit in all this rice!” I had pulled out the trump card. My mother sighed and patted the nearest stack of books, and didn’t say anything when I left four kilos of rice behind. She turned out to be right. Every Indian store in New York carries spices, but that particular kind of rice isn’t easy to find.
How the NYT taught me something about India
Over the past few months, I have been obsessed with tracking the coverage of India in the New York Times. I constantly compare their coverage with reports in the local media, trying thereby to understand how they view my country and the region.
It is a rewarding exercise. Sometimes, they are keenly interested in India’s response to global issues – with regards to the Roman Catholic Church, for instance. The Catholic Bishop’s Conference of India is taking a tough line on all allegations of abuse, while the rest of the world still dilly-dallies.
I have also taken umbrage at some of their articles. I once found their coverage of Pakistan bordering on the offensive, on their At War Blog.
But never has the New York Times really given me information about my country that I did not already know or expect – until now. This lovely article about eating in New Delhi surprised me, with its real insider information, and understanding of Indian cuisine. I know it isn’t earth-shattering news, but that’s what makes it so special - the intimacy of the information it provides. Kudos, NYT.
The Transposed Heads
I almost never judge a book by its cover, but don’t you agree that this one deserves to be an exception?
The book in question is The Transposed Heads by Thomas Mann, and this edition was published by Albert A. Knopf. The Transposed Heads is one of those rare books where the story, the language and the design of the book itself work perfectly in tandem to create a mystic, dreamlike experience that’s immensely pleasurable.
The credit for such beauty must go to three geniuses. Firstly, to the indologist Heinrich Zimmer, who probably first narrated this story to Mann, and to whom the book is dedicated. The story comes from the Indian scripture, the Bhagavat Purana, and is a curious tale of two friends whose heads are exchanged, and the strange events that ensue. The second genius is that of Thomas Mann, who handles this tale with a pithy lightness that is just mesmerising. The language is just quaint enough to convey the sense that this is a very old story indeed, and its magic is certainly not lost in translation. The third genius is Paul Rand, who designed this cover in 1941.
Lance Esplund, in Rand’s biography, writes:
Rand merges three heads, three necks, three sets of shoulders and chests, with three sets of hips, waists and bellies, all into one black, hourglass, figurative form that moves like a Jesse tree. This is placed over a ground made up of an acidic-yellow and orange Indian cloth, with a pattern of tiny headless bodies, and a shocking-pink rectangle; both are separated by a slicing, horizontal white stripe. Pregnancy, the interchangeability and compatibility of forms, the flowing and intermixing of energies and bodily fluids, generational growth and decapitation—all are experienced in this poignant, though oddly anonymous, multi- onion-domed, sexy, Arp-like form.
[www.paulrand.com]
I’ve paused just long enough to write this review, and now I’m going to read The Transposed Heads for the second time in a single day.
Trader Joe’s Desi Treasures
I have long been a Trader Joe’s fan, not least for the extraordinary amount of Desi food available on their shelves. After much sampling and experimentation, I have decided that two items tie for my new award, Trader Joe’s Desi Treasure.
For a mango-starved Desi, Chile Spiced Mango is manna from heaven. Salted and spiced raw mango is a popular Indian street snack, and this Trader Joe’s product is the closest I have found in the USA. However, be warned by the colour: this is dried mango coated in chile powder. Even if you are a spice-hardened desi, it can set your mouth on fire. Literally. My suggestion is to dip it in some full cream yogurt (known as dahi to desis) to take some of the heat off.
There is nothing that compares to Trader Joe’s Vegetable Masala Burger, even in Des. These scrumptious potato patties are studded with little gems of carrot, corn and green beans, and come conveniently frozen. Just slap onto a hot griddle and roast both sides. Then slip it between two slices of bread, and go to Desi Heaven.
Keep it up, Trader Joe’s!
How did I miss this Literary Love Fest?
I know I usually write about Desi news in the international news media, but I just can’t afford to pass up this mention of New York in the Desi news media.
My favourite columnist for my favourite paper was in New York this month, and seems to have had a literary orgasm. Pradeep Sebastian has an article in The Hindu‘s Literary Review supplement today, about his visit to the New York Antiquarian Book Fair. His reverent account of encountering priceless first editions had me salivating about the smell of old books (which is probably my favourite smell in the whole world.)
I’m kicking myself for having missed the book fair this year, so I am already marking it up in my calendar for next year, as should you.
Pumpkin Chickpea Curry / Soup
The real star of my Pumpkin Chickpea curry is Black Cardamom (featured bottom right in the image). Known in India as Badi Ilaichi, this rather ugly spice is related to Cardamom, but tastes warm and woody – more like Cinammon without the sweetness. Don’t judge the spice by the pod, it tastes absolutely heavenly.
Black Cardamom is used in a lot of North Indian and Pakistani cooking. Traditionally, the method is to just crush the pod, and drop it whole into the oil. For this particular curry, though, I like to use just the little black seeds inside, and discard the pod.
The Curry combines the silky smoothness of any yellow-fleshed squash/pumpkin, with the textures of chickpea skins and sesame seeds. If you want to convert this into a soup, leave the dried red chilli out, cook it a little longer and mash it up! The recipe follows: Read more…
Pakistan Bootlegs, but so does Gujarat
It seems to be fairly established now: prohibition = bootlegging. The New York Times reports in its Peshawar journal that even a ban on alcohol combined with death threats from the Taliban have not deterred illicit liquor trade in Pakistan. What is even more interesting is the little titbit about how a lot of the liquor is pirated from the “Liquor route” between foreign embassies in Islamabad and NATO troops in Kabul.
All this reminded me of my five years in Gujarat, which also has a prohibition law. Needless to say, it is flouted by one and all. Other cities have family physicians, but Ahmedabad has family bootleggers: loyal suppliers who deliver booze to your doorstep. I came across a number of news articles on the subject, such as this one on rediff.com, but the most entertaining story source has to be http://prohibition.in
I frankly don’t understand why countries/communities/religions even bother. People like to drink. That’s all there really is to it.
My Andaz opens on Fifth Avenue
When I saw this humongous sign opposite the New York Public Library, I had no idea what it was for. All that struck me was the Hindi/Urdu word Andaz (pronounced un-daaz, with a french d). It is rather appropriately surrounded by curlicues and paisleys on terracotta background. Something smelt desi to me.
Well, I was wrong, actually, The word means style or flair, and in this case, apparently stands for the Hyatt’s new line of boutique hotels. As always, the trusty New York Times reports:
Billing Andaz as “not pretentious and without attitude,” the company says in a press release that it will offer “a highly functional environment characterized by sophistication, innovative design, local identity and casual elegance” — hardly a down-to-earth description.
I sniffed long and hard on their website, and on the internet, but failed to come up with a desi connection. And the interiors don’t seem to have anything desi about them. Oh well, a fancy boutique hotel on Fifth Avenue with a desi name is exciting enough for now.
P.S. Marcel Wanders will be designing the interiors for the Amsterdam Andaz, just FYI.
Caramelised Bananas and Sour Cream Shrikhand
No, you are not allowed to ask me why I like sour cream so much.
When some very sweet friends of mine invited me over for Easter lunch, I decided sour cream would make the perfect accompaniment to cardamom flavored caramelised bananas. Then epiphany struck, and I decided to convert it into a Gujarati sweet dish called Shrikhand.
Then my Austrian friend conjured up some scrumptious pancakes called Palatschinken, and we settled down to a truly international dessert! The recipe follows. Read more…
Louis Malle’s Phantom India
Louis Malle was a French nouvelle vague filmmaker who went to India in 1968, and spent four months there with two crew members, shooting about 30 hours of footage. This was edited down to a 378-minute documentary called L’Inde Fantome in French and Phantom India in English. The film was controversial in its time. When the BBC screened it in 1969, the irate Indian government banned them from filming in India for several years.
Watching clips from this magnum opus on youtube.com, 41 years later, I find it difficult to discover what exactly was so objectionable.
This clip, filmed a few minutes away from my grandmother’s home in Madras, is beautifully evocative in that special French new wave way. There is just something about that framing and that gravelly voice-over that makes it seem so incredibly close-to-life. Here’s another clip, this time about the caste system. Read more…
Tamil Apothecary at Aveda
Desi stuff turns up in the most unlikely places. I ran into this lovely piece of furniture at the Aveda Hair Institute. What was I doing there in the first place? A friend told me about their super-good super-cheap haircuts executed by hairstylists-in-training. The Desi bargain hunter in me was instantly excited. So I ended up sitting in one of their chairs with an extremely enthusiastic hairstylist gushing about my thick Indian hair. Then she proceeded to tell me how she wanted to open her own wig business. I suggested that she make a trip to Tirupati.
On my way out, this apothecary caught my eye. I zoomed in for closer inspection, and wonder of wonders, every drawer was inscribed in my language, Tamil! A suitably stylish instructor confirmed that the apothecary had indeed come from India. I tried to impress everyone present by trying to read the names in Tamil, but the hairstylists lost interest and straggled away to give the nearest brunette some blond highlights.
I stayed behind clicking photographs, delighted by the weathered inscriptions and by the rawhide pulls on each little drawer.
Mythology in Calasso’s Ka
There is absolutely no satisfactory explanation as to why I like this book. At first glance, Roberto Calasso’s Ka seems distinctly objectionable – an Italian retells Hindu myths, recreating and reinventing them to suit what are clearly his notions of quirky mystic Hinduism. The tales are dredged up from a democratically diverse range of sources: some of them original texts, some of them commentaries-upon-commentaries. They are told with a wry tone of voice that somehow manages to add an extra flourish of exoticism. And some of them aren’t even tales, but rather Calasso’s ruminative takes on Hindu philosophy.
Perhaps what satisfies me is that Hindu mythology can thus be cut-and-pasted and thoroughly post-modernised and still sparkle the way it does. Perhaps what this book proves to me once and for all that mythology resists all attempts at codification. Perhaps I enjoy the foreigner’s skilful voice telling me stories I already know. Whatever maybe the reasons, I still open it once in a while, before I go to bed, and allow the florid language to lull me to sleep.
Gandhi’s Smile
My hometown in Des is not particularly known for great seasonal variations. At this time of year, we are usually progressing from not-so-hot to gradually-getting-hotter. So while I empathised with all the birds-and-bees, spring is in the air talk, I never did really get it.
But in NYC, it sure is here! Trees are bursting into flower at every street corner like firecrackers during Diwali. Most people are smiling, even if their eyes are hidden behind extremely expensive sunglasses. And all serious thoughts are banished from one’s head.
When I took this picture at Union Square, I was contemplating deep profound contemplations about Gandhian economics and Capitalism. But the magic of that flowering Magnolia tree blinded me. All I could now see was a grinning old man. And I found myself asking, “Is Gandhi smiling because it’s spring?!”
The Ballsy Cross Border Romance of Sania and Shoaib
Cricket is definitely not a gentleman’s game if it is being played between the quarreling neighbors. It might be more apt to call it a religion, especially since winning or losing a game can lead to religious rioting in either country. If there’s an India-Pakistan match on, I generally pretend complete ignorance and stay indoors.
But news just reached me in New York that there’s a different kind of India-Pakistan match in the offing. Indian Tennis Ace Sania Mirza is all set to say “Qubool” to Shoaib Malik, former captain of the Pakistani cricket team. The event is momentous enough to make it to the Sports page of the New York Times! And the wedding is set to take place in my hometown, Hyderabad. Needless to say, it has raked up quite the controversy.
Apparently it all started when Shoaib helped Sania out with the small matter of getting a Pakistani visa. Well, it’s definitely going to be a ballsy romance.
Avinash
