When the old is old

And also....



Washed in Sepia. A walk along the bylanes of Chor Bazaar, Bhendi Bazaar and Mutton Street throws you back to the bygone era. Crowded streets dotted with Bohri Muslims. Women in colourful burkhas. Men selling multi functional wares. Noise, clutter, mayhem. But a curious, new world (errr.. maybe that should read old.)

Interesting origin of names. Chor Bazaar began as Shor Bazaar; meaning Noisy Bazaar (named allegedly by the British). Later the name corrupted to Chor Bazaar and also became a self fulfilling prophecy with thieves bringing their stolen goods into the market. It is said that, if you lose anything in Mumbai you can buy it back from the Chor Bazaar.

Bhendi Bazaar. The British referred to this area to the north of Crawford Market as ‘Behind the Bazaar’ and the locals picked it as Bhendi Bazaar. Chinese whispers.

For me, I could get lost amidst the miasma of wood, old posters, miniatures, curios.

When the old is young

It was a day of indulging the old (or perhaps it was the other way round?)

The first – an old man doddering alongside, who stopped to ask,

“What is this morcha for, do you know?”

We shook our heads and something prompted Rajan to add, “We are tourists. New to Bombay”

“Oh” he seemed confused,” with those big cameras I thought you were from the press”

We grinned and moved on.

After a while, the walk through Crawford market seemed endless, what with the impending political rally and the traffic diverted. We stood a while, sweat pouring on listless eyes and lo behold our old acquintance wobbled past again.

“You need to walk five minutes ahead to the market to hail a cab. It will be hard to find one here” he waved his hands in front, “Just five minutes. Walk”

Tired smiles on our faces. Just resting a while uncle.

He repeated again. “Walk” waving his hands frantically.

Well, we made a run for it. To please him. Or you could say we ran from him.

The long walk did throw in some interesting sights. And it was a mill workers strike.

The second – an entertaining 89 year ‘young’ Boman Kohinoor, the owner of the iconic Café Britannia at Ballard Estate.

He asked me to guess his age. I started low, to please him of course. With each shake of his wiry head I would “go up. Go up.” Till I reached 90.

“90 minus one. That is how old I am.” A self satisfied beam.

Then a conspiratorial whisper.

“My grandfather lived till the age of 114. Do you know the secret of his long life?

-         No smoking

-         No drinking

-         No gambling

-         No drugs

-         No womanizing

‘No Eating’ wasn’t on the list; so we gorged.

Café Britannia is an old Parsi joint at Ballard Estate. The food is great, though more expensive than you would imagine. Boman Kohinoor is endearing, with his collection of old photos and anecdotes.

And finally his hearty blessings, “May you live long, may he live long, may I live long”.

What they don’t tell you

About the mysterious creature they call Media.

To be successful, you need to start early. At 21. There is then plenty of time to learn the ropes from seniors, grow contacts, and still look fresh and pretty. Specially (sad but true) for women.

Let’s face it. Men can afford to look like fat, sloppy fish and still be lead anchors if they know their stuff. Women need to be pretty and speak well, never mind how much they know. And most will be thought of as bimbos anyway. I’ve seen how much smarter many of the female anchors are, how much hard work they put in. But still the stereotype. In business media specially, men are listened to and women are looked at.

Yes, women get in more easily and the ride up is easier for them. But, also sharper is the fall. Everyday there is a younger girl who can replace you. Not many survive the race, eventually.

No, anchors do not get paid a lot. Some of them do, but only eventually. That is once they are a name to reckon with, and the channel cannot bear to part with him/her. They used to make a lot of money once upon a time when good anchors/speakers were a rarity. Not anymore. Thus, you can have 2 well known anchors and 5 chotu ones to make a channel. And the others have a long way to go.

Anybody who is somebody in Indian media today started when the channel did. Udayan Mukherjee with CNBC TV18, Pranoy Roy, Barkha Dutt with NDTV, Arnab Goswami with Times Now. A pattern that makes you think…maybe that is the formula.

Aggression is the key in media. Who gets the best stories, faster, the exclusives. That’s what sets a channel apart from the others. You blame the media for sensationalizing. They do it for survival. A very competitive, harsh world this is.

Lastly, the fame. How many anchors from any channel do you remember on the top of your mind? A maximum of two per channel? This is how it usually goes. If they’re your friends, they’re thrilled to see you on TV. “Wow! I saw you on TV yesterday. It was great.”. If someone you don’t know, it is, “the girl with the nice smile on that channel.” Or if they meet you, “Oh! You work in a channel, I think I’ve seen you somewhere!”.

In the end, it is all transient.

A day in the life of Television

We keep unearthly hours; a typical day begins at 6 in the morning. The anchors and researchers come in stumbling in the dark of dawn, bleary eyed. Newspaper scans begin. Headlines etched out.

But the stress is scarcely in the long hours, it’s the transactional anxiety in the ten hours we work.

A typical fifteen minutes in a day is like this.

“Smitaaaaaaaa” a spine chilling scream comes from the ticker desk (a group of fledglings who monitor Bloomberg, newswire and Reuters for newsbreaks. The content on the ticker which rolls at the bottom of the screen comes from here.)

“What is it?” I scream back, heart thudding painfully in my chest.

“Listen, XYZ is acquiring ABC” Now the heart stops, blood draining away. “Oh, shit”

There is sudden frenzy in the newsroom. The rest of the team refreshes BSE, NSE. Printouts are fired. Few run to the printer. Few run to the ticker desk to shout out instructions for headlines.

I have just that one line. XYZ is acquiring ABC.

The desk (which edits the content that goes on air), the producer from the PCR (the man in the Production Control Room controlling the show) is screaming, “Smita, mike up, mike up, NOW”

I can feel the blood rushing to my head. I am frantically looking at past slugs (short research précis we make for the anchors everyday), running search strings through google for help. Any help. Cold sweat trickles down my back.

2 minutes down. No information yet.

Now the anchors are screaming from the studio. “Get us information fast and get her miked up. Now”

Damn. It is always NOW.

I scream instructions to my mates, quickly put on my talk-back and mike, look into the mirror, comb my hair. The make up guy runs over and touches up the powder, rubs in some lipstick. Good to go, the talk-back mutters.

I start to ramble.

And that’s just a regular day.

It’s the end of an era

Or so some would think…

Three years ago I joined business media as a change. Come on, who doesn’t like the idea of being on Television. Fame, money, glamour – glittering stars in my eyes, heady buzz in my head. I did get a bit of all those, but also a lot of others.

What was it like? Let me start with why I loved this animal they call media.

The Irreverence. Media grants immense power. Believe it. Heads of conglomerates who wouldn’t talk to anyone, will smile, fawn and be good to you, even if you are just a tiny little nobody in a news channel. You get entry to events, launches, meets. Just pick the phone and dial anyone. He will atleast give you a patient ear.

This extends to the workplace as well. A junior can shout back to senior editors, make her opinion heard, and as long as she is good, it's all good. Thus, newsroom fights are commonplace, but soon forgotten. Abuses, screaming, brawls is what we grapple with everyday. It took a while to get used to the constant buzz of activity, and now it will be harder to work in silence.

Casual. The work environment is unlike a regular workplace. Chai and food is ordered couple of times a day and we all pounce on it. Like a college canteen. We wear jeans and shorts underneath the formal jackets you see on TV (yes, that bit you heard is true!). And what a relief it is not to plan, manage and maintain an elaborate wardrobe of formal attire. You will never know, till you don’t have to.

Glamour. A bit of this as well. Always well turned out, hair done, makeup on. When you enter events like that and hobnob with those in the news, people notice you. And remember.

The rush. There is news every minute, every hour. If it’s in your beat, you better respond well, and fast. Although harrowing when it happens, it gives an instantaneous sense of achievement. More, when stocks react.

How? Read on.

Harihareshwar: A monsoon break

Rain scrubbed plains. So green that you wonder if these are not green tinted glasses you are wearing. Sudden bursts of shower on unsuspecting heads. Chirping crickets, croaking frogs, grazing cows. This weekend was at Harihareshwar, a small village tucked into the Konkan coast.

I was meeting Urv after a year. So we thought, instead of meeting for drinks why not take a weekend break together. She would fill me up on stories of ex colleagues, sleazy bosses, love lives. Plenty of girly gossip.

Harihareshwar is known for a Shiva temple and pristine black sand beaches. It is an idyllic, quiet pastoral setting replete with farmers, gram panchayat, milking cows, intermittent electricity. And the beaches are truly virgin and beautiful.

There is not much to do. That is of course part of the charm. We walked the slippery roads, marveled at the mossy lakes, sudden brooks which spring up from nooks. A smiling, curly haired local lady fed us Konkan fish, poha, Zunka bhakar, sol kadi, modaks. Coconuts in everything.

My favourite hour? Riding on rickety local cycles, rusting on all ends. Riding as if nothing mattered, no goal in sight, just to enjoy the roadscape. Waving to farmers as we flew along, tyres hiccupping over dried nettles.

Two days of just different shades of that. Now I can puke green.

Harihareshwar is located 200 km from Mumbai on the Mumbai Goa route. We hired a car which takes almost five hours. But you can take the train to Mangaon and board the bus next.  Stay at the MTDC hotel at Maral.

In the end

I realize Helena Norberg-Hodge was right.

Tourism and western style development have brought in their many ills into Ladakh. None can discount that education and healthcare are important basic rights, but what works in the western world may not really work everywhere. In addition, a yearning for a lifestyle like the West may result in self contempt. Not the best way to live.

Happy, smiling faces - not as many as I thought there would be. Cars splutter dirty smoke into faces. Ramshackle random shops are an eyesore, broken roads, stray plastic bottles (not just the tourists), greed, bickering. It’s all there.

She says

As one of the last subsistence economies to survive virtually intact to the present day, Ladakh has been a unique vantage point from which to observe the whole process of development. Its collision with the modern world has been particularly sudden and dramatic. Yet the transformation it is now experiencing is anything but unique; essentially the same process is affecting every corner of the world.

Read her book before you go. Not just Ladakh, you’ll know what's wrong with most of our lives.

Road Merry

You spend almost half your time on the roads. While what you see, will give you much joy, Ladakh’s Border Road Organization has taken the onerous task of providing the rest of the entertainment. So, as you navigate each precarious turn on the mountain-way, go right ahead, laugh away. Here is a list of some signs that dot the paths.

Drive slowly and live long

Always Alert Accident Avert

Peep peep don’t sleep

Better Mr Late than Late Mr

Test your nerves, on my curves

Be gentle on my curves

Love your neighbour, but not while you drive

I love you darling, but not so fast

If married, divorce speed

Don’t be a gama, in the land of lama

And my favourite

Don’t be silly, on the hilly

BRO is naughty, he is.

Day 8: Leh alone

Today I do what I‘d been avoiding for the past seven days. I stand in the long winding queue at the only ATM in Ladakh. Luckily there are separate lines for men and women. Still, it takes 30 minutes and much shoving and yelling to get my money.

An HDFC ATM will soon come into being. Take heart.

I have Leh and the day to myself. Everyone else leaves.

I start at 11 in the morning; just to be sure everything is open by the time I reach. It is an easy 20 min downhill walk to the market. The uphill climb later in the afternoon though gives me a headache.

My shopping list is short. The first tranche of shopping includes rotating wheels, turquoise jewellery, thangka paintings, shawls, apricot cream, wood crafted tables. None by any means cheap. Dvds of Samsara and Kundun. Did I say short? Yes, money depletes fast. Hence, the ATM.

Every shopkeeper is friendly, willing to talk, bargain till you drop. It is a no plastic zone, so carry a bag.

I highly recommend Amdos Café. The kahwa and chicken thentuk are scrumptious. Cheap too.

Ming suggests Bon Appetit. It turns out to be a lovely place where I spend my last few hours in the city. 

I watch as the setting sun bathe the clouds in orange. There is a cool nip in the air. The poplars sway from side to side; as people nodding in unison. Dogs bark in the distance. Streams gurgle past hastily.  Children call out to each other as they play. Prayer flags flutter in the sky. The orange disintegrates into the breeze as the clouds turn gray. Dusk descends.

I munch on my dimsums and sip tea.

Inner peace.

Day 7: Pangong Tso

My eyes flickers open at 4:50 in the morning. It is bright around the tent walls. Is the sun already up? I toss back to sleep. Tad guilty, but the sun rises early in these parts. I am only human.

Suddenly Raj calls from outside the tent. “Are you coming?”. I jump up on my bed and scramble to get my clothes, camera and tripod. “Yes, yes” I say hurriedly. I rush to the attached bathroom (which is quaint, a zip opens up to the makeshift bathroom. Clean and functional enough), put on warm clothes and run out. Just one day, might as well make the most of it.

All worth my while. We take many, many lovely pictures. The water changes colour every minute.

One time I turn away from my tripod and a stray dog pees on it. I shoo it away and laugh. No other place to go sonny? I rinse the tripod in the waters of Pangong. Now holy.

I am sad to leave. Another long, long drive back.

Closer to Leh, we stop at probably the most visited monastery in Ladakh. The Hemis monastery. We are lucky to catch the monks preparing for the festival that happens in July.

I see an Indian biker boy flirt with three firang chicks.
"You should see other monasteries too"
"Yeeess, but vee zon't know hoow zo go"
"I am going to Alchi tomorrow. We can go together" Smirk. Flutter of the eyes.
Chance pe dance. Even in a monastery.

How happy are these monks. Cheerful, teasing, polite, playful. Despite a confined life, riddled with protocol. Still happy. Like we should be.

Day 6: To Pangong Tso

I had a good night's sleep. The others aren’t so lucky. Most complain of headaches and nausea. The thin mountain air has unleashed its suffering. Slowly, but surely.

We are visiting Pangong Lake today.

Khambit, apricot jam and bhurji for breakfast again. Two cups of steaming hot ginger tea. I like how the day begins, everyday.

We visit the Shey palace monastery. It has the largest gold stupa in the region. Some interesting finds.

When I come out to the car, Dawa is helping a lady set up her jewellery for sale. I compliment him on his generosity and linger by the seller’s wares. Soon my co travelers gather. Haggling begins, exchange of cash and turquoise earrings, pali bracelets, rotating bells. Dawa is chuckling happily by the side. We spend a lot but the bargains are good. I leave behind my old earring at the cart. By mistake.

We then visit Thikse monastery. Bright yellow, freshly painted.

After we leave Thikse, disaster strikes. The second car breaks down. We call for another car. While we wait, we have the yummiest mutton noodles and momos. Gulnawaz serves us. After lunch we also raid an army truck selling surplus T shirts. Us tourists are like roaches, but hey we spend the money.

It is a long six hour drive to Pangong Lake. We stop at many places in between. Random tea tents, grazing shepherds, yak chases, Mammuts. Though, I strongly insist we reach Pangong by sunset.

At around 7 PM we reach Pangong Lake. I am all excited, I dump my bags in the car, snatch my tripod and camera and run to the lake. It is all I'd dreamt of and more. The setting rays of the sun changes the lake to a lustrous Prussian blue, slowly turning black. Wild geese fly out, spreading their urgent wings over the stark blue sky. It is surreal.

Bon King rum and warm water at night. The café plays songs of 3 Idiots ad nauseam. The lights go out at 10:30. We chatter in the freezing wind. Call it a night early and curl up in the warm tent. I need to catch the sunrise tomorrow. Umm.. too ambitious?

Day 5: A long wait

Today is an easy day. We are driving back to Leh from Hunder and visiting some monasteries on the way.

                         Snow Leopard, Hunder

The Diskit monastery is on the way, which Dawa tells us is future Buddha. It is a gigantic monument that can be viewed from the plains below. Very few tourists, so one can actually feel some peace. The monastery faces the idol; I am assuming that is how the monks then pray. Neat concept.

We stare at the mountains flanking the horizon. An elderly gentleman next to me points out the peaks that belong to Pakistan. Everyone, after all, needs their share of beauty.

We get stuck in an awful traffic jam on our way back. The road is being rebuilt ahead and vehicles queue up in a single file while the road is being cleared. It is hot and stuffy inside the car. We play Jab We Met songs. It is fun for a while. Soon I get tired and venture out to see what is happening.

An army officer is standing few vehicles away. He is older, but so distinguished and well spoken. I am smitten. I inspect his finely trimmed moustache, which I normally abhor. But on him, as he speakes, it embellishes each word like finely tuned music. He was posted in Ladakh for three years; his family was visiting him for summer. As we talk, two soldiers under his command sprint past. To clear the road ahead, they scream out as they salute. Ah, men in uniform.

It is an hour before we can resume our journey back to Leh. Dawa waves at every third driver while he drives. I ask him, do you know everyone? He says, only the ones from Tibet. He adds sadly, Tibet would be a great nation when formed. Her people are all over the place and when they come together, they would imbibe the cultures of so many lands. I hear about Tibet often here. It is like the magical land. Elysium almost. I ask Dawa how he expects Tibet to come together again. It has been over 50 years since Chinese invasion. He says, “Dalai Lama hai na, mogeeek korega” (There is Dalai Lama, he will do some magic)

At night I am too tired to go to the market to eat with the others. Seljam, our sweet little helper prepares some green dal, cabbage and rice. I request Soldja. It turns out to be scrumptious. Like salty, buttery soup. I feel sudden vitality now.

Day 4: When God mixed up

Today we are going from Leh to Khardung La to Nubra Valley

The rest wake up late. The lady of the house grumbles to me, “Breakfast was supposed to be at 8 am. Indian Time. Grrumph”. She is very pretty.

Khambit, apricot Jam, scrambled egg. Not even the boys can finish a whole Khambit. It  is a farmer’s breakfast.

Enroute, the celebrity in our group is ambushed by jawans. Tall, swarthy, well spoken men who surround her excitedly and request snaps.

While we climb, it is hot and stuffy. I remove my sweater. We climb round and round, scaling circuitous route. We see some cyclists rising with us and marvel at their fortitude. We squirm in our comfortable seats.

Up 17582 feet at Khardung La. And you know what? It SNOWS! Stuffy to hot to warm to so-so to cold to chilly to frozen, and snow! All in an hour. We run out chattering in our teeth and grab the white flakes. Dance around all smiles.

Hot tea is another treat we have.

We break at a café in Khardung La village. Hot maggi and stuffed parathas with pickle. Our appetites are voracious. But like every place in Ladakh, we wait for almost an hour before being served.

Dawa entertains us for rest of the way.

“Dawa, you were in the army?”

“Haan modom” (Yes, madam)

“So, what happened?”

“Kya bole modom. Hum gunn dekkhe dorr goya” (what to say madam, I was afraid of the gun). Raises his arm in mock fear.

We contemplate this. After five minutes

“Soch both bathau modom?” (Shall I tell the truth, madam?)

“Yes?”

“Hum Sikkim regiment mein tha na. Nepal mein shomon shostha hai na. Woh laya mein na. Toh ek bar pokod liya” (I was in the Sikkim regiment. I used to bring cheap goods from Nepal to Ladakh. One time they caught me)

Hmmm… a smuggler. Dawa. Our Dawa.

Nubra Valley. When we see, we gape. Really, what was God thinking? Mountains, brooks, oases, desert. You’ve got to be kidding me! All of it together? In one place?

We get down the car; droplets of rain fall on our shoulders. They stop immediately. And another treat from His magic box. Voila! A RAINBOW! We run out and point in glee. Again.

Fifteen minutes atop a double humped Bactrian camel. Dinesh yells while mine lovingly nibbles on his camel's butt. I hold on for dear life.

Sohan dishes out six double-egg spicy omelettes at the Snow Leopard guest house, Hunder. The boys discover the wonders of whisky and warm water. We gossip till late.