A few weeks ago, I got a chance to meet TCA Raghavan, former Indian High Commissioner to Pakistan, who retired from office just recently. He was in Mumbai for a panel discussion, and was friendly enough to take out some time for a chat.
I was curious to know which places in Pakistan he had travelled to, and the kind of experiences he had there. Ambassador Raghavan was surprisingly friendly and forthcoming. I had not expected a diplomat to happily list out his favourite destinations.
He said, “There was a difference between this tenure, and my earlier one as Deputy High Commissioner from 2003 to 2007. Last time, I travelled a lot. I went to Swat, Quetta, and many parts of Sindh and Punjab. I also travelled a lot in the North West Frontier Province, which is now called Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa. I also went on a wonderful tour with former External Affairs Minister Jaswant Singh to the Hinglaj Devi temple in Lasbela.”
Wow! I cannot even begin to imagine the number of Punjabis and Sindhis who would be utterly jealous, and absolutely mad at him.
A serving of Pav Bhaji
Maybe they should hear what he said next:”This time around, I could not travel much because of security reasons, and also simply because it is easier to wander around when you are not the High Commissioner.”
What did they teach us back in elementary school? Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. Must be true. Anyway, I don’t think I am going to wear one anytime soon.
***
“Don’t you think there is something terribly wrong with our generation?” my friend Naina asks me.
“Hmm. I am sure there is, as with every other generation. What are you getting at?”
We are sharing a plate of butter-infused Pav Bhaji at Girgaum Chowpatty. This is probably not the cleanest stretch of sea but the setting sun has a magic that is difficult to resist.
Well, we asked only for onion rings and cilantro leaves as garnishing but I am sure some sand has blown into our food. I guess one can’t afford to be picky about street food.
Naina says, “Look, we hate Section 377 of the Indian Constitution because it is a colonial law that criminalizes oral and anal sex. We don’t like to study the British canon when we do English literature. We can’t stand it when Coldplay makes a music video showing India as this exotic place with babas and snake charmers. But when it comes to the name of our city, we are pretty damn sure we want to call it Bombay, not Mumbai. Isn’t that strange?”
I am surprised the irony of this has not occurred to me before. Of course, we like to think of Bombay as a cosmopolitan name, and Mumbai as a parochial one. Maybe that’s a lazy equation to draw.
"Chill, we were talking about a bull. No one is coming after your jewels"
I get off the train at Malad railway station, and start walking home. It is a little past midnight. The only folks hanging around are a bunch of passengers who get off the same train, three autowallahs hoping to find customers, two women trying to solicit clients with their bright clothes and inviting gestures, a cow munching on leftovers of cabbage, and call centre employees heading out for their night shift.
When I climb up the stairs in my building, and reach my floor, something unusual awaits me. My neighbour, Vikram, is seated on the steps, and is about to unwrap a packet of something.
“What happened? Have you lost the keys to your house?” I ask him.
Vikram replies, “No, bhaiyya. Eggs are not allowed at home. I bought an omelette on the way back from work, so I am eating it here.”
***
I find it somewhat annoying when people are not able to respect my choice to be vegetarian, and keep pressing upon me how much I am missing out on. This is what happened at a party last week.
“No, thank you. I don’t eat meat,” I said.
“You must. You are not a goat or a cow to be eating only grass,” said Mr. Gettingonmynerves.
“What is your favourite kind of meat?”
“All kinds. I love chicken, fish, beef, mutton, pork.”
“Have you eaten kapure?”
“What is that?”
“Bull’s testicles. Some of my friends in Lahore can’t get enough of them.”
“Yuck!”
“What happened?
“That is such a gross image. I can’t get it out of my head.”
“I think you might enjoy it. Maybe it’s an acquired taste.”
“Hell, no!”
“Chill, we were talking about a bull. No one is coming after your jewels.”
Chintan Girish Modi is a Mumbai-based writer.That he shares his last name with a Prime Minister is purely a matter of coincidence. He tweets at @chintan_connect
