Dilemmas of a Surti writer
The romance of Parle Point fell with the mini Eiffel that we Surtis prided ourselves in.
The Eiffel always was a soft corner for this writer who began penning’ Khoobsurat’three monsoons ago with’ if it’s Eiffel, it must be Parle Point”.
Over the weeks that have flown by, the response from fellow Surtis has been overwhelming and as entertaining as we all are notoriously famous for.
My siblings and I grew up in a home that had a vast library which ranged from Blyton to Gibran. My parents, fond readers themselves, believe in education from the quality of reads, more than institutions.Hence, learning literally began at home, even as my mother aspired aloud (as all mothers do) “paper maan aave evu naam karjo”, and well her wishes came true, in a way.
Today’s Khoobsurat is about sharing the queries that came in from all of you.
The Glamour-
Pretty Neighbor-Oh! Did YOU write on the Eiffel today? Journalists are paid very badly, you know?
At a party-Why do they only run your photograph and no other writer’s? Oh, you are a columnist? So, special treatment?
Via e-mail-Hiiiiiiii! Will you do frensip?
School senior –I also write, on how dirty and corrupt the bahumali is, they never run what I send. Whom did you send your article to?
Sister from USA over phone-Girl, you should always get your hair done before taking a photo! Change your photo please.
Via SMS-aapse bhi KHOOBSURAT aapke andaaz hai!
At a restaurant-Aren’t you the person who writes Khoobsurat? Your photo size changes with every article
Father-Your face looks like a weather balloon. Does Khoob-surat mean ‘lots of face”? Writing and all is fine but you are too intelligent to not do something about your weight.
Reader-I file all your articles, do you?
Husband-Where is your mind?
The Gumption
Friends-How much can you write about Surat?
Readers-Why do you write only about Surat?
Visitors-You write so much, about Surat?
Maternal grand mother-You haven’t written enough about Surat, have you?
Via email-Now that you have written about kitly tea, when will you cover the coffee hotspots?
Via sms –Can you write about khaman and dhokla and fafda and marcha with the recipes also?
Via –email-I went and ate all that you wrote in your column and put on 2 kilos in two weeks.
Via email-We are lucky to know about historical culture of town can you write more days of the week?
Via phone call-Can I meet you?
Via email-I also write, where did you learn to write?
At a kiosk-Have you written about these vada pavs yet?
Strangers-What are the advertising rates? Are there discounts for obituaries?
Friends-How could you write this about us?
Friends-How could you not write this about us?
Strangers-Will you write this about us?
Spouse-Which world do you live in?
The Guts-
Via email-Can you write more about alcohol and dry state.
Via SMS-Don’t you think you write too much about alcohol in a dry state?
I was born a Patel, but as the name up there suggests, have a boisterous fun loving Punjabi ma in law who has a social circle equal to the population of Australia. Ever so often whenever she drops in, she inadvertently finds me with my head huddled into the puter.
” Ki kardi pay hai? Jado dikho likhdi padhdi hai” she remarks fondly (what are you doing? always reading or writing) “Kinne paise mildey ne enni mehnat de?”(How much do they pay you for all this hard work?)
As I dig my head even lower in the lap top and mumble my meager means as a writer,she is shocked and says,”Hai! Enne paise mein ki honnda hai aaj kal, chad parey, chal bahar nikal, kitty join Karle!”(What happens with such little money these days? leave all this and come join a kitty).
Mr. Khurana-Do you have ANY clue about what’s going on in the house?????????????
The Glory-
Readers-Your column make us laugh and learn.
“Your column today, touched our hearts and we cried it out.”
Monday, August 30, 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
Dalda 13 in focus
In ten days from now, in order to commemorate 50 golden years of the photo division, a Media unit of the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting, we shall witness India’s first National Photo awards.
Amongst the four prestigious recipients for the,’ Lifetime achievement award’is India’s first lady photojournalist, Homai Vyarawalla – aka Dalda 13,a nickname that came from her year of birth, the age at which she met her husband and the number plate of her vehicle in Delhi-DLD 13.
Vyarawalla was born in Navsari on the 9th of December,1913.Her father was a Parsi stage artist with a traveling theatre company ;at a very young age her siblings and she were packed off to Mumbai for higher education.
There have been many moments in this eminent and photogenic photographer’s life, which would tell a story of their own, had she been photographed then, one wonders –
Like how it felt to be the only girl in her class and one who went on to pass matriculation.
Like what was the scene like when she first met Maneckshaw –her husband to be at a railway station?
Like what did she paint during her course at the Sir J J School of Arts?
Like what was the experience like while learning photography and processing the pictures in the dark room.
Like how did she look when she took her first pictures independently, those of the women’s club of Sir J J School of Arts, at a picnic party to the Amarnath temple?
Like what was the look on her face, when she looked at those pictures published full page, in the Bombay Chronicles.
Like how it felt to be the only woman in her field and being paid Re.1 (a big thing) in those days.
Like how she felt sharing the Rolliflex camera with her husband, as they together covered the Mumbai of the 30’s, Hospitals, festivals, beggars, cottage industries, et al.
Like how she looked ,with her practical saree and becoming hair-do, while shooting pictures as a free lancer for The Illustrated Weekly of India, when the war came on.
Like how she was perceived in Lutyen’s Delhi of the 1940’s and 50’s as she bicycled around the town which was then safe for women even at 1 a.m.
Like how she sounded when she instructed all her colleague gentlemen to behave and have ‘no hanky-panky or unnecessary smiling that could be misconstrued.’
Like what was the look on her face when she taught fellow photographers to be ‘propah’, dressed in closed collar shirts and trousers and shoes because theirs was then a respectable profession.
Like how did she react, when they nicknamed her ‘Mummy ‘; out of love and respect.
Like how she and Maneckshaw looked while sharing their plate of food (lifelong) and other responsibilities in life as a 50-50 partnership.
Like the eager expression on her face as awaited her mother in law’s signal, from the terrace across her place of work, when it was time to feed her infant.
Like how it felt to spend a night at the Kurukshetra mela,a petite Parsi armed with a large format speed graphic camera that had a composite wood ,steel and aluminum chassis and weighed more than 6 pounds.
Like how she moved around with joy and child like simplicity in the innermost core of political circles.
Like what was she looking for when she always waited even after events for an out of the ordinary shot, at times perched on a table or stack of crates?
Like how she could behave like a thorough professional and not get carried away in spite of clicking the top politicians and India’s most important historical moments.
Like how she gave up clicking after being disillusioned at the sights that changed with the times after a career that spanned from the 1930’s to the 1970’s.
Like how she looks in her new roles as those of being a carpenter, gardener, tailor, plumber, cobbler, barber, gourmet cook in order to lead the independent lifestyle she has always led.
Yes, there have been many moments so far, in the life of Homai Vyarawalla, which would have made fabulous, precious photographs. One such moment will be on the 19th of August.
Though she hates being in front of the camera, this young lady will be bringing as much as dignity to the front of lens focus, as she brought from behind it.
In ten days from now, in order to commemorate 50 golden years of the photo division, a Media unit of the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting, we shall witness India’s first National Photo awards.
Amongst the four prestigious recipients for the,’ Lifetime achievement award’is India’s first lady photojournalist, Homai Vyarawalla – aka Dalda 13,a nickname that came from her year of birth, the age at which she met her husband and the number plate of her vehicle in Delhi-DLD 13.
Vyarawalla was born in Navsari on the 9th of December,1913.Her father was a Parsi stage artist with a traveling theatre company ;at a very young age her siblings and she were packed off to Mumbai for higher education.
There have been many moments in this eminent and photogenic photographer’s life, which would tell a story of their own, had she been photographed then, one wonders –
Like how it felt to be the only girl in her class and one who went on to pass matriculation.
Like what was the scene like when she first met Maneckshaw –her husband to be at a railway station?
Like what did she paint during her course at the Sir J J School of Arts?
Like what was the experience like while learning photography and processing the pictures in the dark room.
Like how did she look when she took her first pictures independently, those of the women’s club of Sir J J School of Arts, at a picnic party to the Amarnath temple?
Like what was the look on her face, when she looked at those pictures published full page, in the Bombay Chronicles.
Like how it felt to be the only woman in her field and being paid Re.1 (a big thing) in those days.
Like how she felt sharing the Rolliflex camera with her husband, as they together covered the Mumbai of the 30’s, Hospitals, festivals, beggars, cottage industries, et al.
Like how she looked ,with her practical saree and becoming hair-do, while shooting pictures as a free lancer for The Illustrated Weekly of India, when the war came on.
Like how she was perceived in Lutyen’s Delhi of the 1940’s and 50’s as she bicycled around the town which was then safe for women even at 1 a.m.
Like how she sounded when she instructed all her colleague gentlemen to behave and have ‘no hanky-panky or unnecessary smiling that could be misconstrued.’
Like what was the look on her face when she taught fellow photographers to be ‘propah’, dressed in closed collar shirts and trousers and shoes because theirs was then a respectable profession.
Like how did she react, when they nicknamed her ‘Mummy ‘; out of love and respect.
Like how she and Maneckshaw looked while sharing their plate of food (lifelong) and other responsibilities in life as a 50-50 partnership.
Like the eager expression on her face as awaited her mother in law’s signal, from the terrace across her place of work, when it was time to feed her infant.
Like how it felt to spend a night at the Kurukshetra mela,a petite Parsi armed with a large format speed graphic camera that had a composite wood ,steel and aluminum chassis and weighed more than 6 pounds.
Like how she moved around with joy and child like simplicity in the innermost core of political circles.
Like what was she looking for when she always waited even after events for an out of the ordinary shot, at times perched on a table or stack of crates?
Like how she could behave like a thorough professional and not get carried away in spite of clicking the top politicians and India’s most important historical moments.
Like how she gave up clicking after being disillusioned at the sights that changed with the times after a career that spanned from the 1930’s to the 1970’s.
Like how she looks in her new roles as those of being a carpenter, gardener, tailor, plumber, cobbler, barber, gourmet cook in order to lead the independent lifestyle she has always led.
Yes, there have been many moments so far, in the life of Homai Vyarawalla, which would have made fabulous, precious photographs. One such moment will be on the 19th of August.
Though she hates being in front of the camera, this young lady will be bringing as much as dignity to the front of lens focus, as she brought from behind it.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
TAPI TOWN'S TRIANGULAR TUBER TREATS
‘Samosa kyun na khaya? Joota kyoon na pehna?
Tala na tha.’-Khusrau,circa 1300.
Why wasn’t the samosa eaten? Why wasn’t the shoe worn?
Wasn’t fried (the samosa); didn’t have a sole (the shoe).
As if being featured in Amir Khusrau’s ‘Dosukhnay’, renditions in Delhi during the 13th century, participating in Ibn Batuta’s travelogues of 1334 and holding a permanent place in the royal daawat’s,’ Ain –i-Akbari’- Emporer Akbar’s gourmet spread, wasn’t enough;the 'sambusak'is still that one delicacy around which conversations revolve.
‘Samosa’ a central Asian invention - the patty notorious for prolific fillings, continues to be India’s favourite tea time treat and, Tapi town is no exception.
Since we have already done a delicious thesis on our famous ‘Mad man’s triangles ‘(gandabhai na samosa )and other such Surti treats where gram dal,yam,cheese etc make the main matter, fried within thin crispy shells; lets now take a peek within the suburban tuber treats in town.
Popularity of suburban Surat’s samosas is segregated according to the phase of a student’s life.
Kindly note that nostalgia might hit you while reading the lines henceforth.
If you were educated in institutions around Timalyawaad, Nanpura or Dutch Garden, Samosas from Kailash sweets, those spicy parcels of chopped potatoes, dotted with green peas, seasoned with cumin and spiked with garam masala must surely mean a melancholic mouthful.Kailash samosas were the brain child of the late Kishinchand Ahuja who pioneered Punjabi samosas in Surat, way back in 1966.The receipe remains an exclusive hot seller till date. Seeped in drippy, dense tamarind chutney, that makes a fine accompaniment to this crusty crudity.
Students of colleges in and around Athwalines swear by bonding over the South Indian samosa avatars dished out by perennially popular Mysore Café, privacy provider-Priya cafe and of course, the king of kiosks-Shetty who ventured into partnership with ‘Atithya.’ The deep fried filos from here consist of minced mashed tubers that have been boiled beyond limits; a slight dash of ginger -chilli, a sparse sprinkle of coriander leaves, lemon drops and sugar is what all three are commonly laced with. Served with refreshing coconut chutney (the only authentic South Indian detail in the deal), these flaky crusts disappear as soon as they are served, over chatter and chai.
Convent girls and boys who were educated at the institution of Our Lady of Lourdes, know for a fact that just as their school which was always considered ‘different’, so also, their canteen samosa - that still makes them shamelessly salivate, tastes like none other.
Samosas for Lourdes are actually made in a teenie weenie room, in a strip of a lane, exactly opposite to the Muslim Yatimkhana, that leads into the back area of what used once be Dhiraj Sons Fashion Shoppe, Athwagate. Fried in a huge wok over a kerosene stove, there is no fancy board outside to advertise these knock out morning cholesterol crunchies that are sold out by 10 a.m, max.
Here is the catch, the elderly Maharashtrian gentleman who invented these took a promise from the gen nexters of the family,”never sell these without frying, lest the secret ingredients be known.”. Hence, even people who order over a hundred pieces of these precious parcels ,have to make do with a pre fried version of pasty poha worked with potato, enmeshed with minimal ginger chilli paste and wrapped in plain flour dough.
With multiplexes on Bhatar and Dumas road, which make for college bunking hours and tuition classes on Ghodod road and Citylight area, student special samosas now have many new avatars and addresses like Agra and Shiv Shakti sweets from where they are sold out.
In Surat, it is impossible to bite into a samosa without bringing up masti filled memories of those yaari-dosti years. Friendships here have thrived on sharing these.
‘Samosa kyun na khaya? Joota kyoon na pehna?
Tala na tha.’-Khusrau,circa 1300.
Why wasn’t the samosa eaten? Why wasn’t the shoe worn?
Wasn’t fried (the samosa); didn’t have a sole (the shoe).
As if being featured in Amir Khusrau’s ‘Dosukhnay’, renditions in Delhi during the 13th century, participating in Ibn Batuta’s travelogues of 1334 and holding a permanent place in the royal daawat’s,’ Ain –i-Akbari’- Emporer Akbar’s gourmet spread, wasn’t enough;the 'sambusak'is still that one delicacy around which conversations revolve.
‘Samosa’ a central Asian invention - the patty notorious for prolific fillings, continues to be India’s favourite tea time treat and, Tapi town is no exception.
Since we have already done a delicious thesis on our famous ‘Mad man’s triangles ‘(gandabhai na samosa )and other such Surti treats where gram dal,yam,cheese etc make the main matter, fried within thin crispy shells; lets now take a peek within the suburban tuber treats in town.
Popularity of suburban Surat’s samosas is segregated according to the phase of a student’s life.
Kindly note that nostalgia might hit you while reading the lines henceforth.
If you were educated in institutions around Timalyawaad, Nanpura or Dutch Garden, Samosas from Kailash sweets, those spicy parcels of chopped potatoes, dotted with green peas, seasoned with cumin and spiked with garam masala must surely mean a melancholic mouthful.Kailash samosas were the brain child of the late Kishinchand Ahuja who pioneered Punjabi samosas in Surat, way back in 1966.The receipe remains an exclusive hot seller till date. Seeped in drippy, dense tamarind chutney, that makes a fine accompaniment to this crusty crudity.
Students of colleges in and around Athwalines swear by bonding over the South Indian samosa avatars dished out by perennially popular Mysore Café, privacy provider-Priya cafe and of course, the king of kiosks-Shetty who ventured into partnership with ‘Atithya.’ The deep fried filos from here consist of minced mashed tubers that have been boiled beyond limits; a slight dash of ginger -chilli, a sparse sprinkle of coriander leaves, lemon drops and sugar is what all three are commonly laced with. Served with refreshing coconut chutney (the only authentic South Indian detail in the deal), these flaky crusts disappear as soon as they are served, over chatter and chai.
Convent girls and boys who were educated at the institution of Our Lady of Lourdes, know for a fact that just as their school which was always considered ‘different’, so also, their canteen samosa - that still makes them shamelessly salivate, tastes like none other.
Samosas for Lourdes are actually made in a teenie weenie room, in a strip of a lane, exactly opposite to the Muslim Yatimkhana, that leads into the back area of what used once be Dhiraj Sons Fashion Shoppe, Athwagate. Fried in a huge wok over a kerosene stove, there is no fancy board outside to advertise these knock out morning cholesterol crunchies that are sold out by 10 a.m, max.
Here is the catch, the elderly Maharashtrian gentleman who invented these took a promise from the gen nexters of the family,”never sell these without frying, lest the secret ingredients be known.”. Hence, even people who order over a hundred pieces of these precious parcels ,have to make do with a pre fried version of pasty poha worked with potato, enmeshed with minimal ginger chilli paste and wrapped in plain flour dough.
With multiplexes on Bhatar and Dumas road, which make for college bunking hours and tuition classes on Ghodod road and Citylight area, student special samosas now have many new avatars and addresses like Agra and Shiv Shakti sweets from where they are sold out.
In Surat, it is impossible to bite into a samosa without bringing up masti filled memories of those yaari-dosti years. Friendships here have thrived on sharing these.
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