therunawayjuiceincident

Shuchir Suri likes girls with neatly manicured nails and good food. I think in that order.
But we’re going to focus on the latter. There are very few people who don’t like food, and most of them are called Nicole Ritchie, but her aside, not too many do much about it except for whipping out their phones and instagramming everything they eat, all the time (There’s a special place in hell for this lot).
My point is, Shuchir has managed to, despite his tight schedule (He works as an event manager and is always on the go), start an online community on food. With over 2000 members, Food Talk India as a page on facebook has become the go to place for anyone with an inquiry about what sort of food to eat, where to eat it and quick reviews. And it works like a charm. I’ve tried it a few times and have always got everything I needed to know in a matter of a few minutes. What’s nice about Food Talk India, aside from all the info as ammo, is that it makes it that much easier for anyone to be of help when it comes to food. You can even share recipes, numbers of private caterers, and the location of the best vada pao stall in Worli.
To be a part of this commune of food lovers you need to ask a friend who is already a member or write in to foodtalkindia@hotmail.com.
Though I’ll have you know, Shuchir turned me into one of them food photographer zombies recently when I was in Bali. In my defense, I looked mildly embarrased and even checked both directions to see if anyone was watching. I consoled myself by thinking how much this noble act would help someone in the near future.
Here’s to food and so much more.
Clink!

We fought
Of course we fought.
It’s what my father and I do before agreeing on anything.
This time it was about which restaurant to have my mothers surprise birthday brunch at.
Three options
Three fights.
One younger brother taking time out to buy some vile nutri-bars, then coming back to watch us argue while saying “Take a bite man, this shit is amazing”.
We all wanted something different.
Dhruv didn’t say anything.
My father and I said a lot.
Mostly to each other.
There was some glaring also.

Anyway, once we’d decided on a place, we found ourselves amicably chatting with each other while leaning against a car and thanking God that Soma had been delayed in coming back home.

Because we feel she works for the Mossad.
Had she been home, there would have been no booking of restaurants.
There would have been no fights.
There would have been no surprise.
She’s a spy. She knows stuff.
Like the time Dhruv and I sneaked the car out and thought she didn’t know.
She knew.
Like the time my father tried to surprise her with jewelry/a holiday/assorted gifts/coming back early from a flight.
She knew.

She knows this stuff because “I use my brain. If you used yours, you’d know too.”
Unfortunately for us, she is that smart.
She also has eyes which she keeps open because she sees things the three of us can’t.
“I can’t find my sneakers.”
“Honey have you seen my wallet?”
“I left my pen on my desk, I think someone’s stolen it.”
She finds all of this in about under two minutes. “If you opened your eyes, maybe you’d find it too.”
I sometimes feel that she hides this stuff herself so she can find it and be the ruler of our souls forever.

Thing is, she is.

The three of us revolve around her like faithful planets. She binds us together with so much love that sometimes I feel I might burst.
She loves giving bear hugs.
She’s the first to make peace because she hates a fight.
She smiles. She smiles like no one else. And she’s sensitive and strong in the best extremes. She once started crying when she found out I’d fallen and got 3 stitches. She also told me to “Stop it, don’t whine, you can do this” when I was admitted in the hospital with something serious.
A perfect balance of MotherMelodrama and Superwoman.

She loves her toolkit as much as her stilettos. Saves bubble wrap for squishing later. Dresses like a million bucks all the time but has tshirts that are 15 years old, with holes, and enough color to give you epilepsy, loves Campari, can waltz like a dream and her favorite superhero is Superman.
She also used to have a look which could to freeze our blood, but she lost that a while ago.

Anyway, we winged the surprise. My father channeled his inner thespian, faked a phone call, he and I faked a fight (to make things seem normal), many winks and thumbs ups later …
Ta daaaa!!!
I don’t think we’ve ever felt this this proud of ourselves at outwitting the mothership.
31st March has always meant the world to us because of our favorite fiery Aries.
We love you Soma
You’re our love, our life.
Happy Birthday!

Writing about friends is as easy as curing the common cold.

It’s just…. not.

How do you compress a constant feeling and shape it into words.

It’s terribly insufficient.

I once wrote to Mehma saying that I had spent 26 years looking for her. I must have been very emotional and/or happy. She abused me in two different languages and questioned my sexuality in one sentence. She’s got a gift. And that’s why I have to love her.

I have never seen anybody go from hobowithoutgender to DAMN! in the time it takes to have a shower. She’s the sexiest, most stylish person in a room when she thinks it’s worth the effort. 

She has the memory of a gnat, reads the most interesting books, constantly makes fun of me in public, is at my doorstep in a heartbeat if I’ve had a bad day, eats in the most delicate, intricate manner, can belch out the alphabet, has sparkly diamond eyes, parties like its 1999, has shouted at an entire hospital, falls in love as much as me, swears like a truck driver, will tear people in half if they’re mean to me, loves babies, loves her annoying chihuahua, makes the sexiest jackets, has unreal concentration powers, makes great toast, champion at Boggle, exaggerates pathologically, is ridiculously funny, only sees the good in people, can rock skyhigh heels, is verbose, and uses 5 year old hair wax.

She’s perfect.

I love that we can go months without seeing each other and barely talking and then pick up exactly where we left off. I love that she is lunar crazy and can never sleep when it’s a full moon. That I have a friend who I can text at 4 a.m and know that she’s probably lying in bed, in a dark room, dealing with some existential issues on that one night when the moon is being loco.

We’re born 8 days apart. She’s on the 2nd of January. So, obviously she will call me on the 8th to wish me. Because all that registers is the number 8. Not the number of days 8. For 7 years I’ve got a hysterical, cheery “Happy Birthday Juica” at midnight on the seventh. I mean, really?

I on the other hand forget her birthday. 

The thing is, this is the trivial stuff. And the real stuff, like I mentioned before, can’t be put into words. I lucked out when I met her. She is my forever friend. And I know that no matter what life throws at me, I’ll be fine, because I have this incredible, rare creature next to me who I want to hang out with …….  for the rest of my life.

Groucho Marx said “When you’re in jail, a good friend will be trying to bail you out. A best friend will be in the cell next to you saying, ‘Damn, that was fun’.”
And that pretty much sums up our friendship.

I love you Mimi. I say this and I prepare for the verbal assault coming my way.

I last met him 23 years ago.

He was my dads cousin. Sudhir.

Tall, moustached, dapper, chain smoker, artist extraordinaire, loud raspy voice, witty, well spoken.

He had a flair about him, an aura.

As a child he had tuberculosis on one of his knee joints. They probably didn’t have good treatment then, so his infected bones were removed and the joint fused. Which gave him this very unique, distinct walk. Which, again, added to that aura.

I think I was a little intimidated by him. Mostly because he spoke to me like an adult. There were no wishy-washy conversations with him.

I remember this one sunny afternoon during the winter of ’89 when everyone decided to come to ours for lunch. It was one of those perfect days. My dad was making his famous Bloody Mary’s and everyone was hanging out in the garden. The sun was the right amount of brilliant, there was a light breeze, a lot of voices, a lot of laughter. Sudhir was there as well. Entertaining everyone.

At some point I saw him pick up this stuffed pink panther I used to have. Now, I wasn’t a stuffed toy kinda kid, but I liked that pink panther. So I started to watch him, closely.
He picked it up….. tossed it around….held it by it’s limb… by it’s face…. fiddle fiddle … toss toss…… and then casually, absentmindedly, took his cigarette and burned one of its whiskers……then another. …. then another.
I don’t think he realised what he was doing because he was either in animated conversation or deep thought throughout this whisker burning process. It was so effortless that it felt like he’d been burning pink jungle cat facial hair for years.
And all this while, I watched him, but now with a slight frown.
I didn’t say anything. Because …. I just didn’t.

That day is etched in my mind forever.
Maybe a little more because of that incident.
I remember him clearly. Sitting under that big tree we had…
His voice, with a hint of rasp.
His tweed jacket.
I remember thinking he towered over me.
I remember his pepper coloured long hair.
Him sharing an inside joke with my dad.
I remember him leaning forward to talk to Dhruv because he was so fond of him.
I remember the way he laughed.
How he argued.
I remember his hands….

Sudhir, you’ve been swimming in my head ever since I got the news yesterday.
And I’m so glad for that winter afternoon many, many years ago because I watched you with such rapt attention and noticed every detail about you.

You should know that there is a 9 year old girl somewhere in space-time watching you, hawk-eyed, forever. Willing to set all her toys on fire.

Stay happy wherever you are.
Godspeed.

Twelve by Prarthna Singh

Prarthna Singh was an 18-year-old liberal arts student in Florida when, as part of her course; she stepped into a dark room to develop photographs for the first time. And that’s when it hit her that photography was her real calling. So she got transferred to the Rhode Island School Of Design and spent the next 3 years learning everything about photography.

Prarthna spent 2 years in New York honing her skills and assisting various photographers. Thereafter, she moved back to India, assisted photographer Bharat Sikka for one year and then started out on her own.
She has been living in Mumbai for the last 3 years and working on things she likes the most. Fashion, art, friends, collaborations, advertising, get treated with a typical Prarthna twist. Her portraits stand out because the essence of her subjects is enhanced in a subtle yet sublime manner.

Recently Prarthna collaborated with the jewelry brand Mawi and photographed 12 independent young women from Mumbai wearing Mawi’s sui generis, bold pieces. She decided to take it further by holding an exhibit at Mumbai’s premier concept store Le Mill showcasing her photographs alongside Mawi Jewelry. The exhibit opened on the 14th of July where people, despite the previous days terrible events, put on their resilient faces and came to the showing. It was an evening replete with people from all over, laughter, great photographs and stunning jewelry, making the soiree look like a work of Prarthna Singh.

visit http://www.prarthnasingh.blogspot.com to see her picture book

: Prarthna Singh’s photographs are on sale at Le Mill till the 15th of August.
: Mawi Jewelry is retailed at Le Mill

“I’d rather be in Bandra”. Call it suburban snobbery but it’s slogans like this that have won 30-year-old Bandra resident Karan Gonsalves’s two-year-old T-shirt label KeyLow a cult following. Gonsalves says designing T-shirts is simple: he makes tees that he would choose to wear himself. Essentially this means transferring his interests, be it books or music, to the front (and back) of a T-shirt. For instance, one of his tees has the famous Nietzsche quote: “Without music, life would be a mistake.” Gonsalves, who was inspired to start his own label after seeing indie stores selling fashionable streetwear in New York City in the mid-nougthies, often collaborates with like-minded artists. Recently, he teamed up with British illustrator and T-shirt designer Craig Watkins aka Wotto; one of their tees features what appears to be a very contemporary looking pierced and tattooed avatar of Hindu goddess Kali.

From personal experience, we can say that the prints on KeyLow T-shirts, that are made from a soft, durable combed cotton fabric, stay on for a long, long time. For his soon-to-be-launched third collection, which should be out in a month, Gonsalves has decided to create a series of T-shirt designs associated with different charities. Every alternate month, he will tie up with a new organisation to which he will donate half the profits from the sales of their tees. This month, he made one based on the water cylce for the non-profit http://www.water.org. Prices start at Rs500. You can order KeyLow T-shirts by contacting Karan Gonsalves on 98338 04272 or karan.gonsalves@gmail.com. You can see some of his T-shirt designs on the KeyLow facebook page