Wednesday was one of the tougher days I’ve had at work. I was multi-tasking on several stories, never a good thing for a writer, and had several Google Docs windows open on my workstation. A farewell lunch for a colleague, who is in her notice period and leaving early December, at The Tasting Room at Raghuvanshi Mills didn’t help with my rapidly overbearing workload. After a well-proportioned Tuna sandwich I ran back to the office to polish off an editorial piece on business education. It was filed an hour late.
A short intro piece to a pictorial cover story scheduled for later this week followed. And I was barely half way through it when I got a call from my contact at a PR firm: “Your request has gone through. They will give you an hour-long slot from 6:00 to 7:00 PM. Dinner is out of the question.”

The CEO of a very important and large international company was in town and I had requested an hour-long dinner meeting with her. This was for our popular weekend profiles page. They had reverted on Monday with a 6 to 6:30 half-hour slot. I told them it was pointless to talk to her for half an hour. And then, two days later, the PR firm had managed to inveigle out an hour long slot. It would be in her suite at the Taj Palace hotel near the Gateway of India as she already had dinner plan that night.

Around five, just as I ditched the intro piece to run downstairs and catch a cab, the publicist called back to say that the interview had been postponed by another half an hour. My meeting would now be at 6:30 PM. I gasped in relief. Now I would reach early and have enough time to chill out at the Taj lobby, double check my audio recorder and take a leak before I met the CEO for our interview.

I found a cab almost immediately and ran over my interview questions in my head for a while. Then I pulled out my Diwali-gift PSP and played the penultimate stage of God of War (on Easy mode of course). As the cab pulled into the road by Regal Cinema I saved it just before the final boss battle, stuffed it back into my messenger bag and then pulled out my audio recorder.

There was a line of two business types in suit jackets ahead of me at the metal detector. When my turn came I handed a security guard my messenger bag and walked through the metal detector. The guard felt all over the bag and then handed it back. I, in a split second, ran through all the jokes me and the missus make about these insipid security checks they do all over Mumbai at malls, hotels and multiplexes. A quick feel, nary a glance and a wave through.

Walking into the Taj lobby is one of the most dependable ways to reduce my blood pressure. The AC kicks in first, then the piped music and finally the shiny, warm, clean, buzzy ambience. I look to see if there is a guy on the piano. I always do this. Its a habit that can’t be explained.

That night there wasn’t. The piano sat quiet.

The next thing I do, without fail, is marvel at the doors into the Zodiac Grill and wonder what lies behind. Who lies behind? What astronomically large bills are being presented and paid? And then, like always, I promise myself that once the book is out I’ll make a million bucks and take the missus there. (She doesn’t admit it but a meal at the Zodiac Grill is clearly one of her short-term life goals.)

I walked around for a bit, made one circuit of the arm-chairs and sofas and then settle into a corner of a two-seater still fiddling with the audio recorder in my hand.

Oh wait, some of you might remember the audio player. Remember that Benq mp3 player I bought so long ago from Abu Dhabi and which some of you readers dissed me for? That very same, now replaced by a mighty 80GB iPod, serves as an audio recorder. It records audio superbly, is tiny and can store up to six and a half hours of recording in serviceable wav format.

In the minutes before every interview I handle I tend to fiddle with the player to calm my nerves. I switch it on, check capacity, then battery, switch it off and then do it all over again. I can never get used to the process of suddenly turning up one evening and probing into the personal lives of CEOs. Most oblige but it can still be a little nerve wracking.

The lobby is not as busy as usual. As I wait, a suitably socialite looking woman speeds down the lobby followed by an older woman who reassures her that “It is okay to wear shorts here baby!”

I recognize no one except for a Mr. Wickmann. (My memory may not be precise on this.) I know his name because of the quaint and subtle way in which the Taj summons people waiting in the lobby. Someone walks around with a little whiteboard, with a name on it, stuck on top of a stick There are two small bells on the stick which jangle as it is carried about. Around 6:20 or so someone comes looking for a Wickmann. Wickmann is a tall, white-haired man with spectacles. The staff member escorts him away somewhere.

The publicist picks me up around 6:35 PM from the lobby and we walk down the corridor that connects the new Taj to the old one. To me that walk is the shiniest part of the Taj. The windows and floors and lights all combine to make it this shimmering tube of light. I noticed little of the walk, though, as the publicist made small talk about the global economy and recession and what our paper thought and so on. In fact the only thing I did notice was a show window. It was empty except for a bottle of Dom Perignon on a little stand in the corner. At the time I thought it was a very poor display for Dom Perignon.

We went up the lift to the sixth floor of the heritage building and then took a left, over a flight of stairs to the CEO’s suite in the corner. I was too strung up for the interview to notice the wooden barristers and ornamentation of the corridors of the old Taj.

Our interview started late but lasted for just over an hour. She spoke about her life in the industry, her weekend pastimes, the Indian market and how she once served in the Israeli army. Then it turns out that she has dual citizenzhip: Israeli-British. I quietly admire the cosmopolitanism of it all and then sip on a black coffee. She offers a few hotel chocolates and biscuits but I refuse.

We get up after I switch off the audio recorder and exchange business cards. We shake hands and then she tells me that she’s off to meet a few local business associates for dinner. We share some small-talk and then I finally leave after a short but interesting interview.

This time when I step out I look around and smile.

The old Taj is quite simply a stunning hotel. There is so much to look at everywhere. The walls, the carpets, railings and art are all pretty special. And I have plenty of memories strewn all over the Grand Staircase. There was that quiz that we came third in a few years ago thanks to a stunning last round on Tata history cracked by yours truly. And that evening, after a horrible training session that may have damaged my brain permanently, when I first thought perhaps I should really write for a living.

I am accompanied to the lift and then down to the lobby by the CEO’s personal assistant. We talk about how beautiful the hotel is, how awesome London is and how we must meet when I am in the city next time. We go separate ways at the bottom. She scurries away to organize something about dinner and I walk back through the connecting corridor back to the lobby.

I stand in the lobby for a second and think of what I should do next. I could go and buy some sandwiches from the Taj deli for later. They are very expensive but you do get good authentic cold cuts. Or maybe I could call the missus down to South Bombay for dinner.

But then she has been feeling guilty about missing the gym for so long and I decide against it. Dal roti at home it shall be. I walk around the lobby a bit. And give myself an eyeful of all the rich and famous. I also note to myself that the flower arrangement tonight looks very lame. Sometimes the Taj places absolutely fantastic arrangements. Not that night. After ten minutes of loafing around, and bidding farewell, I turned around and walk out through the glass doors. I stand on top of the steps, look out to the sea for a brief glimpse and then trot out to a taxi. The publicist then runs up and offers to share a cab and drop me at Prabhadevi.

We leave the premises at around 8:15 PM give or take a few minutes. Two hours later those bastards attacked. That night I see the Taj burn. The fire leaps from a room on the sixth floor possibly right next to the one in which I interviewed my CEO.

I will never, ever forget that sight.

My CEO was located unharmed the next morning. Perhaps many of the other people I walked past and nodded at politely were not.

When the Taj returns to business, as it must, no prizes for guessing who will be among the first to go back into that lobby. I must.

Sorry if my typing reads hoarse. But I’ve been ill all of Sunday, took Monday off and came in today over-helmed by a sense of duty and obligation.
But I always have time for a little blog post.

So Saturday Pastrami, the missus and I spent a rather productive day consisting of bagels, foot massages and Dostana at that Cinemax in Bandra with the bargain Lazy boy seats. While we were biting into our bagels and sipping on our Doppio’s pastrami suddenly sat up and ran to the counter to ask for the day’s Bombay Times.

“You must read the horoscope in today’s BT man. They are howlarious!” Pastrami panted as he flipped the pages.

Now I was prepared for the worst you see. With all these job cuts and banks in trouble and financial turmoil we all try to laugh as much as we can when Pastrami cracks jokes. Even the weird, banker-type jokes where the punch line involves phrases like: “And then he said why don’t we just look at perpetuity after five years and finance the whole using convertible debt warranties! HA HA HA HA HA HA! Phew!” or “And then the prospective girl’s parents asked him what desk he worked on and he said structured debt and they all got up and ran away…even the broker…”

Which is just sad.

But lo and behold. Pastrami was actually right. The horoscopes were hilarious and mostly completely pointless. I have intrepidly managed to track it down:

Gems include:

Leo: You may choose to get out into the world and to grasp all to learn, can become negative and selfish. The energy of the day will require you to be more outgoing. You are probably having the most influential aspect.

This was either written by a bad machine or dictated over the phone to someone who hates his job, sitting on Friday night writing the horoscope. Eitherways it is a masterpiece of… I don’t know really.

Please click on the image to read it in full.

Also, when time permits, read this fascinating article in October’s Smithsonian Magazine. Its free and available in full.

Maybe I should get my DNA checked as well. What if I was related to…shudder…Mark Knopfler?

Later crocodiles.

Now that Diwali is over and the in-laws have returned to Delhi after gifting me a PSP (yee-haw!) I can narrate recent Diwali related developments in peace.

As most of you may know Diwali is that annual festival where Hindus celebrate the return of Lord Ram, millennia ago, to Ayodhya. The natives, Ramanand Sagar reminded us so vividly, stood around looking overjoyed and waving their hands in the air (like they just didn’t care) but not so much that their fake wigs and beards would fall off.

And to celebrate this momentous occasion in our cultural history we invited the missus’ parents over from Delhi.

Some of you may know that last year we had celebrated our debut Diwali in Dilli where yours truly was subject to several bouts of point blank ambush laddoo feedings and excessive kurta wearings. Also I had to light many fireworks, some several megatons in explosive strength, with quivering knees while the young Punjabi nephews, as is their way, calmly lit hot dog sized sparklers with one hand, juggled exploding strings of firecrackers with the other while their mother fed them katoris of dahi balles as evening snack.

Unfortunately due to a respiratory system that has been week from birth I was soon overwhelmed by sulphur fumes and had to retire to the living room where aunts (bua-jees) attempted to revive me with laddoos. Their voices said “Koi nahi beta, koi nahi…” but their eyes said “Hey bhagwan (wahe guru!)… please don’t let the neighbours see our lily-livered javayi. Oy hoy!”

Or something to that effect.

This year, therefore, I jumped at the chance to bring the in-laws down to aamchi Mumbai to give them a dose of that good old Mumbai hospitality to people from the north of India. Of course the in-laws are possibly the sweetest people in the world and there was much fun and games and shopping from Fabindia.

On the way back from Fabindia in the car I suggested ways of spending a relaxing evening at home: “Perhaps we could see a movie or some sitcom. Or one of the Planet Earth DVDs. Better yet we can watch people lighting fireworks from the safety of our living room windows WHILE watching sitcoms…”

The missus interjected: “Nope. We are all going to play teen patti!” Everyone else immediately sounded their approval with shouts of “Oy Hoy”. I feigned tremendous enthusiasm as well of course.

The thing is this. I don’t really get that teen patti game. And by extension I don’t get poker as well.

As long as a card game involves strategy, planning and no betting, as is the case with 13-card rummy, UNO and Top Trumps Monster Trucks, I am not so bad and seldom finish last. But as soon as a gambling component is involved I completely lose my composure. I simply cannot process that level of probability under those levels of pressure with those levels of speed. Combine that with the worst poker face in the galaxy and you have Sidin Sunny Vadukut: the Tilak Raj of Diwali night card playing.

As soon as we reached home, and while mom-in-law (a dear loving woman I might add who religiously reads every single blogpost I read before making fluffy aloo parathas that no hotel can replicate) cleared the living room floor, I confided my teenpattiophobia to the missus in the bedroom behind closed door. She assured me that she would keep an eye on me, and ensure that everyone involved me in a sporting manner. “After all it is just some good-natured Diwali fun. It’s not about winning or losing honey…”

An hour later, when I lost my fourteenth straight hand, the missus understood completely and threw my Guitar Hero 2 guitar at me.

Even accounting for my gambling ineptitude I was performing spectacularly badly. And not just because I suck at cards. The atmosphere was crackling a little too much you see.

So we sat down on the floor, doled out chips and began to play teen patti. Three minutes later the brother-in-law burst into song and punched the air with clenched fists… and this was just because he got to shuffle the cards. The in-laws and the missus–sane, normal and completely lovable people otherwise–suddenly turned into hyper-excited, adrenaline-overdosed, back-slapping, high-fiving, air-dhol playing card fiends. And the aakhri nail in the coffin was the that exquisite punjabi-hindi-card-lingo:

“Gole ka trail! Gole ka trail!” followed by “Sau ki salaami! Sau ki salaami!”

“Mere paas duggi ka pair…”

“Chaar ki chaal hai Sidin… CHAAR KI CHAAL!”

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD… Now first of all I don’t even know what a Gola is. There used to be a Gomathi Lakshmi in engineering college who we all lovingly referred to as “Gola” when she was around and as “The girl with the…”… okay that’s besides the point and she probably reads this blog.

So no, I had no idea what a studious Electrical Engineering babe had to do with my father-in-law’s killer hand that wiped the table clean and made the entire Kapoor khaandhaan explode like a can of Diet Seven-up that had been left in the freezer overnight*.

At first I tried to fit in inconspicuously by folding my cards every time before I had to bet at all. But after four or five times the missus caught on and screamed her head off telling me to be a sport using only her eyes in the way that wives can after three months or so of marriage.

So I tried to play along by making the minimum possible bets and waiting for someone to say “Chalo show karo sab log…”

Of course I would lose every time because one of the Kapoors had a “tiggi, duggi, ikka ka (ki?) sequence” or a “figgy ki trail ki chaal ka hukum”. Or some such thing. I always did exactly what my wife did and all was well. One round I won twenty-four rupees and a huge “sabaash bete!!!” but I cannot explain how.

Then after three hours or so everyone got fed up and my heart leapt for joy secretly when the wife suggested we play “Mufflis”. But then when I tried to clear the cards the missus lightly rapped me over the knuckles with the PS2 and told me that “Mufflis” was merely an alternate version of teen patti where the person with the worst cards won.

“Ab to javayi jeetega bhai!” said the father-in-law excitedly.

I got three aces in the first hand and was almost about to slit my throat with one when the missus stopped me and told me to use one of the discarded jokers instead.

A little after one in the morning, when enthusiasm had finally drained away from everyone, the in-laws decided to get up and then settle into the couches for a few hours of Diwali Dumb Charades. After a few cans of Red Bull I was feeling quite up for it actually. After all, Dumb-C was one of those events that yours truly excelled in at the inter-school and inter-college levels. And even when we all decided to do only Hindi movies I was still very upbeat.

Of course, I was randomly chosen to start. But my joy was short-lived. The mom-in-law whispered the movie name and my crest fell.

“Bedard Zamaana Kya Jaane” she said in my ear.

Oy hoy indeed.

*This actually happened later that night.

Quite impressed by the WordPress application for the Blackberry. Works like a dream. At least via the onboard wifi on the 8520 handset. Highly recommend giving it a go if you are a Berry owning WordPresser. Go to here.

Transcript of conversation with anonymous public relations professional on newsroom phone a few days ago. Edited for readability.

(Phone rings)

Sidin: Hello… Sidin (It is a miserable habit of mine, that line. So many people respond by saying: “No.”)

Random PR professional: Hello Sidin! This is <mallu name> from <name of PR company>!

S: Hi. Tell me.

RPRP: I have been reading your work for a long time now. And I am impressed.

S: (Sensing a catch somewhere…) Oh thank you very much.

RPRP: Especially the wonderful work you’ve been doing in the area of Law firms and legal services…

S: (What the…) Oh I see. Which stories in particular?

RPRP: Oh the one… err.. you know the story… this particular one… I mean the one on…

S: (Aha! The plot thickens…) Oh you mean the one I wrote last weekend?

RPRP: EXACTLY! That one. It was so, so, so good…

S: On legal services no?

RPRP: Yes yes.

S: Ah but I have NEVER EVER written a single world in my entire career on legal services and law firms…

RPRP: Never?

S: Not once.

RPRP:

S:

RPRP: Maybe I have my information wrong.

S: Maybe you do.

CLICK!