A love note for 'Midnight Diner: Tokyo Stories'

I don’t usually do this. I do not take time off to write about my current favourite series. Now that I think about it, I’d love to write about how Breaking Bad, The Americans and The Wire made me feel. Before that, I must express my admiration for this new series on Netflix called Midnight Diner: Tokyo Stories. 

What is it? It is a series of ten short stories, each close to 30 minutes long, each named after a particular dish. Each story involves people who visit a certain diner in Tokyo that is open from midnight to seven in the morning. 

What is so special about it? Well, for one, it is a window into the lives of the Japanese. It features people like you and me, with similar problems and familiar dispositions. 

Midnight Diner is a safe place. People feel comfortable talking about their personal lives here. The proprietor of the diner, fondly called ‘Master’ has a unique policy. Apart from the usual fare of Pork Miso Soup Combo, beer, sake and shochu, he will make anything that a patron requests, provided he has the ingredients for it. He understands the effect comfort food has on people. No wonder everyone who comes to the diner hungry returns deeply content, touched not just by his delectable food but also by his warm and comforting words. No judgements are passed here, everybody is polite, yet eccentrically Japanese. Their exclamations and loud expressions are still tickling me, a couple of days after finishing the entire series. 

Each story also has something that brings you closer to the characters. One episode has someone learning how to make something in order to give it to someone they care about. It sounds shallow when I say it like that but the treatment is where the beauty lies. 

If you’re hungry while you’re watching it, brace yourself because you’re bound to get hungrier. Master cooking his dishes made me want to go to Japan now just to try those dishes. Never before has a simple broth of meat and vegetables looked so enticing on a non-cooking show. 

Almost all of the series has been shot indoors, either inside the diner or in somebody’s apartment or workplace. This points at a cost-effective production but I’m glad the makers did not compromise on the writing, casting, art direction and direction because all of them come together to deliver what is an endearing set of stories that will make you sob, sigh and laugh. 

If you haven’t watched it yet, I highly recommend it. You can arigato me later. 

DIY: Upcycling glass bottles

Today, months after I made my first Carlsmug, I put my glass bottle cutter to good use. I made a few goblets, a couple of small and large tumblers and a terrarium. Here are a few pictures and some learnings: 

Presenting all the goblets. They are nothing like the ones people in Game of Thrones drink from but that’s what they are. I am yet to sandpaper them and wash away the soot. If one was to drink from them right now, they would know exactly how Joffrey felt moments before he croaked.

This one in particular is my favourite. It was the cleanest cut of the day. It stands tall and confident, like a royal goblet. 

It is not that I don’t like the others. It’s just that some of their bases need to be sanded carefully so that they stop wobbling. 

Tuborg bottles make fantastic tumblers. So do Kingfisher Ultra Max. They shouldn’t be tumbling too much though. That will be injurious to their health. 

The clear Smirnoff  bottle here will make a great terrarium.

Now the learnings.

Like you cannot control the way bamboo grows, you cannot control the way glass will crack. It has a mind of its own. All you can do is scour it, heat it, then cool it and pray for it to clicnk into two separate pieces as neatly as possible. The rest can be sandpapered into perfection. The trick is to not leave any jarring glass ends, for obvious reasons. Here is a picture of all the casualties.

Some of them cracked like the bottle Bollywood heroines would use to threaten villains with rape on their mind. 

 

Some of them were held back by their best friend, the label. 

Beer bottles are the easiest to crack. 100 Pipers is the toughest bottle to crack. Check out this guy, standing strong and uncracked even after one round of scouring and multiple rounds of heat and cold torture treatment. 

And I couldn’t...just couldn’t get myself to cut this gorgeous bottle! 

So yes. I’ve had a funglasstic weekend. Must go wash the soot off my hands and clear the kitchen counter before this fat thing walks all over the glass crumbs. 

P.S: Many thanks to Deepak Nair, Anita Rane, Sushant Ajnikar and Rochelle Noronha for the many bottles that made this experiment possible.

Just like that. Just for fun.

Keeping in line with the trend of constructing more floors on top of their existing single -storeyed houses, a house opposite our apartment is expanding vertically. Judging by the pace of 

work, the upper floors will soon become a ‘PG for Ladies/Gents’ by next month. But that is not what this story is about.

The labourers working on the site live onsite in tiny, temporary, concrete houses they built themselves. These are two ten-by-five spaces built with concrete blocks and an asbestos sheet. While living on-site means work can begin early in the day, it also means the workers do not have to be away from their families. Construction projects go on for months. 

Among the people living in these houses are the two protagonists of this story - a 9 or 10 year old girl and a younger boy. I have noticed them play around the construction area ever since the project began but it was only yesterday that I stopped to take note of what they were up to. Ever since, they have been of continuous amusement to me. 

The two siblings (or friends) share some plastic toys. They have a completely green autorickshaw 
with bright yellow tyres. They have a bus that is half blue and half silver. They also have a JCB or 
whatever a muckraker is called. The body of this vehicle, the front part and the part behind it are all 
different colours. Yesterday, I stopped to observe the two engrossed in their play action outside my 
neighbour’s gate. A blue human figure lay face down. The girl had controls of the bus. The boy sat 
with his back to a metal gate waiting to roll his rickshaw down the elevated cement slope people 
make outside their homes to enable smooth parking. 

My guess was right. The two of them wanted to synchronise the time in which the rickshaw would 
ride over the human figure after colliding with the bus. I stood watching their innocent yet morbid 
game trying not to think about Salman Khan’s acquittal. 

                                             

Throughout their game, they yelled at each other for letting go of their vehicle a few seconds too soon or a couple of seconds too late. They cackled and laughed. They pulled at each other’s hair, even 
though the boy had more advantage. The cement on their clothes, the temporary pock marks on their knees caused by kneeling on the gravel, the dust on their faces and the grime in their hair are all a 
part of their game. 

This morning, from the second floor walkway of our apartment, I saw the two happy idiots rolling in a mound of gravel. They (or someone else) had put two sheets of newspaper on top on which they 
lay, laughing at nothing in particular and poking each other. I ran in to get my phone because that is what we do for fun nowadays. We click pictures of things we find interesting and put them up for 
others like us to see. 

By the time I got my phone, they were up and about again. I noticed a stack of cement made into a 
wobbly stairs. The two would climb the ‘stairs’, climb onto the wall of the house and plonk onto the 
newspapers and laugh. Then they would repeat the entire cycle endlessly. 

Why? Just like that. Just for fun. 

Why regional cinema shouldn’t avoid having subtitles anymore.

I just saw the trailer of Rani Padmini, an upcoming Malayalam film starring Manju Warrier and Rima Kallingal among others. As much as I like the trailer, I am dismayed by the fact that the trailer did not have subtitles, which means, most likely the film will not have subtitles either. 

Now let me take you through my thought process.

l Hey, looks like a nice movie, must watch it.

l Oh, no subtitles - how will Tamanna watch it?

l Will have to go without her...

l Or will take her along and translate every dialogue for her.

l What’s the fun in that?

l Never mind, we’ll watch something Hindi or English instead.

Tamanna, my wife, is Sindhi and comprehends very little Malayalam. 

I am guessing a lot of people who comprehend little to no Malayalam undergo the same  thought process. 

I am grateful to the makers of Anjali Menon's Bangalore Days for not only having subtitles 

but also putting effort into doing a good job of it. It was the first film my wife saw and enjoyed. Her respect for Malayalam cinema has only grown manifold because she felt included. 

I have a question for producers and filmmakers. Does subtitling a movie cost too much? You are already spending a lot of money to make the movie and promoting it on-air, online, on-ground among fan clubs and what not. Doesn’t it make sense to have subtitles for the dialogues since most movies open in major metropolitan cities in India? 

Going by its trailer, Rani Padmini seems to be a decent+ film that discusses pertinent issues in contemporary India. I wonder if the makers don’t want the message in the film to reach an audience outside the Malayalam-speaking community? Why restrict it to a few who comprehend a certain language? 

Another film I’d love to watch with my wife is Lord Livingstone 7000 Kandi. The film is apparently about the need to conserve forests and wild ecosystems. That again is an important issue for India. 

The same goes for new releases from the Kannada, Telugu and Tamil films releasing every month. How do you expect regional cinema to grow if you don’t have newer audiences partaking in what you have to offer? 

Times are changing. Your audiences are changing. Catch up no? 

Vodafone is being very professional. So...

I recently moved from Mumbai to Bangalore. Vodafone network here was erratic and Airtel seemed to be the prevalent ‘better’ network. Wanting to retain my number, I applied for MNP - the sham called Mobile Number Portability. Having submitted my photo and documents, I waited. I was told I’ll receive a message after which I was to insert my new Airtel 4G SIM in my phone and I’d have successfully ported. 

Sometime in the middle of last week, my new colleagues complained that my Vodafone number is ‘temporarily disconnected.’ I assumed MNP had kicked in and inserted the Airtel SIM. Calls to the Airtel call centre revealed they did not have the necessary details to start my Airtel connection. I waited, knowing Bangalore’s laidback attitude with everything. On Friday, when I called Vodafone customer care, they told me my number is disconnected because I have applied for MNP. I was advised to get in touch with an Airtel Store in Bangalore. 

No connection yet. 

Yesterday, when I visited the Airtel store, they found out my Vodafone connection is disconnected because I have ‘outstanding dues.’ When I called customer care this morning (18 September 2015) they corroborated this. It was an amount of Rs. 194 - generated after my billing cycle. I was assured that my connection will come alive on its own after 4 hours of payment of dues. I paid the dues. 

No connection yet.

Airtel Store people tell me all I need now is a UPC - Unique Porting Code that can only be generated if my Vodafone connection is restored.

When I called Vodafone customer care again, I was told I’ll have to visit the Vodafone Store to activate my SIM because it has been disconnected. 

The Vodafone Store is another joke. They tell me they can’t do anything because my number belongs to the Mumbai circle. 

I call up customer care and tell them my story yet again. Vodafone personnel Mohsin promised me around 6.00 pm that my SIM will be activated within 30 minutes. It is 7.45 pm now. I have rebooted my phone multiple times. No connection yet.  

 The Mobile Number Portability service is supposed to make life easy for consumers. It is doing exactly the opposite. 

You have recorded all the conversations you have had with me ‘for training purposes.’ use them to teach your Customer Care personnel to not lie to your customer. Or to not give false hope. 

Also, if I may remind you, this is 2015. What do you mean your Vodafone Store in Bangalore can’t help me because I bought my connection in Mumbai? Are you really stupid enough to recommend that I could ‘request a friend in Mumbai to go to a Vodafone Store there and ask them to activate my number’? Do you even know how ridiculous that sounds?! Have you heard of omni-channel marketing or whatever it is called? Have your agency explain it to you. Use some of your marketing funds to fix the holes in your service. How difficult is it to setup a system where the people here can get in touch with their counterparts in Mumbai and get things done?

And why do I have to repeat my problem every time I call Customer Care? Does no one keep track of the status of complaints at your end? Do you know how taxing this is?

Do you need me to tell you how difficult it is to survive in a new city without a mobile connection? I keep getting lost without Google Maps. Family, friends and colleagues cannot reach me because my phone is disconnected. My number is registered with my banks. Every time I make an online transaction, I need an OTP that I can no longer receive. 

How many more times do I have to call Customer Care to get my mobile connection back? 

Also, every day till you fix my problem, I'll be making a poster. 

Here's the first one. I call it Hangman. 

September 18, 2015


No connection yet. Intensifying my protest. I've made a template. Background ideas welcome.

Moving cities with a cat

We recently moved to Bangalore from Mumbai with our two-year-old cat A. It has been fun and we have a few people to thank for that.

The Indian Railways allows passengers to take pets in the First Class compartment. Which is a good thing because pets need their space and become awfully crabby in confined spaces like cages. The sudden exposure to new sounds and sights is too traumatic for them.

Transporting pets by air is possible. We know someone who successfully moved her three cats from Mumbai to Dubai, of course it cost her a bomb. There have also been cases of pets dying in the cargo. Only Air India allows pets inside the cabin but the final word still rests with the pilot. We lost a cat last year and weren’t prepared to take the risk. Trains seemed like the only other option. A friend sweetly offered to drive us down in his car but that would have been traumatising for him as well.

We booked two First Class AC ticket on the Udyan Express online on the IRCTC website and selected ‘Coupe’ in the drop-down menu to select seat preference. We read somewhere that it helps if you write a letter to the Railways telling them why you need a coupe. So we wrote a letter, took a print, attached a copy of our ticket and showed it to the Chief Reservation Manager at CST, Mumbai. She read it patiently and asked me to drop a copy of it at the Chief Commercial Manager’s office one day before the date of journey. (The Commercial Manager sits in the building at the Masjid end of Platform no. 1 along with the Materials and Accounts offices). There was a slot in his door into which requests are supposed to be dropped, post box style.

Something the Chief Reservation Manager said still haunted us though. ‘If there is no VVIP travelling at that time, you’ll get your coupe.’ A certain blog also mentioned that the TC can ‘arrange’ a coupe for you even after the charts were made if you only ‘gift’ him. Thanks to this, we were only partially relieved when an SMS appraised us of a coupe reservation.

A mewed her head off in the cab to the station. Once there, the noise of the trains and announcements pushed her to the very back of her carriage. She didn’t mew much but we could see her heart beat furiously. Her goggled eyes looked around in all directions. We couldn’t wait to get her into the quiet of the train.

Once inside, she stayed under the seat for about 6 hours. Only. After that, she wanted to be everywhere. We had read that pets don’t eat or poop when travelling. But we’d carried some treats which A readily had once she was comfortable with the space. Also drank water and use the litter once or twice. So relieved! 

Many thanks to Kaustubh Srikanth and Malika Bhavnani for taking time to write detailed mails about travelling with pets. Thanks to the awesome Clyde Nunes for offering to drive us down if we didn't get the coupe. Avantika Kapur, A loves the carriage, thank you! Varun Joshua, if you didn't let us bring A to your place, didn't know what we would've done! And of course, thanks to the Indian Railways for making A's first big journey comfortable!

Enjoy the pictures!

Best fifteen rupees spent ever!

The most amazing thing just happened!

If you call me on my number right now, you’ll hear a splendid old song - the title track of the Kishor Kumar 1961 classic Jhumroo.

I got a call from someone. Here’s how it went:

Hello sir, mein Sriram Finance se bol raha hoon. (Hello Sir, I'm calling from Sriram Finance.)

Ok.

Aapko koi loan ki requirement hai? (Do you have a loan requirement?)

Nahi. (No)

Accha theek hai sir, no problem. (Alright, no problem).

I was about to hang up when he said something that made my day.

Aapka caller tune sun-na tha. Mein waapus phone kar raha hoon. Aap receive mat kijiye. (I wanted to hear your caller tune. I'm calling you again, don't receive it please).

How I laughed when I hung up.

His call is lighting up my phone in silence mode right now!

How I got my first pauti

Ta da!

I got my first pauti* last Saturday. (*pauti – receipt in Marathi – slang term for the receipt you get when you pay the fine for a traffic violation.)

On my way back from the first free servicing of my new Honda Activa, I rode out of a one-way street into the waiting clutches of a constable who immediately seized my licence to ride. He asked more questions than all my interviewers in the past. He wanted to know if I had all the papers, who owned the vehicle, where I stayed, why then my licence said ‘Ambarnath’ and so on…all in an authoritarian tone, I think, they teach you in cop school. He wrote all of this down meticulously in Marathi in his tiny notebook.

I have always been terrified of landing into one of these soups. I was trying to be cool and all that. The mention of ‘Ambarnath’ had a kind of effect on him I wasn’t expecting. He looked like he knew the place. Apparently he used to visit the place often, since he used to live in Vithalwadi. I used to live in Vithalwadi too, I tell him. Where? He inquires and then proceeds to tell me where his house was. Genuinely surprised, I let him know that we might have been neighbours decades ago.

Fifteen minutes have passed in this unlikely catch-up. He asks me if I know where the Chembur Police Station is. That’s where I must go to pay the fine to release my licence and get the receipt. I told him I had no idea where his office is. He said he’ll accompany me there so I could pay the fine. But then he’ll have to vacate his spot. The solution is to call the beat marshals doing the rounds in the area and ask them to accompany me.

While we wait for the, this guy must be wondering why I’m not in a hurry at all for he says to himself, “Aapko chhuti hoyega Saturday Sunday.” I nod. “Aapko late ho raha hai toh aap jao. Mereko fine de do. Main bhar dega.” I ask if I can then collect the receipt from the police station later. He looks me in the eye and pauses for a few seconds and calls the beat marshals again, telling them that they must be motherfuckers to be keeping him waiting for so long.

Soon enough, they arrive. But they don’t want to accompany a no-entry guy to a police station. Too measly. It is decided that the cop who caught me will accompany me riding pillion while the beat cops will stand in his spot. I relent.

On the way to the police station (riding against the traffic with my upper and dipper alternating and me beeping) he tells me Chheda Nagar is full of ‘tumhaare log’ meaning ‘your people’. I think he means south Indians. ‘South ka log gentleman hota hai,’ he observes. I immediately seize the opportunity to picture myself in a 3-piece suit.

Thankfully, I haven’t had the need to visit a police station. I’d been pally with the cops at Ambarnath Police Station because I would frequent it to plant trees for them. This was to be my first tryst with Mumbai Police. I saw a few Singham types (lean and built, with moustaches they seemed proud to sport) and a few who looked like they were imitating Ashok Saraf playing a constable. A cop in uniform was hanging up his regular clothes he had just arrived in. While I was being charged Rs. 200 for riding into a no-entry street, I was amused at how a cop station was nothing but an office – a workplace for these hardworking people. The inspector who was writing my receipt seemed a wee bit annoyed that the constable had brought me right when he was planning to leave for home. That explains why my name on the receipt looks like it plans to escape from the paper.

Licence retrieved and fine paid, the constable hops back on my vehicle. As promised, I am to drop him off at his spot.

‘Sorry haan, mein aapko pakda,’ he says.

I am amused. I tell him he’s just doing his job and wonder aloud as to why he was being apologetic for it.

‘Nahi mereko maloom nahi tha aap gentleman hai,’ he says.

I laugh, awkward at what that is supposed to mean.

He then proceeds to explain that he couldn’t have torn my details from his notebook because then his seniors will find out about it and cause a scene. Apparently every page in a traffic cop’s notebook is accounted for.

I drop him off at his spot and we shake hands dramatically.

And that, kids, is the story of how I got my first pauti.

RIDING IN MUMBAI TRAFFIC – DAY 1

The wife and I rode to work for the first time today. Yes, we are now the people who fall under the demographic of Sec A+, 18-30, M/F, double income group, who live in a rented flat but own a two-wheeler. With help from the parents, we got ourselves a Honda Activa – a highly recommended and popular choice for young urban couples.

I thought I would enjoy the ride to work and back but today’s ride was a nerve-wracking experience. Before this, my only riding experience in Mumbai city has been on bicycles. I’ve ridden the Activa before but that was only a short distance, that too between Ulhasnagar and Ambarnath.

To begin with, I am not used to the idea of the big helmet. This heavy object feels like it will take my head and roll away. It also constricts your vision considerably. But what is a little discomfort if it saves your head from becoming a cracked watermelon?

I realized that I was being ultra-super-aware of everything around me. I was constantly monitoring both rear-view mirrors, keeping an eye on the speedometer, looking at the road to avoid potholes and looking at the closest vehicle up ahead trying to keep a safe distance from it.

My back would constantly heave from the bounce of the new purring machine under me. My shoulders would pass on their stiffness to my arms causing me to stretch them every few kilometers. My eyes began to hurt from the extra focus.

All my nerves felt like they belonged to a bomb-squad personnel who was wondering whether to cut the red wire or the blue wire. I was making crucial decisions at every step. Do I overtake this bus or do I just follow it? Do I take this bridge or not? Taking the aisle between cars and the wall of the bridge was the scariest part of today’s journey.  All the time I eked out of the narrow space tackling rear-view mirror hi-fives, I kept thinking, “what if one of the cars decided to swerve left and nudged us off the bridge?” It is a terrifying thought. It is still alright if you are a solo rider but you feel doubly responsible with family riding pillion.

Riding back home was comparatively funner. Mostly because the cold December wind is pleasant and there was no sun. We left work late and found less traffic. I even sang aloud to myself. I don’t know if the wife heard me though.

I am going to miss the lack of focus I could afford while travelling in a cab but I think I can get used to this.

I also learnt a few things today.

Jaywalkers will only understand what they are doing wrong when they become motorists themselves. I almost told a guy to use the footpath today. You suddenly feel like you own the road you are riding on and anyone coming between you and your road is a ‘stupid idiot who doesn’t know where he is going’. What an interesting turn of events for someone who has been a jaywalking pedestrian all this while!

Being a cyclist, I know not to rush cyclists if they hold me up. If I wait a few seconds, I can overtake them easily without bothering them. I’ve also decided to not honk until it is highly necessary.

I plan to be a good motorist, someone who waits for the lights to turn green before zooming away and someone who stops before the zebra crossing. I got told off by a biker already for doing that already. He said, “Tu jaao nakos…mala tari javoo de!” (You don’t go, at least let me go).

We ride between Chembur and Parel (Elphinstone also). Is there something we should watch out for? Something I should do or not do? Tips welcome.

IF YOU ARE A MALAYALI, YOU NEED TO SEE DRISHYAM

My head throbs from the blood rushing to it right now. It will probably give me a nasty headache at work tomorrow, tired for want of more sleep but I can’t not write this now. A film that had you rooted to your seat should get the praise it deserves. That’s the least a writer can do.

It is 2.15 am. I just finished watching Jeethu Joseph’s masterpiece called Drishyam and I am mind-blown.

The first half of the film is slow. No, call it draggy. Like chewing gum that has been in your mouth longer than you would prefer. I complained to my wife about the slow pace and the unreal, saccharine-sweet dialogues the protagonist Mohanlal and his wife shared.

Little did I know that this pace and tone was not only intentional but also meant to be the calm before the storm that the second half was going to be!

When the central plot of the story kicks in, the film develops automatic seatbelts and binds you. I was stuck to the floor as I watched it on my laptop (from an original DVD). I couldn’t pry my eyes off the screen as Lalettan masterminded the most brilliant game of chor-police I have ever seen.  

The Wikipedia page for the film modestly calls it a drama-thriller. The film is so much more! It is a fitting tribute to the world of cinema in general. It shows an illiterate but smart person who learns the ways of life from the number of films he consumes…no, devours every day…and often every night. His thoughts are from his movies, so is the voice in his head. His brain concocts devious plans based on learnings from all these films…all to protect his family from every danger he can foresee.

Director Jeethu Joseph has managed to eke out stellar performances from all his cast members. I am sure the crew was at its creative best too when they worked on this project. You will appreciate their hard work once you see the graph of your own opinion of the film go from base level to boss level.

I recommend Drishyam to you. I would love to spoil it for you but I won’t because I want you to experience this awesomeness by yourself. I will await your reviews and will wait to know if like me, your jaws dropped too when you realized why the construction of the new police station was so integral to the story.

Meanwhile, Mr. Joseph, you have a new fan.

Love for Clay

I discovered claymation with Taare Zameen Par’s dazzling claymation titling. Enamoured by it, I wanted to study under the man who had made it - Dhimant Vyas. While that did not materialize, I decided to make myself a clay selfie. It wasn’t too bad except that I looked inflicted by some serious skin and bone disease.

In college, I took a clay snake on a trek to Tungareshwar.

More of Saamp here - http://on.fb.me/1gVCjVz

Recently, Anthony had taken up a commercial project – a bunch of claymation films to promote a VoiP brand. Forever interested in claymation, I turned up at the set just for fun. I watched them shoot, ate free food and played with the leftover clay. I got to see tools that professional clay modellers use – nothing fancy but highly functional.

Spending time pressing the soft dough and watching the clay figures become the Shahrukh Khan and Madhuri Dixit of Anthony’s film one still at a time inspired me to start playing with clay regularly.

I set up a page called ‘A Lump of Clay’ with a seemingly philosophical bio that reads – ‘The world is changing and so is this lump of clay’. Every day, the lump becomes something new.

I started with a dice and went on to do some more. Do tell me what you think. See the rest on the Facebook page - https://www.facebook.com/alumpofclay 

The Lump of Clay

                                      

Shakuni's best friend

Thinking of the grandfather of claymation - Pingu

About time we made our bones

Pheess

When you become old, your kids don’t talk to you much. Even your body stops listening to you.

Be nice to old people. 
They’ll appreciate it.

The Great Indian PM Shopping Festival came to an end today!

I got disappointment. What did you get?

Use this straw to have some thanda thanda paani -http://bit.ly/1qXNFMD