I am already besieged by a sense of heady wellness because, in exactly 3 weeks from now, I will be in India on a break. But that is not the reason why my post is titled The Homecoming. Last weekend, I shifted from my swanky hotel apartment — where housekeeping was part of the sleek package deal – and moved back into my old, lived-in apartment with the slightly frayed carpet, two buildings down the road.

I couldn’t take coming back to a spic and span hotel room every night. It so didn’t feel like home. I had to sit stiffly on the well-laid-out bed and watch movies on the plasma TV – and I used to long for my crumpled sofa set where I could put my leg up and watch Everybody Loves Raymond on the boxy television. I used to also be in perpetual dread of the housekeeping staff. It was like Murphy’s Law: these guys used to ring the bell just when I was tucking into a huge breakfast, and I had to quickly gobble up everything in front of me so that they could go about their business of cleaning up. Worse, at times, I had to cut short my shower lest they just opened the door with their master key and let themselves in!

All in all, I guess it’s fine to be confined to a hotel room for a few days; not so, when there is a sense of permanence to a stay.

And there was this amusing side story of security measures too. If anyone came over to see me – and if I was going to stay in a place over the long term, chances are people would drop by (man – or woman — is a social animal after all). One of my friends dropped by to pick me up for dinner, and when he walked into my room he roundly cursed the ‘security’ downstairs. “Those guys demanded an ID card, and when I produced one they said they would keep it with them till I left the premises… I mean, what the hell yaar?”

My Pakistani friend Maria’s sister, who still lives here in Dubai, just round the block, dropped by the next evening. She too had to produce identification – and had to keep her labour card with the front office chappies till she left. “Do you think they thought I am a …?” she started.

“Don’t even say it!!!” I hollered back. “I’m moving back to my old building.”

The evening before I moved back, I was stepping out for a walk. There was a commotion breaking out right at the entrance. One of the guests, this Indian guy who I’d seen a couple of times in the elevator, was shouting at the guards because one of his friends wasn’t being “let in”. She wasn’t carrying an ID on her, the guards argued stolidly. What clearly wasn’t helping the girl’s case was the fact that she was blowing cigarette smoke – while arguing that she had forgotten to put her passport inside her bag — into the faces of the two burly security-men. I didn’t hang around there so I don’t know what happened finally but I did manage to wink at the girl (also an Indian) — and she rolled her eyes in response.

I don’t have a music player in Dubai and I wasn’t intending to get one. Since I’m not a big fan of iPod or, worse, listening to music on your laptop (what else do people plan to do with their laptops – get married to them?), I had resigned myself to a life sans music here.

The last time when I was in Calcutta – a couple of months ago – I had gone to New Market. Anybody who hasn’t live in Calcutta wouldn’t quite comprehend what New Market meant to middle class folks before the onset of the beefy malls. It used to be a place where dreams came true: from music, to confectionary, to clothes to imported Pringles… everything. The place is now a shadow of its former self since most people prefer going to malls these days, but it is still trying to bravely retain its character.

When I was walking past Nahoum’s – the cake shop whose offerings I grew up on, though my mother complains bitterly these days how even the great Nahoum’s has also fallen from grace — in New Market, I heard music wafting by. This was music from my school days: Musical Bandbox used to air on All India Radio every Sunday at noon, and for one hour I would hog the radio. Musical Bandbox was all about easy listening: music full of melody and lyrics that were simple, always full of hope, never cynical. And of course, love was what made the world go round. It was the kind of music that true-blue aficionados – I later found out — would snort at as they went about with their business comprising of heavy metal and acid rock.

That day at New Market, I traced the musical notes to its source: a makeshift music store where an Anglo-Indian boy was playing the world’s best music – Elvis Presley, Jim Reeves, Engelbert Humperdinck, Andy Williams, Cliff Richards, Bonnie Tyler, The Carpenters… I have a decent collection at home in Delhi, but I wanted to start all over again. So I spent a couple of thousand bucks, and bought myself half-a-dozen easy listening stuff.

I heard some out of them out in Calcutta, sitting in the Salt Lake residence of my parents, sipping gin and lime cordial. Then, I got them back to Delhi, intending to stash them away. When I reached Dubai, via Delhi, I realised I had carried three of the CDs with me: Engelbert – At His Best, Essential Andy Williams and Jim Reeves’ Love Letters.

The three were resting peacefully inside my suitcase (since I couldn’t listen to them here) when, a few days ago, I suddenly remembered something: a friend in Delhi made me listen to a CD – and he played it through his television speakers, on the DVD player. (Most people would look at me strangely if I told them that I DISCOVERED the wonders of listening to music by playing a CD on my DVD player and hooking it on to my television, but then that’s just who I am.) I tried it out with my Philips DVD player and the television set at my new hotel apartment, and voila, it worked!

For the past few days, I have been listening to the men who changed my life many years ago. Jim Reeves – or Gentleman Jim — who died before he turned 40; Engelbert – he changed his birth name to sound like the German composer – who was born in Madras (where he lived till he was 10); and Andy Williams – who was actually nicknamed ‘Emperor of Easy’ and who recently, at the age of 82 and still a devout Republican, came down heavily on Barack Obama saying the new President wants his country to fail.

My favourite songs? I love you more by Jim Reeves, for one. I wrote down the lyrics in my dairy when I was in school. “I love you more/ than every wave/ that breaks upon some far and distant,/ lonely island shore.” And then, Spanish Eyes by Engelbert (though I personally prefer the version by Presley), and Quando quando quando. Andy Williams’ Can’t take my eyes of you (which was plagiarised rather shamefully in the movie Dillagi) scores over his epic Moon River (from Breakfast at Tiffany’s), as do Where do I begin? (Love Story) and Speak softly love (The Godfather).

Living in the hotel apartment has suddenly become a different ballgame altogether.

“What plans for the weekend?” is a question I hate intensely. Earlier I could say “Oh, I have to clean my place – it’s such a mess.” These days, almost everyone has found out that I get housekeeping facilities as part of my package deal in my new apartment.

So I have to fall back on something lame like, “I’ll probably watch a movie.”

“Oh, yes, so many new releases coming up with weekend… Which one are you planning to catch?”
Read more…

Reverse racism

Two things happened this week. First, I watched an eminently-forgettable Bollywood film called All The Best at Grand Metroplex on Sheikh Zayed Road. The place reminded me of a cinema theatre called Metro in Calcutta’s Esplanade area: it has an old world, quaint charm and is very unlike most of the snazzy cineplexes in Dubai.

I actually wanted to watch Wake Up Sid, but it was playing at ungodly hours. Anyhow, Auditorium 2, where All The Best was being screened was full of the desi crowd, and my movie partner – also from Delhi – snorted snootily that it almost felt like being at Golcha theatre in Daryaganj. Read more…

from dubaishortstay.com

I will do a short post today since I am in the midst of shifting houses. I had to, very regretfully, leave my old studio apartment overlooking the cemetery and move two buildings down the road to a hotel apartment with a courtyard view.

What is amazing is that I’ve joined the teeming bunch of singles in Dubai who opted for a hotel apartment instead of just a homely one. My friend Mohit – who used to be a ‘Single in the City’ reader in Delhi (he moved here around the same time I did), and wrote to me after he read my column in Khaleej Times, asking if I was the same Sushmita Bose or not – has been living in one for more than a year now. Read more…