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Life in a… movie theatre

"I'm a hustla, I'm a I'm a hustla, homie. I got the products, narcotics for the customers, homie."

 

Where did I hear these drug and crime infused rap lyrics, straight off the mean streets of New York?

 

In a Bombay Bathroom, of course.

 

And so, there I stood, listening to a litany of swear words and hip-hop slang while reviewing my rudimentary Hindi.

 

I was in Andheri at Fame Adlabs, preparing myself to see 'Life in a Metro'. My previous exposure to Hindi movies involved sub-titles and mind-numbing item numbers; this was to be an entirely different beast, or so I was told.

 

This seems the right place to admit it?I had no idea what to expect from an Indian movie theatre. In my mind, formed by a biased American media, I was entering a sanctum of filth and pestilence.

 

I feared putting my feet down during the film, lest the rats nibble my toes and cockroaches crawl up my trousers.

 

I envisioned rickety wooden benches, densely packed with sweaty drones. Of course, they wouldn't care for a plot, because they all led such 'difficult lives' and yearned for escape through 'fantastical films'.

 

Don't hold it against me; I'd read it a hundred times!

 

Maybe there are theatres out there that fit this description, but Fame quickly dispelled my stereotypes and preconceived notions.

 

From the moment I entered the intoxicating air-conditioning and saw the fashionably, if scantily, dressed youngsters, I knew my assumptions were categorically false.

 

Upon entering, I also felt an irrepressible pressure in my bladder, one demanding immediate relief. So, I asked for the restroom, which brings us, full circle, back to my story. 

 

I finished my business and washed my hands, marvelling at the profane lyrics and readily available disinfectant soap.

 

Exiting the loo, I followed the seductive scent of buttered popcorn until I found myself face to face with a pimply worker taking refreshment orders. I was delighted to find no dearth of devilish treats?chocolate snacks, sour candies, ice cream and multiple varieties of that old stand-by, popcorn.

 

After racking up a triple digit receipt and filling both arms to maximum capacity, I hesitantly made my way towards the double doors promising the aforementioned film. The coworkers accompanying me on my maiden voyage laughed at my naivety, even accusing me of sycophancy as I marvelled at the spacious theatre with its plush seating.

 

"WOW!! Unbelievable! It's even nicer than what we have in America! Where do we sit?"

 

I moved down the aisle, popcorn precariously perched on the crook of my elbow and Bisleris in both hands. Suddenly, a hand grabbed my shoulder; it was my boss.

 

"No baba, that's the Silver seating. We're sitting up in Gold." He said with a motion of towards the uppermost reaches of the theatre.

 

"Gold?" I asked with a touch of curiosity and wonderment.

 

Even in the darkness, my straining eyes managed to depict the form of the Gold seats?they were huge.

 

With unbridled enthusiasm, I bounded back up the stairs to my rightful place, and again loudly proclaimed my amazement, much to my co-workers' embarrassment.

 

"Are you kidding! This is unbelievable! WOW, look at the size of this cup-holder!"

 

The same hand, less sympathetic this time, grabbed me and forcefully pulled me into my seat.

 

Ahh, divine. I sank into the cushy leather, mouth agape at the novelty of it all. The armrests were excessively accessorised– miniature tables, cup-holders and sundry other slots and gizmos.

 

Owing to the tremendous width and depth of the seating surface, I curled into a ball, bringing my feet off the floor and onto my chair?must watch for rats, you know.

 

Suddenly, my chair sprang to life!

 

"Help!" I squealed, pleading for assistance from the monstrous chair monster.

 

"Quiet, fool! It's a recliner.' Came the denunciation.

 

Ahhh, a recliner. How ridiculous. How superfluous. How utterly necessary. Why hadn't anyone thought of this in America?

 

I immediately employed this function to its fullest, stretching out lazily like a cat in the summer's sun. Superlatives such as, 'glorious' and 'splendid' emitted from my mouth, despite my best intentions to keep quiet.

 

I finally managed to occupy it, the mouth that is, thanks to the veritable mountain of popcorn at my disposal. I decided to sample my chicken sandwich, starring in its role as dinner for the night. But no ketchup! Just like in America, the overwhelmed staffer had failed to give me the requisite condiments.

 

Serenity smashed, I sighed and made a show of getting up to retrieve the forgotten item. For a third time, the hand yanked me to attention, this time not even feigning affection.

 

"You annoying twit, sit down! He'll get it for you!"

 

On cue, a lanky man in uniform materialised in front of me, asking me politely me what exactly I needed. After a brief exchange, during which I was not allowed to speak, the attendant danced down the stairs and out of sight.

 

Wow. Not only was I sitting in a recliner, but I someone waited at my beck and call? It was similar to watching a movie in my drawing room, being served by my mother– minus the complaining and 'woe is me' running dialogue. Mom, if you're reading this: I jest, I kid, I joke!

 

I'd never had a better movie-going experience, and the film hadn't even begun.

 

Tomorrow, I'll let you know what I thought about the film itself.

 

Until then, what do you think? Are the movie theatres all so nice? Do you sit Gold or Silver?

Posted in Things I love about India.

8 comments

By Matthew Schneeberger – June 12, 2007


In search of John, the finale

As John reached the stage and grabbed the microphone, I shook off my temporary infatuation and prepared myself for his stirring speech.

 

"Um, ahh I can't see. The lights are in my, uh, eyes."

 

The press disregarded this disappointing beginning and hounded Mr. Abraham with questions. He mechanically answered, never divulging more than, "I hope the youth vote out the corrupt politicians."

 

This seemingly miniscule comment rapidly snowballed, manifesting itself into John's heroic assault on venality. Reporters fired rapid-fire questions, most of them bouncing harmlessly away without being processed by the actor's dawdling mind.

 

The closest I managed to get, about five feet away, still left 12 people in between me and my target. Even from this distance, I could appreciate how disproportionately the genetic lottery had handled Mr. Abraham.

 

He was equal parts daft and dashing. His clothes were impeccable, as if they were painted on. A flawless goatee adorned his prominent jaw, accentuated by an enveloping smile. His hair was gelled to perfection. In short, he was a cyborg.

 

As the press python constricted tighter and tighter around its celebrity victim, I saw the hopelessness of my situation. There would be no exclusive rediff.com interview.

 

The words of encouragement/warning of my editor caromed around my mind. "If you want another assignment, you'll get something good!"

 

I circled the periphery of the feeding frenzy, gauging wall density and thickness. Finally, when I noted a temporary weakness in the mass of reporters, I made my valiant charge.

 

Imagine the opposite of quick-sand; this best describes the press puddle I tried to swim. I was easily repelled, as would any civilised human with a shred of a conscience.

 

I noticed a shirt fragment on the ground in front of me, evidence from the front line. I needed evidence to show my editors; at least I had come back alive. The camera-man missing the fabric didn't seem to mind; he was getting his 'shots'.

 

Disgusted, I turned to leave. I heard the inane prattling of reporters, sprinkled intermittently with more Abraham quotables.

 

"Yea, I'm a middle class icon. I rode the bus."

"I'm ridiculously good looking."

 

Ok, no, he didn't say that, but he might as well have.

 

For all the hoop and regale that opened the event, the climax was anything but. As I exited the press conference room, one of the staffers shoved a boiling Pepsi into my left hand and a three-day old samosa into my right. Without ceremony, I was deposited outside and left to make sense of the whirlwind I had just experienced.

 

To my left sat the same dog, nursing the same malnourished pups. To my right sat the limousines and the MTV trailers.

 

"India," I thought, shrugging and heading back down the dusty path towards a fleet of taxis.

 

Once my seat had been secured inside the newest and least rickety, I began bemoaning my bad luck to the unimpressed driver.

 

"John Abraham, kachra," he said disinterestedly.

 

"John Abraham, kachra," I replied in earnest.

 

And we left. 

Posted in Ambivalent.

5 comments

By Matthew Schneeberger – June 7, 2007


In search of John, part 2

After successfully urging the bloated mutt to relinquish control of the sole entrance to the conference room, the PR official turned to all of us and made an announcement.

 

"Mr. Abraham has another engagement, for the time being, and will join us at the end of the program. For now, please go inside and take a seat."

 

Disgruntled groans spread through the small crowd. We began filing into the building, directed by a superfluous number of security officers. The disparity in light was tremendous; I nearly stumbled while managing the uneven steps.

 

"John Abraham will be here in ten minutes. I guess Bipasha is here also!" I overhead one reporter tell his cameraman.

 

The conference room was surprisingly small with precious little seating. Owing to my firanginess, I believe, a chair in the front was made available; I took it.

 

Surveying the room with a keener eye, I noticed the MTV and Pepsi logos lazily swirling and rotating on the all-black backdrop, images cast by the projector near the entrance/exit.

 

The Bipasha rumour ran rampant like wild-fire, though it had evolved during the sojourn to the front of the rumour. The last version I heard went as follows, "Bipasha and John are fighting. She's crying and her mascara has run from all the tears."

 

It was an adult version of telephone, the game when children start a phrase on one end of a line and see how warped it becomes by the time it reaches the other side.

 

I later found out that Bipasha was not present.

 

Finally, the doors were closed and lights completely cut, save for the illuminated stage occupied by MTV's main PR spokesman. He immediately launched into a brilliant soliloquy, espousing the virtues of Pepsi and MTV. Between his soothing voice and the video montage of corporate contributions to India, I found myself yearning for a second Pepsi while mentally noting the exact dates and times of all MTV's new programmes.

 

I managed to process some information; namely, that MTV and Pepsi were combining forces to bring India the 2007 Youth Icon, voted on by the public.

 

I managed to rouse myself, however, when the first member of a steady convoy of MTV personalities entered the room to minimal applause.

 

"Get excited, people! WOOOH! Multi-media phones are the global icon!"

 

It was quite a contrast, her enthused shouting and pandering versus the crowd's decided indifference.

 

Four more followed her example, also garnering little attention. The story behind the story, however, was John Abraham. The people on both sides of me furiously punched at their mobiles; hushed whispers came from behind me.

 

When was the celebrated actor making his appearance? This was the sole question occupying all in attendance.

 

As the presentation limped to the finish-line, the sixth sense of reporters and cameramen flashed to life. They squirmed in their seats, necks craning towards the entrance; everyone wanted the first glimpse.

 

At last, the moment arrived! The strapping actor, circled by beefy bodyguards, stalked in with purpose.

 

My first impression, forever captured in my small note-pad, reads:

 

"He looks like a billboard, like a cartoon. I've never seen a more chiselled, sculpted man If I was gay "

pt 3 tomorrow

Posted in Ambivalent.

3 comments

By Matthew Schneeberger – June 6, 2007


In search of John (pt. 1)

Finishing up a typical day at office, I examined my schedule and mentally organised the next day. "Wow", I thought, "quite packed"?there wouldn't be a moment of spare time.

 

So, I gathered my bag and turned to leave when a co-worker's hand lightly tapped my shoulder.

 

"Matthew, how would you feel about meeting John Abraham tomorrow afternoon."

 

"John Abraham," I replied, excited to actually recognise a name from Bollywood.

 

You see, despite my lengthy stay here in India and my profound respect and love for most things Indian, I haven't quite been converted to a Bollywood lover.

 

This isn't too surprising; I hardly watch films in America. In fact, I've been accused of 'cultural elitism' in the past, owing to my penchant for devouring good books and my general scorn for sitcoms and predictable movies.

 

I prefer Bach to Beyonce; I guess I'm hopeless.

 

Still, I had managed to catch John Abraham in two dramatically different films?'Water' and 'Taxi'. While I won't endorse his acting as top-notch, he admirably played both roles and is refreshing as an alternative to the steady procession of SRK and Big B movies saturating the box office.

 

So, despite my full schedule and my paralyzing lack of knowledge on the subject, I agreed to meet the actor and immerse myself, at least for a day, in this strange alternate realm known as 'Bollywood'.

 

The next morning I arrived early and rushed through my morning assignments. The entire time, my mind played through the impending interview. I considered countless questions and developed innumerable angles from which to approach the actor. I logged onto the internet and read tidbits of information relating to Mr. Abraham. Finally, at 11:00, I felt ready.

 

After grabbing a handful of visiting cards and stuffing them in my shirt pocket, I jumped in a taxi and headed towards the MTV studio in Lower Parel. The trip comprised me jabbering away to the driver about my newfound celebrity status, in English; he increasingly eyed me with suspicion.

 

Finally, luckily, I ended up outside the purported venue, a shimmering glass structure with personnel guarding the doorway.

 

"Impressive," I thought, "You could tell me this was Orlando, Florida right now and wouldn't disagree."

 

I sauntered inside and made a show of retrieving a visiting card. Coyly, I slipped it to one of the pretty receptionists at the uber-cool front desk, adding a characteristic wink for added touch. Blankly, she directed me to the posterior of the building and continued with her secretarial duties.

 

I returned outside and started on the path suggested, only to confront my first problem. I didn't know where exactly to walk.

 

The paved road drifted into obscurity, replaced by rocks and dust. The chain-link fence on either side became increasingly ragged and rusted.

 

Rounding the back of the building, I braced myself for a desolate scene, only to find opulence and order. There sat two limousines, a few trailers to hold the stars and countless press vehicles glistening in the afternoon sun.

 

MTV VeeJays milled about, caked in make-up and wearing clothes that left me stammering and blushing. They assumed I was foreign press, adopted a plastic smile and cooed their respective names while offering me their hands. It was surreal.

 

Finally, the Public Relations person in charge, a bubbly girl in her twenties, pushed through the flock of vixens and handed me the press release and a bottle of Pepsi.

 

I expressed my gratitude at this added touch, only to realise that Pepsi logos were splashed across every spare inch of space in the immediate vicinity?corporate sponsors of the event.

 

She also marked my fingernail with a fluorescent pen; the mark hasn't washed off a week later. I doubt it served a purpose, as the mark was miniscule and the pen generic. Still, I submitted; I was eager.

 

Stepping in line with the rest of the press, I caught my first whiff of frenzy. I couldn't quite place it, but it was tangible. Phones rang out intermittently, journalists scribbled notes and security began herding us from the trailers?John Abraham was approaching!

 

False alarm. It wasn't John. Instead, a swollen bitch laboured past me and plopped down on the step leading into the press conference room.

 

When I say bitch, of course, I mean female dog. Only in India. She was pregnant, and apparently had decided that the press circus hovering outside the tiny doorway was the ideal spot to nurse.

 

Several puppies availed of her teets; the press conference was delayed until further notice.

 

*Tomorrow: part two*

Posted in Ambivalent.

3 comments

By Matthew Schneeberger – June 5, 2007


Indian Weddings: A learning experience

I tried to gather information and form an accurate opinion about India while still living in the States. I read books, visited message boards and asked innumerable questions to my uber-patient girlfriend.

 

Since arrival, however, I've realised how truly impossible it is to fully grasp something until you've experienced it first-hand.

 

Nothing better exemplifies this than my first Indian wedding. I've heard the stories; I've seen the movies; I've read several accounts on the net and in print.

 

I had a firm notion of what to expect; five minutes into the festivities I realised I was entirely incorrect.

 

For starters, it was a Muslim wedding. Going further, it was an arranged marriage. These two terms alone have the average Westerner entertaining images of a cruel ceremony, devoid of emotion and steeped in conservatism.

 

Imagine my surprise, then, when I entered the hall to find disco-balls spinning overhead and aunties and uncles decked out in scandalous clothing.

 

Apparently, the Sangeet was a seventies dance theme; I didn't get the memo. Every male inside, save a few gentlemen fifty years my elder, were rocking out in satin shirts and rhinestones.

 

Earlier in the day I had rushed all over the traffic-clogged city purchasing formal Indian clothes. Finally, I settled on a beautiful blue kurta, black pyjama, a multi-coloured stole and little leather sandals. So, in my authentic Kurta pyjama and pointed shoes, I pushed my way through a throng of gyrating, sweaty bodies.

 

After recovering a portion of my senses and making sure that shock wasn't plastered across my face, I tried to ascertain what all the commotion was in the front of the crowd.

 

Everyone not dancing wildly themselves was turned towards the stage, on tip-toes, clapping and watching some evidently extraordinary entertainment.

 

Finally, through a process of osmosis, I managed to weasel my way to a prime locale. There, I was stunned to find the bride to be wearing a skimpy sari, sensuously moving and looking provocatively out into the crowd.

 

After checking twice to make sure my girlfriend wasn't glaring at me in fury, I openly gawked at the display on stage. After a few minutes, when the dance died and the music subsided, I whispered as innocently as possible in her ear, "I bet the groom is a little upset about that dance!"

 

"Why should he be?" she casually replied.

 

"Because his future wife just gave the entire crowd an eyeful!" I said.

 

"Are you serious? That's not the bride; that's her mom! Auntie is hot!" my girlfriend stated matter-of-factly.

 

Unbelievable! The woman on-stage, putting Cristina Aguilera and Shakira to shame, was a middle-aged mother? I obviously had a lot to learn about Indian weddings.

Next on stage was the bride herself, dressed in a shimming white sari and flashing a brilliant smile. To be honest, the smile looked super-imposed, as her mouth never adopted a different ex-pression throughout the course of the ceremony. She too danced exquisitely and, to be honest, wowed me with the pure skill and emotion she put into her performance.

 

Finally, after the bride had long finished and I was drinking my second glass of beer (in a Muslim wedding!), the last dance started. The hired entertainer on stage, dressed like John Travolta from Saturday Night Fever, boogied his way past all the females, stopping to croon for the especially pretty.

 

Once more, I should have kept my mouth shut and observed, but being quiet has never been a strong point.

 

"Where did they find this guy? I wonder how much he cost." I said.

 

"Um, honey, that's the groom." My girlfriend said with a touch of sarcasm.

 

Ok, now I was completely confused. Wasn't he supposed to be fully adorned with turban and silk scarves? Wasn't he supposed to be bejewelled and sitting solemnly between his parents? Did I miss something?

 

Before I had time to make sense of all this the lights dimmed and the crowd dispersed. Wanting to fit in as much as possible, despite my large body and pinkish skin, I followed suit and migrated with the rest of the party-goers.

 

I ended up with a plate in my right hand and some delicately wrapped silverware in the other. It was time for dinner. The food comprised bhuna ghost, dal makhani, romali rotis and several other options I didn't have the opportunity to taste.

 

I also noticed the Jain food preparations, the vegetarian table and the dosas being made as fast as the famished crowd could dispose of them. What religious pluralism! What gracious and considerate hosts! In America, vegetarians have the following option? salad and bread. Here, even though it was a Muslim wedding, every effort was made to accommodate all; I was thoroughly impressed.

 

After dinner, I hardly had the chance to breathe before being dragged back onto the dance floor for another round of aerobics. The sense of camaraderie and community was incredibly powerful, to a degree I've never experienced in the USA. Hair was let down, shoes were kicked off, and the party truly got underway.

 

For the next two hours I enjoyed wine and fantastic company. I saw the bride and husband dancing naturally and looking quite comfortable with one another?not something I expected from an arranged couple. Furthermore, I saw the father of the bride launch into an absolutely stunning dance with a few other males, one that brought hoots and hollers from all directions.

 

The alcohol helped me loosen up, and because  of repeated refills thanks to fellow revellers, my glass never reached the bottom. In fact, one gentleman assured me, "I'm not drunk. Don't even think I'm drunk. But if you EVER need any assistance or help in this city, call me. This is my city; you're a guest. I'll make sure everything works for you."

 

Though I doubted the truthfulness of his claims to sobriety, the pureness of his sentiments mingled with the wine and evoked some warmth from me as well; I grabbed him in a bearhug and told him, "I love India because of people like you!"

 

Unfortunately, the party came to an end sometime around 2 am. Though I had been there for almost 5 hours, it felt as if the night had just begun. On my way out the door, I grabbed a handful of julabis and munched happily all the way to the curbside taxi waiting to take me home.

“Well, that made any wedding I’ve ever attended look decidedly quaint,” was my last thought as I slipped into unconscious dreams of saris, sunglasses and bhuna ghost.

 

Though I woke up the next morning with a slight headache, unquenchable thirst and a few shoebites, I still smiled. Not only did I have a lot of fun, it was a tremendous learning experience– one I won't forget any time soon!

Posted in Things I love about India.

12 comments

By Matthew Schneeberger – May 18, 2007


Flavours of the EAST

If you're looking for delicious food and a delightful atmosphere at an affordable price, try East- Pan Asia. Located in Kemp's Corner-Mumbai (close to Cumballa hill hospital), East opened to great applause in January 2007.

 

I had the exquisite pleasure of dining at this restaurant last Saturday evening with my girlfriend. We met up with a few friends to share dinner and drinks and celebrate Cinco de Mayo.

 

Though East specialises in bringing together an assortment of flavours from the Asian continent, on this special occasion it had no problem throwing some "Amexican" essence into the mix. Salsa music danced forth from the overhead speakers, the bar churned out margaritas and imported Coronas for 200 rupees and the menu boasted quesadillas and other Mexican snacks.

 

The location has experienced a range of visiting restaurants, but it seems as though East ' Pan Asia is here to stay.

 

The decor can be described as post-modern with Buddhist overtones: dark coloured furniture featuring right angles and sundry decorations derived from Eastern cultures.

 

The general ambience evokes comfort and relaxation. A lounge in the ‘Buddha Bar’ vein, the positive vibes find their roots in the subdued lighting and multi-coloured satin pillows adorning the wooden benches. Compared to the majority of Mumbai eateries, the interior is spacious, yet still intimate and convivial; it lacks pretension and is pleasing to the senses.

 

Let's move on to the crux of my review?the food. The menu is clean and precise. It offers a handful of appetisers and about ten vegetarian and non-vegetarian main dishes. For once I wasn't confused; I didn't feel as if I was flipping through pages in a telephone book.

 

Accompanying these options are noodle and rice preparations, from Pad Thai to Basmati.

 

Ranging from Indian curries to Indonesia meat preparations, the food is a unique amalgamation from the cuisines of Asia (save Japanese). When asked for his inspiration in creating this assemblage of Asian delights, Head Chef Nachiket Shetye remarked, "I’ve been working on the menu for three months. I just make food that I think my friends will love!"

 

Nachiket went on to explain why his menu offers comparatively fewer options than most restaurants, saying "I just wanted to focus on doing a few dishes the right way. That way, I know that every item served is top notch and will leave a good impression."

 

Scanning this ergonomic menu, two items immediately caught my eye?"roti canai" (180 rupees) and the "lamb rendang" (280 rupees). Apparently I have excellent taste as we soon learned that both are signature dishes of the restaurant. Urged at the behest of our eager friends, we complimented these two dishes with the "chilli potatoes" (155 rupees) and a "Thai vegetarian curry" (220 rupees). For our foundation, we selected the immortal basmati rice (120 rupees).

 

Our 'friends', I use this term lightly, circled the table like hawks, waiting for any perceived weakness and ready to strike. Naturally protective of my food, I took to devouring the entourage of delectable treats as they arrived.

 

In accordance with the time-honoured tradition, the appetisers came first.

 

The roti canai featured a large crispy roti, folded and presented like a standing napkin. Accompanying the roti was a bowl of warm chicken curry that perfectly blended masalas, making the pair an exquisite combination. The roti was buttery and crisp; the curry was rich without assaulting the palette; I declared it a 'subtle masterpiece' between mouthfuls.

 

The chilli potatoes, piping hot and enticingly crispy, were glazed with a delicious concoction of spices ranging from sweet to tikka. The heaping, border-line excessive portion left my once capacious stomach thoroughly stuffed; I pushed the remainders away in anticipation of the main event.

 

My friends, sensing my deferral, eagerly stepped in and polished off the balance. My limited survey of four people yielded the following sentiments, "The chilli potatoes are unmatchable!" and "I've never tasted such goodness."

 

Clubbed with my first corona, the appetisers were the ideal beginning to a meal that managed to improve as it progressed.

 

Corona #2 and the main dishes arrived simultaneously, all managed by our dexterous and charming waiter.

 

The "lamb rendang", a Malaysian/Indonesian lamb preparation immediately besotted the crowd. The aforementioned waiter expertly served the lamb from an enormous vessel; my hand was shaking as I brought the first bite home.

 

Nirvana! Sweet sublime bliss infused my mouth and invigorated my senses. Any notion of 'being full' or 'not having room' vanished from my sensibilities; I was concerned that my quarter pound serving was not enough.

 

Ah, to describe heaven, where does one begin? The lamb, finely shredded and marinated in an effusion of sultry spices, was the single best dish I've eaten in six months. Unfortunately for the bystanders, I needed no assistance with the "Lamb Rendang", my poor girlfriend hardly managed to siphon a few morsels.

 

The 'vegetarian green curry', though not an item I typically would choose, wowed me at once. Tofu, something I'd never consider eating in a million years, somehow slipped down my gullet with nary a complaint; I actually enjoyed it! The coconut based gravy was the perfect consistency, smooth yet neither runny nor thick. My girlfriend said, "It's the best Thai I've had in Bombay!"

Describing individual flavours to such extent seems an exercise in futility; taste is so very subjective. Suffice to say, all four items far surpassed my expectations and lifted me into another plane of existence.

 

Though my mind and taste buds soared into the stratosphere, my packed belly kept me tethered me to the benches. Taking the 'lounge' intimations a bit too literally, I sprawled across four pillows and let digestion begin.


Dessert was categorically impossible.


The merriment continued until 1:00am, time I spent imbibing two more Coronas and dancing off some of the massive feast.

 

All said, the meal was fantastic and I'll be certain to visit regularly in the future.

 

Atmosphere/Setting: The ambience was inviting and relaxed. Given the cacophony that is Mumbai, this respite was much appreciated and preferred over a crowded, noisy venue (like other Mumbai eateries!). 5/5

 

Service: The greeting staff was gracious and warm; the servers were attentive and helpful; the food was served expediently and piping hot! I have zero complaints! 5/5

 

Food: All items were fantastic! I overhead a concern that the food was 'too coconut milk based', but I completely disagree. The varied options should accommodate the most particular of palettes. Try the Lamb Rendang! 5/5

 

Value: Let's be realistic; when a meal combines amazing service with gourmet food, you're not going to escape for less than 500 rupees a couple. Still, our two appetisers and two entrees were superfluous for my girlfriend and me. Two scavengers handled the leftovers– no one left hungry! All for under 1,000 rupees without alcohol. Compared to other 'fine dining' in the city, I'd say East is a relative bargain. 4/5

Highly recommended, especially as a venue for a romantic date or formal celebration.

EAST: Pan Asia Cuisine and Lounge Bar
76, Kranti Marg off Kemp’s Corner,
Corner of Forjett Street,
Mumbai — 400 036

Phone: +91 (022) 2381 1010 / 2382 1010

Posted in Things I love about India.

9 comments

By Matthew Schneeberger – May 16, 2007


Mumbai: A true concrete jungle

I'm not a squeamish individual; I've never been a stickler for cleanliness. Still, India has caused me to re-evaluate all my previous notions on the matter.

 

Filth and kutchra have increasingly occupied my mind the last few weeks; last night brought an emphatic crescendo.

 

I left my girlfriend's flat at 11:30, any longer and her housing society is liable to evict her without notice. While descending the stairs, I came to a sudden halt, foot to face with a three inch cockroach.

 

To be sure, it was the most mammoth insect I've ever encountered; it belonged on National Geographic or in a Franz Kafka story. Its antennae stretched outwards like grotesque fingers, each individual body segment clearly discernable. The ghastly beast not only held a distinct size advantage over any insect I'd beheld in North America, it also displayed hitherto unseen aggression and intelligence.

 

Taking my girlish squeal for weakness, the monster sized me up and lunged. Luckily, the King Fisher I had just imbibed provided me the courage necessary to face such a worthy adversary. My 105 kgs came crashing down with tremendous force, only to meet staunch resistance in the roach's highly developed exoskeleton.

 

I stepped back in order to survey the damage, which was nil. The roach scuttled off, apparently unharmed by my murderous attack. I did notice a substantial deposit of yellow slime trailing him, but he was by no means expiring. Satisfied with temporarily dislodging him, I quickly departed and headed for the compound's exit.

 

In the distance, at the juncture joining the main road with my girlfriend's lane, I spied three auto-rickshaws waiting for customers. My eyes glued to this sight, unfortunately, I failed to notice the veritable minefield I was entering. My jaunt came to an abrupt halt as my chapul sank into a steaming pile of excrement. In front of me, behind me and on both sides were dog droppings in various states of decomposition, some solid and some liquid. There may or may not have been human contributions intermittently intermingled; if so, I didn't want to know.

 

Cursing my misfortune and disgustedly dragging my feet in debris and gravel lining the lane, I managed to remove a substantial portion of the foul smelling concoction. Sufficiently satisfied, I hailed a rickshaw and barked out directions while climbing inside. In an ironic, cruel twist, I felt the too-familiar sensation of wetness hitting my left hand before I was properly aboard. Bat droppings? Bird crap? Concentrated pollution randomly falling from the sky? I didn't know, and frankly, I didn't care; I just wanted to get home.

 

Of course, though it was nearly midnight, traffic choked SV road and left us stalled idly for ten minute intervals. During these repeated cessations, I not only was privy to blasts of suffocating exhaust fumes, I had the exquisite pleasure of watching junkies smoke 'brown sugar' within an arm's length of the rickshaw. Smeared with grime and featuring gaunt and sallow faces, they shamelessly copped their high in plain view of hundreds of people.

 

By now, the desire to reach my flat was overwhelming; my day had been too long and was deteriorating rapidly. We turned left onto my lane, only to find ourselves blocked by a gigantic hole that had mysteriously materialised in a twelve hour time span. Gritting my teeth, I paid my fare and walked along the precipice of the ditch, taking the time to note the toxic sludge occupying the now open sewers. Gross.

 

At this point, I practically laughed at the ferocious rat traipsing alongside me; if it was a game of chicken, the rat certainly wasn't prepared to lose. It definitely challenged me, racing ahead and barring my path; I took my defeat in stride and waited for his majesty to pass. The cat-sized rodent squeezed into an invisible crevice in the pavement next to my building. Bidding the overgrown chap goodnight, I wearily walked up the steps and approached the door to my flat.

 

Suddenly, a flash of movement caught my eye as I inserted the key; a gecko had encamped himself atop my door! Ok, so in the span of an hour, I'd dealt with birds, mammals, insects?but reptiles? Not wanting to awaken my neighbours, who incidentally speak exclusively Gujarati, in a hushed whisper I urged the tiny bugger to abdicate my flat. Either he was thoroughly enjoying the position of authority or he also spoke Gujarati, because my English entreaties brought little success. Finally, fed up and literally yearning for a hot shower, I flicked the gecko with my finger and watched him fall to the floor before scampering off into the night.

 

Never had I felt so completely violated; never was my sanity so in danger of yielding to my neurosis. Still, I reasoned, a hot shower and a good night's sleep would do my wonders; I turned on the geezer and stripped off my clothes. My soiled sandals would have to wait until I'd showered, as I wasn't rinsing them off in a receptacle where I was about to bathe.

 

I turned on the steaming water and applied a generous dollop of shampoo to my head, rubbed it in and savoured the delicious scents and sensations. Of course, there was to be no idyllic end to this story. The drain began emitting odd sounds and bubbles visibly gurgled forth from the clogged pipe. Water-level rapidly rising, I made a quick decision and cut the flow. It was a good thing too. Sediment and filthy water escaped from the drain and combined with the still accumulating pool from my shower water; it finally ceased rising at the very point of spilling over into my kitchen.

 

So, I exited and dejectedly finished my shower in the sink. Shampoo stung my eyes and the initial applications of soap dried in my nether regions. I went to bed, turned off the lights and prayed for sleep. Laughing psychotically in the darkness, I prayed sleep would save me from my waking nightmare.  As I succumbed to exhaustion, I felt the faintest tickle of miniscule bugs moving about my feet and legs. Bed bugs?

Posted in Things I hate about India.

15 comments

By Matthew Schneeberger – May 11, 2007


The World Cup calamity

No matter what else I take from this experience, I'll never forget the sight of young children playing cricket on the train tracks as a hazy Sunday sun sets on the horizon behind the makeshift pitch. It's a beautiful image to behold, one which gave birth to Sachin Tendulkar and other heroes of a nation.

 

I won't feign expertise on India's national past-time. In fact, it took at least four serious viewing sessions before I could claim (relative) mastery of the complicated scoring system. I now understand why Indians are winning Nobel laureates in mathematics and featuring prominently in the USA's NASA programme; high level calculus and rocket science seem laughably easy when compared to the functions driving the bewildering matrix that is cricket.

 

But beyond its dynamism in numbers and its pre-eminent role in India, cricket has a purity that instantly appealed to me. As a rabid sports enthusiast (read: spectator) of American sports, I found kinship with cricket connoisseurs as the World Cup mania descended upon the sub-continent and the world at large.

 

My formal introduction to the World Cup was intense! I managed to arrange my re-entry into India at quite an auspicious time (March 4). For those of you who didn't partake, and thus, have preserved your memory, you'll note that this was Holi. Suffering from severe sleep deprivation and slight culture shock, the bhang addled populace seemed surreal. On top of the colours, sights and smells, I could feel an additional rush as World Cup fervour saturated the streets.

 

As the initial match day neared, I adorned my chubby cheeks with saffron, green and white; I bought a powder blue t-shirt boldly emblazoned- TEAM INDIA. The effect achieved by this combination had motorcyclists dangerously whipping their heads in my direction as they tore down Marine Drive. Innumerable grimy hands were thrust outwards as I proudly walked by storefronts. I had a team; I was a part of something!

 

Fast forward a few weeks- I sat, fixated to the flickering television. Sounds emitted, but I neither processed nor comprehended them. India, my adopted nation, was eliminated in the first round. The atmosphere in the Rediff.com sports section was an extraordinarily odd amalgamation of morose and jubilant faces. They seemed to be completely broken-hearted, yet unwilling to yield to the pain of defeat.

 

Premp-ji, our esteemed editor and renowned cricket journalist, barely batted an eye. With a beleaguered air, he resumed reportage at break-neck speed, hardly pausing for breath. Meanwhile, I stifled my wavering emotions and dejectedly departed the building.

 

How could this be? What would become of the country? Would riots commence? Would the city shut down? Would I get a taxi back to Santa Cruz? All of these questions weighed heavily on my mind; I managed to hail a cab without difficulty.

 

After India fell flat, I shifted the full weight of my support to Sri Lanka. Despite Australia's mechanical efficiency and overwhelming talent, I refused to believe the Aussies would again triumph over my brown brethren.

 

Perhaps most poignant was the intensification of the Civil War in Sri Lanka serving as a melancholy backdrop to the festivities. Being a bleeding-heart liberal and a sucker for feel-good stories, I firmly encamped with the war-ravaged underdogs as the final approached, telling anyone who would listen that 'Sri Lanka has it in the bag'.

 

Long story made short- Australia won, again. I simultaneously admitted defeat and the dominance of the 'roos, though quite begrudgingly.

 

Yet, oddly enough, the culmination of weeks and weeks of intensity was incredibly anti-climatic. Beginning with the obnoxious rain delay and ending in the vague uncertainty of 38 overs, the final left me sans satiation.

 

To be blunt, I had a bad taste in my mouth, one which has prejudiced me against cricket until further notice. Most fitting was the extended power outage in Sri Lanka as air raids rained down on Colombo, reminding me that cricket is only a game.

 

So, now that I've had some time to digest the Cricket World Cup, here are my thoughts.

 

The most fascinating thing for me was India's immense advantage in terms of population and recognisable names, and how little they manifested themselves on match day. I'll give you the statistic that befuddles my mind: 1,000,000,000 ' 19,000,000.

 

What is this you ask? The former number is a rounded estimate of India's population, the latter, Sri Lanka's. Now, no matter how diluted my American middle school education, I still have a fairly firm grasp on ratios; India has fifty times the people of its island neighbour.

 

How, pray tell, did Sri Lanka demonstrate such fluidity and assiduity while India floundered and played a thoroughly uninspiring cup? Shouldn't such an overwhelming advantage in population produce an impenetrable squad of super-humans? Aren't there 19,000,000 people in Greater Bombay alone? What happened?

 

 Well, my terribly uniformed opinion points to one recent example that left Americans scratching their heads: The 2006 World Basketball Championships.

 

America, despite Lebron James, Kobe Bryant and a slew of other celebrities, bowed out before the finals, collecting merely bronze. In the semi-finals, America produced an embarrassing effort, thoroughly out-manned by Greece?a nation hardly known for its basketball prowess.

 

 For a team consisting of four of the NBA's top five scorers, this registered as a monumental catastrophe. Expert analysts, however, predicted the US's struggles as soon as the roster was announced.  The clashing egos, the untenable power-struggle between aging superstars and a cast of young talent?it was a recipe for disaster. The team refused to 'box out', couldn't execute and demonstrated precious little desire and hustle.

 

India, in spite of star power and experience, also lacked essential chemistry and vigour. Heroes fumbled with fundamentals and made unforgivable mistakes running between the wickets. Watching Sri Lanka, however, I repeatedly noticed a disposition betraying youthful exuberance and naive. India's was a mixture of vanity and apprehension.

 

It's difficult to describe, especially as an outsider, but something seemed lacksidasical with the Indians from the outset. It was eerily reminiscent to Team USA's faltering effort this past August. In both cases, the teams lacked cohesion. Each player was a separate component, too 'large' to be merely a member of a team, too proud to work towards the common goal.

 

I'm no cricket expert; these are simply my observations from a single World Cup. Perhaps by 2010, India will have cleared the cobwebs, jettisoned the baggage and injected an infusion of fresh talent into the roster.

 

Your thoughts?

Posted in Miscellaneous.

5 comments

By Matthew Schneeberger – May 9, 2007


Chaat Chaos!

          Sceptically, I watched as my girlfriend lifted the fried orb to my mouth; it certainly didn't look appealing. Still, I promised myself to experience India fully, and according to her, "Chaat is the greatest, only!"

           

Before opening my mouth and receiving the item in question, I did a little more reconnaissance.

 

"What's this called again? Pani Puli, right?"

 

"No, Dumbo; it's Pani Puri! Now just eat it and be quiet!" she replied sardonically.

           

Not one to rock the boat, I obliged. Immediately, a combination of flavours, aromas and textures invaded my mouth and nasal cavity. Chilli, sour, masala, sweet, tangy, solid, wet- more descriptive adjectives than I care to list. My eyes flooded with tears and my throat began constricting in an attempt to block the flood from cascading down my gullet and into my tummy. I finally managed to swallow, then immediately emitted a choked cough that brought even more attention in my direction. Though I hadn't eaten in four or five hours, I instantly felt full; the breadth and scope of flavours made the bit-size morsel seem like a five-course meal. I declared aloud that I would never eat such strange food again, and there would be no more discussion of the matter.

 

That, dear readers, was my introduction to Bombay street food; and I must confess, it was the beginning of an unhealthy obsession. I've eaten samosas, bhel puri, pav bhaji, sev puri, dahi batata puri, pani puri and more. Exactly twenty four hours after eating a particularly greasy somosa from a particularly dirty road-side vendor, I fell ill with gastroenteritis.

 

I'm probably risking dysentery. Frankly, I don't care; I lost four kgs because of gastroenteritis and the whole of the Bombay Gym asked me my dieting secrets. I must admit, however, that the rapid onset of illness left me in a delirious state with words like 'malaria' and 'dengue fever' floating through my feverish mind. I vomited approximately twelve times. Clutching the porcelain bowl, on my knees in my kurta pyjama, I swore off Indian food. This iron-clad decision unravelled in three hours; I snuck away to the pantry to nibble on the dry-fruit halwa. To my dismay, the physician imposed a one-week absence from chaat; proving the old adage, my heart grew fonder.

 

On my way to office each morning, I faithfully line up among the taxi drivers and duud-wallahs, waiting impatiently for my newspaper-wrapped samosa sandwich. This lovely carb-fest comprises a delicious potato somasa slipped inside a soft bun slathered with two chutnies on each side. It's a veritable cornucopia of flavours; it runs the gamut from sweet to chilli, with buttery goodness placed squarely in the middle. Ironically, it's the only leavened bread I eat, save for my weekly dose of pav bhaji.

 

Sev puri and Bhel puri are two more delicacies that continue to captivate me. Essentially, they serve the purpose of Taco Bell in America; they are exceedingly inexpensive and deliciously devoid of any nutritional value, yet filled with flavour. Only these chaats are far superior to Taco Bell, as they taste better and cost less! To be honest, Taco Bell can only be stomached when under the influence of alcohol. Sev puri, meanwhile, operates as a midnight snack, a perfect lunch appetiser or the ideal breakfast for journalists on the move. Bhel puri, though it contains the same ingredients as sev puri, is like the fraternal twin that gets the short end of the genetic stick; it's great but still overshadowed by its brother's brilliance.

 

This brings me to two more chaats that bear more than a passing resemblance?pani puri and dahi batata puri. Now, I know I may be called blasphemous, but I prefer the relatively obscure dahi batata puri to its luminescent cousin-brother. My reasons for this are myriad; suffice to say, my first experience with pani puri ended in ambiguity while my first taste of dahi batata puri rendered ecstasy. Each dahi batata puri I devour tastes better than the one preceding it.

 

Whether the dahi is sweet or sour, whether the sev is generously heaped or scantily laid, whether it's adorned handsomely with coriander and pomegranate, it honestly makes no difference to me. Hello, my name is Matthew Schneeberger and I am a dahi batata puri addict. Whooosh! I feel better already!

 

I'm also addicted to the peanuts and other nuts and legumes available in stands propped up along roadsides up and down Mumbai. In America, peanuts are heavily salted and oily; they're never crispy, warm and crunchy! I can't explain it, but sometimes I eat ten rupees worth of roasted nuts in place of dinner.

 

Still, for the ultimate experience in chaat, and one that's certain to end in diabetes and/or heart disease- try this. I call it the Schneeberger Special. First, find a chaat wallah you trust; mine stands inconspicuously outside Santa Cruz hospital with only the tools of his trade at immediate disposal. Once you've established rapport, it's time to indulge in one of life's great treasures, a meal comprised entirely of chaat.

 

For my part, I start my order with a simple plate of six sev puris. After inhaling the tiny treats and subduing my ravenous hunger, I turn my attention towards the main course, the samosa. One chaat wallah in particular serves mutton samosas which shamelessly drip ghee and are literally soggy to the touch; I select one of these. After polishing off said samosa, I sheepishly return to the chaat stand once again for the coup de grace- dahi batata puri. This item serves as dessert; and might I add, it fills this capacity admirably. Depending on my mood, I may eat as little as six dahi batata puris; I've eaten up to 18 in order to lasso and subdue a particularly rebellious sweet-tooth.

 

This passionate discourse has hardly touched my true love for Bombay street food; it's what keeps the city satiated. When I see chaat and chai stands beside one another with ample crowds frequenting both, I break into a grin; I know what keeps this mega-metropolis moving.

 

So, Mumbaikars, what do you think? Am I right in believing chaat keeps the city running? Am I foolish to consume chaat in such copious quantities? What's your favourite chaat? For those from other cities, what am I missing? Tell me about chaat in your city, and I'll be sure to sample when my Indian adventure expands geographically. For those no longer in India, how bad do you miss chaat? Your thoughts!   

Posted in Things I love about India.

34 comments

By Matthew Schneeberger – May 3, 2007


Bureaucracy?? I’d rather have the Thali.

My trip to the Foreign Regional Registration Office (FRRO) provided me my first delicious mouthful of India's favourite dish- bureaucracy! As an American, India requires jumping hurdles and leaping through hoops in order to work and take up residency. Given the fact that she has received the lion's share of British exploitation and colonialism, I understand her suspicious stance towards outsiders. Still, I wasn't prepared for the deluge of paperwork that's left me with tendonitis in my wrist. This is no ordinary paperwork, mind you; this is mind-twisting stuff that requires decoding, deciphering and good old fashioned guesswork.

 Returning to the FRRO, they summoned me after ten days of my Indian Adventure. Despite 33 degree temperatures in the beginning of March, a co-worker and I made the hour and a half journey (16 km) in the best of spirits. We reached the building alleged to contain said office, only to be redirected by a receptionist towards an alley replete with stray dogs and rubble rapidly encroaching on the narrow walkway. At my behest, my loyal guide led me into a makeshift police station that sat halfway down the path and inquired as to further instruction. There, a policeman, without opening his eyes or removing his feet from the chair in front of him, sighed a few utterances in Hindi; the necessary information obtained, we continued onwards down the narrow alleyway.

I was debating whether or not the policeman was mistaken when the alley opened into a proper lane with aged buildings on both sides. A few quick questions and we reached our destination, the Foreign Regional Registration Office. I signed a mysterious guestbook at the entrance; although the visitors to the office were primarily foreigners, the directions were given in Marathi. The form satisfactorily completed, I headed upstairs to the processing office. There, unfortunately, the adventure truly began.

Though I had come with a text-book thick file of various forms and pledges from my office, the gatekeepers (read-secretaries) would not let me pass. Apparently, I needed THREE copies of my passport and TWO copies of my offer letter. Beguiled by the system for the first time, I didn't take the rejection too poorly. In fact, while my co-worker raced around making phone calls back to Mahim, I managed to find a wonderful Gujarati Thali restaurant.

After a gargantuan meal of eight rotis, two types of biryani and a few gulab jamans for good measure, I felt sufficiently ready for the next round with FRRO. My co-worker retrieved me from the restaurant and assisted me up the three flights of stairs. Once again, I stood in line and watched foreigner after foreigner plead their case before ultimately turning in dejection and leaving space for the next hapless victim to step forward. Honestly, I saw 12 people approach the desk and only one of them procured passage behind the mysterious doors marked *processing room*. This time, however, my mountain of paper-work stymied their efforts to refuse me; I was allowed entry while my co-workers waited in the sweltering heat of the reception hall.

I cautiously opened the doors and was immediately blasted by refreshing air-conditioning and nauseating antiseptics. It smelled of bureaucracy. All alone, I was wondering what to do when a door opened and revealed a bee-hive of activity inside the room I presumed to be the processing room. I fought my way through the crowd of distressed foreigners, some of them bemoaning the three hours they had fruitlessly spent that morning, some of them struggling with restless children. I reached the main desk, or what appeared to be the main desk, only to be offered an overpriced pepsi and a bag of peanuts. I bought both and found a seat.

After observing the pattern of movement for a few minutes, I deduced that I was supposed to go on one of the four computers and fill in a form of sorts. Somehow, I slipped through the disorganised queue and ended up in a seat after only a few minutes; others weren't so lucky. In spite of the immense pressure from those clamouring to be seated, I resolved myself to take my time and fill the form properly. Then I read the first questions: What flight did you arrive on? How much did your luggage weigh?

Wow. That totally threw me off and left me unsure as how to proceed. Would an incorrect answer lead to my immediate deportation? Did anyone read these things? I sneaked a glance at my Taiwanese neighbour and realised he was grappling with the same questions, so I threw caution to the wind and started filling at random. I'll save you the most painful details; just know that there were no officials to assist us and a bevy of questions that truly had no answers. What to do?

Finally, after thirty minutes and an additional pack of peanuts, I had completed my online form and proudly printed as directed. I found the lone gentleman processing this information, who in turn handed me an additional questionnaire that contained the exact same questions?!?! Apparently, the government is in the process of moving this database to an electronic format, and thus the two forms; I assented. Finally, I finished this second bout of paperwork, and fighting off carpal tunnel syndrome, I paid my processing fee and prepared to leave.

Something felt wrong, however, so I asked a quick question to the lone official. He answered my question with a snort, and told me that I was not done and that I was to take a seat. Wow. I didn't know whether to curse my misfortune or to thank my lucky stars for the verification.

Anyhow, after a good thirty minutes I was led into a final room, a touch more gloomy than its overcrowded neighbour; here, my ultimate fate was to be decided. In order to lighten the mood, I let loose a torrent of light-hearted jabs at my particular government official, essentially telling him I'd never seen such inefficiency. This was a bad idea. He lectured me on my good fortune in obtaining this pass, though it still wasn't in my possession, because 'most foreigners get rejected and have to come back a second time.' Wow, if I could be counted as lucky, I pitied the poor souls trapped in the cobwebs of bureaucracy from which I was struggling free.

He borrowed my pen; he abused my penmanship, which is admittedly illegible. He made me supplicate and prostrate myself before him and sign an oath proclaiming that I would do nothing indecent during my stay in India; if I did, Rediff was to be responsible. From here, it gets blurry, though I do remember the envious glares of less fortunate foreigners as I triumphantly exited the reception area.

Walking out of the synthetic environment of the building and into the scathing sun of the Mumbai midday, I realised that a substantial chunk of time had passed. Exactly how much, I was unsure. Through my mobile records and the testimony of my co-worker, we came to estimate the duration at roughly five hours, six plus when accounting for transportation. What an endeavour.

I confess; bureaucracy has been the most difficult aspect of adjusting to India-not the blinding heat, staggering pollution or spicy masala. All in all, it's necessary evil that will only make me stronger. My will has become iron; my patience knows no limits. I own an FRRO pass and its worth cannot be measured; it grants me access to the treasure chest I call home- India!

For Indians that have dealt with bureaucracy here or abroad, what are your thoughts? Is it equally miserable for Indian immigrants in America? If so, I emphatically empathise!    

Posted in Things I hate about India.

21 comments

By Matthew Schneeberger – April 30, 2007