Fortyandcounting

So, you will forgive me…

Kiran Manral — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 09:11:44 +0000

…for a few days while I don’t post too regularly and instead bore you all to tears with unabashed plugging of my book? You will, won’t you? Cross your heart, swear to die, etc?

In consonance with that spirit of solidarity, here are pics from my event yesterday at Happy Planet Powai, where Soma Ghosh, writer and journalist, and I read excerpts from my book and chatted about parenting.

Kiehl’s coffee meet. Avec moi.

Kiran Manral — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 11:30:51 +0000

Kiehl’s came into Mumbai a month or so ago with a lovely store on the ground floor of the Inorbit mall, one I passed by everytime I went to Inorbit, but being dragged around in typical ring through nostril style by the child who is always hellbent on getting me to purchase him Playstation Games of various superheroes intent on saving the world.

Ergo, when the invitation came to host a coffee meet for them, I took it up gladly, because a) I had always heard such good things about the brand and b) I wanted a legitimate excuse to get into the store and wander around at leisure and check their products out and this gave me the perfect opportunity.

So we did. I invited a few of my friends to come over to get personal skin consultations and recommendations on a skin care regime.

Here’s a bit about Kiehl’s.
Kiehl’s Since 1851, the venerable New York-based purveyor of fine quality skin and hair care was founded as a classic European-style pharmacy. Kiehl’s founding family established their neighborhood apothecary to fulfill the individual needs of every customer who came through its doors. Assuming the establishment from Mr. John

Kiehl, the Morse family nurtured their East Village community, cared for their customers as neighbors, and welcomed every visitor to Kiehl’s as if it were home. In doing so, Kiehl’s founding pharmacists and chemists launched a tradition of personalized service that’s become legendary. Nearly 160 years later, the magic that is the “Kiehl’s experience” extends around the world as the company continues to delight patrons with its high quality products that assure the health of their skin and hair. Today, the family’s message endures: “We are delighted to serve you.”

The store itself has a very cosy, homely feel to it, with exposed brick and polished wood, open display shelves, trial packs of all the products for customers to check out and try. And enough and more consultants to pay personal attention to each and every customer who walks in.

Here are a few pics from the event.

Did I share this here?

Kiran Manral — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 06:48:57 +0000

I gave a talk on India Helps at the Zeitgeist Conference at St Xavier’s last Saturday. Will write more about that experience later, but suffice to say the levels of professionalism and organisation that these students showed knocked my socks off, holes and all.

The best thing of driving all the way into town, with the strong, silent spouse by my side and the strong but not so silent brat with us to, was this picture shot by Roycin DSouza who was a co-panelist on the talk on Social Media Going Offline discussion. He, if you don’t know already, is doing this Twitter A Day calendar, where he shots twitter personalities, one a day.

Here’s my shot.
It has my book and my boy. And yes, that is why it is so precious to me.

Wardrobe crisis moment….

Kiran Manral — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 08:31:33 +0000

…so what is new about that, you might ask, kind reader, knowing well, if you read me relatively regularly, that wardrobe crisis moments dot my everyday existence the way said potholes dot the surface of out Mumbai roads, and with greater frequency than said potholes.
But this is different. This is a Serious Wardrobe Crisis Moment. On a Richter Scale of Wardrobe Crisis Moments, this would rank with the Tsunami inducing kinds, which not just has Mother Earth do the shimmy but also leave up miles of flotsam and jetsam in its wake.
The book, dear reader is out.
And ergo, I must be out and about. No longer can I hide in my garret, typing away furiously, dressed in ratty PJs and Tshirt of a vintage so ancient that it probably was woven in the mills when I was a zygote in utero.
Yesterday, all the contents of the wardrobe were taken out and thrown on the bed and a hopping, stamping, smoke bellowing out of my nostrils kind of tantrum ensued. I Have No Clothes, I yelled, loudly. The spouse raised one weary eye from the book he was reading and looked pointedly at a suitcase stored over the wardrobe, and at the lower shelves of his wardrobe which are infested with clothing owned by yours truly.
“No, no,” I sputtered in a self sustaining fury, “I have clothes. But I don’t have clothes, you know.”
He didn’t, apparently. Because he went right back to the book he was reading without really showing any beating of chest, howling and tearing hair out in solidarity. Or maybe he was cleverly steering clear of the conversation given that we have a good clear view of Inorbit on a bright day from our bedroom and said Inorbit has the Sale sign plastered all over its exterior.
“I have no clothes worthy for launches,” I said woebegone, rage spent, and clothes heaped on the bed.
Of my wardrobe, 99 per cent colour comprises black. Black tops in various colours. And these black tops are combined with denims. Various denims. Light denims, dark denims, black denims. But that is my wardrobe. It seemed nice and practical when Albert Einstein spoke about how he had many black suits in the same style because it saved him time when deciding what to wear, but I’m not sure if a series of goth like appearances would make for pleasant viewing on my book wall on fb.
Ergo. Plan has been made to raid the stores. To figure out what will look nice on me and not make people run shrieking towards exits, or advance towards me bearing little grey tails they want to pin to my behind. I must just, of course, remember not to buy any more of black.

It has been one of those weeks….

Kiran Manral — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 03:51:18 +0000

…it started actually, ten days ago. Dear friend Parul, bestselling author of Bringing Up Vasu and By The Watercooler called up, and said, without further preamble, “Do you know your book is on flipkart?”
Now the book had been written and despatched over a year ago to the publishers, and accepted and being worked on, and so much time had elapsed since then, that I had all but forgotten about it. I squealed a little and tried to get on the site via trusted Blackberry and given the fantastic network issues in my home, Airtel, if you asked, said page didn’t load until the cows came home and then Parul called again. “Do you know it’s on Indiaplaza?” I screeched a bit more and called the spouse demanding he return immediately this very second bearing laptop. Yes, some issues with the computer at home and Hathway modem not functioning and such like.
Kind friends online happily sourced the links for me and things took a life of their own. Links were pasted up on status updates and tweets, orders placed and much merriment in the online world. The craziness started the next day. I had no copy in my hand yet. The spouse called up his book supplier at Bookzone in VT and asked if he had copies. They had ordered two they said. The spouse, god bless him, did some yelling and asked him to order more, stating this was written by his wife and they had better sell lots of copies and order more copies and send the ones they had in hand to him pronto. Peon from office was despatched to procure said copies and he returned, bearing four.
Now, the book has a pretty cover. Beautifully designed by Mishta Ray, girl, if we ever meet I owe you lunch. I confess the hands shook a bit as I held the book. That moment when you’re handed your newborn after they’ve cut you up and pulled him out, or after you’ve pushed and yelled for the better part of the day to get him out, and you look at the blood covered, wrinkled, creature looking nothing like a human, from whatever angle you choose to look at him, and yet there is that sense of achievement and pride and sudden responsibility, yes, that moment happened. Along with the realisation, sudden horror, that damn, I am now responsible for this. And yes, the book shared the same pinkness like above mentioned newborn, making it seem as helpless.
The past week has been hectic and it promises to get even more hectic. For one there has been a marathon blogathon to coordinate–so many wonderful bloggers have kindly consented to post about my book on their blogs, am truly, choked up overwhelmed. Then the tweets about the book. And such like.
So. Good people. The book is out. All links to the book buying sites on the right hand bar in this blog www.thereluctantdetectivebook.blogspot.com

And as of today, it’s reached the top releases on Flipkart. And of course, I get to know this again through Parul who is now officially my eyes and ears for this book, given that I’m on cottoncandy clouds most of the times. So. Have you bought your copy yet?

And the lady lunched…

Kiran Manral — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 07:31:28 +0000

It started as a chat on twitter and emerged into a fullblown invite from Bungalow 9 in Bandra to lunch. As a lady who never turns down any opportunity to ingest the sinful calorific stuff, I was the quickest to confirm mine attendance with secret pacts with self to starve myself before and after said meal in an effort to be all out glutton. Much hectic emailing back and forth happened, and finally, a motley group of us twitter ladies reached Bungalow 9 this past Saturday, all agog about not just seeing and experiencing this restaurant, (me personally, have heard many nice things about it, but only been there for one brand promo type of event which had me nibble nervously at starter type things, and not sink cutlery into a complete meal).
Have you been there ever? I recommend it wholeheartedly. For one, the setting is quaint. It is situated in a bylane off Bandra reclamation and is not, thankfully on one of those roads that are traffic snarled up. The exterior is a discrete Bungalow9 written in calligraphic style that can be missed if you’re driving past with other things on your mind. When you enter, though, the feel is olde world and quaint, with high ceilinged interiors, the kind of home that take you straight back to an era when life was genteel, unrushed and a meal was savoured in peace. The owners have retained the original character of the place with the sloping roof, a wooden staircase, exposed brick walls, vintage wood cabinets, a charming and inviting book shelf (what, what, I’m a reader, aren’t it, I gravitate to bookshelves like said moth to flame). The bar is outside, there is lovely seating outside, which is all cosy for small groups of friends.
I tottered in much dazed by Schumacker-Vettel clone autodriver (yes, I’ve been travelling in public transport ever since old faithful 11 year long driver returned to native place citing Mumbai as being criminally expensive to raise family in) and found Sue Castellino (@SueCastellino) and Amruta (@LoveAmruta) with the chirpy Priyanka and my darling Chandni (@FundACause) already waiting there. Soon to walk in were Paromita (@suddentwilight)and much mwuah mwuahs happened, followed by Lata Sunadh (@lataSunadh) wearing a To Die For Right Now This Second neckpiece I wanted to rip off her neck and run away swiftly into the afternoon, but only the thought of missing out on the food which promised to be scrumptuous kept me sitting put in my seat. And once I sit down at a table to have a meal let it not be said that I rose without completing it. Ramya (@ideasmithy) she of the strong opinions and kickass hair cut came in next, followed by the very gorgeously statuesque Shunali (@shunalishroff) and the darling Genesia (@genesiaalves), the latter two being ex-colleagues from my very first workplace and I’m not going to tell you how long back ago that was, or I’ll be marched of to be carbon dated, of course, they were and are significantly younger than me and don’t come into carbondating range yet. The last to run in was the chirpy Shakti (@shaaqT).

The food. Let’s get to the food. The menu was extensive. I am terrified of extensive menus. I order something and see something looking better on another person’s plate and wonder if I should have ordered that and spend the rest of my meal in a funk. So, I left it to the good person serving us to recommend something. The menu, I’m told by Chef Rajeev, who is a lovely, cheerful chappie who came out to see us basking like stuffed pythons after hedonistic meal, is a result of all his travel around the world and he has not one jot of intention to attempt the fusion trend going around like a bad cold. He tries to present the dishes as they were intended to be eaten in their original country and his only concession might be to plate them up appealing as a concession to the fine dining requirements of the restaurant.
What I opted to share with Paromita was Fresh Catch of the day which came grilled, with a helping of glass noodles and veggies. My poison was a non alcoholic Ginger Peach. Of course good resolutions fell tragically by the wayside as I ended up partaking from everyone’s dish, including a lamb peri peri which was to die for and ravioli. And some chicken satay. And some incredible sushi.

Okay. Don’t march me off to the fat farm just yet, there was incredible dessert to follow. Blueberry & White Chocolate, Baked Kahlua Cheesecake, Jack Daniels with sky cream. Sigh. The memory of sinning. And then the Bellinis.
And we finally teetered out, high on laughter and Bellinis and good conversation. And of course I did the newbie author thing and handed out signed copies of my book. Featured below. (Oh yes, you had better get used to me plugging it in every post until it doesn’t officially hit best seller status).

Now. Go buy the book. And go have your own ladies’ lunch at Bungalow 9. You can always diet another day.

Annnnnnnd it’s heeeere………. drum rolls

Kiran Manral — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 03:15:28 +0000

Finally, the book is out. Not on the shelves yet, a couple of days more for that, but it is available on all the leading e-retail sites.

What are you waiting for, go forth and order your copy now.

So. We had an IPL worthy cricket tournament…

Kiran Manral — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 06:41:20 +0000

The society I live in, comprising six towers of around 20 floors each, is one that takes its celebrations really, really seriously. Consequently, every festival whether it is Ganesh Chaturthi (five days of a Ganapati installed on the premises, with all the aarti in grand style with professional Maharashtrian folk aarti singers, entertainment and cultural programmes every evening and full dinner for all), Diwali, Christmas and New Year’s Eve, all celebrated in great style, the lead up, I was told, was to the annual Cricket Tournament which was to be a big shindig. For months before hand, teams from the various towers would practice their batting, bowling and fielding, and such like, and both women and men from the complex, there being men and women teams competing for said trophies. For the casual, unsporty onlooker, read my goodself, walking circles of the walking tracks every evening, it was good entertainment value to see people who by rights had no business being on a batting pitch, given their current out of shapeness, but what the heck, its the size of the fight, metaphorically speaking of course, not the size of said player that matters. For days beforehand, hectic strategising, etc, fights breaking out for use of the tennis courts and basketball courts for cricket practice, some non attendees at practice sessions being roundly ticked off in public and so on, and the cricket fever was building up to a crescendo.
Finally, the notices were up on the notice board, entry passes were distributed, detailed instructions for the participants, rules and regulations and details of the programme were nailed into the softboards in every lobby for residents to pour over and ponder.
Me being a new resident, metaphorically speaking, it has been five months now and slowly people are beginning not to edge away from me in public and actually deign to exchange a few words with me without being terrified whether I bite, I had no idea whatsoever as to what the entire excitement was. Until I experienced it.
Returned home from meeting dear friend now settled in Hyderabad and down on a flying visit to Mumbai, and I heard IPL music waft in through the window. I peered out to the see the ground next to our house, used by cricket coaching camps morning and evening, converted into what seemed like a mini stadium with a proper boundary, seating all around, a platform, banners, hoardings and loud, DJed music. The child was on hot coals, all dressed and ready to go down. “Come on, dont waste time, the match has started,” he yelled, hauling me off, unwashed and uncombed down to the ground. Residents, dressed in their sporty best, mainly white tees and jeans, with caps and huge sunglasses that covered half their faces were trickling into the ranks. We entered, the child promptly found a couple of same sized friends to run around with and disappeared, I soaked in what was probably the closest I would come to a real cricket match in the stadium.
The teams were attired in proper colour coded uniforms, a colour for each tower, red, blue, yellow, white, maroon, black. Complete with cap and the player’s name at the back. Vuvuzelas, flags and such like handed out to the audience. A professional commentator was holding forth in English and Hindi. A television crew with full set up, multiple cameras, cranes for field shots and such like was telecasting the match live on the local television channel. And there were cheerleaders. In costume. Of the little cloth and more skin variety. And said skin being of the Caucasian variety. And strangely enough, no one was paying them much attention, the dancing mascot tigers got more attention from the children running around.
Did I even mention the food yet? Nope. Hold your horses and keep the pail out for the salivatory overload which will no doubt ensue.
One entire side of the ground was reserved for the edible stuff. Popcorn, Candyfloss, softdrinks for the kids, chaat counters, dabeli counter, pav bhaji, mini pizzas and such like to keep us fed and in good strength to holler vociferously all cheering stuff for the teams we had pledged support to. And to further soothe our traumatised larynxes we had full Indian and Italian buffet spread out post the match.
Award giving ceremony with mandatory celebrities handing out, hold your breath, proper crystal trophies, magnums of champagne uncorked and sprayed. I detest waste of good champagne, have I said so before, no, then I say it now. That stuff would have been better appreciated has it been poured out into them glasses and chugged down.
Much fun was had by young and old alike, with the very young doing their best to run around in circles, get lost, have panic stricken parents go get announcements made for them at periodic intervals. Next year, I’m going to participate. When mission 10 kg down is done. Yes. No point in causing earthquakes when all I try to do is block a boundary.

Happy 16 to us

Kiran Manral — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 09:25:23 +0000

The years, they just fly by. So quick.

So. Women. Do you know how much skin you cover?

Kiran Manral — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 09:00:51 +0000

Hot on the heels of the top cop in Andhra Pradesh, DGP Dinesh Reddy making a statement about rape cases rising because of women dressing provocatively comes this from a minister in charge of women and child welfare.
In today’s newspapers, the Karnataka minister of women and child welfare made this enlightening statement, “women should know how much skin they cover.”
The mind immediately thought about the children who are raped, boys and girls, the infants who are raped, the mentally challenged, the elderly, the bedridden, the fully clad, the ones in burqa or ghunghat. By these preposterous standards, these should have never been victims of rape.
They have not been the first. A Canadian police officer triggered off the global awareness movement called Slutwalk when he exhorted women to stay safe from rape by not dressing like sluts. The Delhi police chief told women in so many words to not step out of home unescorted at night, the Delhi chief minister apparently stated something on the same lines, and then apparently attempted a retraction.
This disgusts me not because this is reflective of the shift the blame to the victim mentality which plagues us, but because these are people in senior positions in law enforcement and policy making.
Let’s get some statistics and studies in right here to shed some light on the motives of rapists:
In India, a rape is committed every 54 minutes.
More facts: Uttar Pradesh topped the crime rate in the country in 2010, according to latest statistics released by the National Crime Record Bureau. The state registered 33.9% of the crime reported in 2010, followed by Andhra Pradesh (12%) and Tamil Nadu (10.4%), according to the NCRB report for 2010. Madhya Pradesh recorded the highest number of rapes while Andhra Pradesh registered highest number of crime against women, which included molestation and sexual harassment. (Read more here)
And let us not forget we have the dubious distinction of being at fourth spot in this global study on the most dangerous countries to be a woman in.
We did some fair amount of reading up and research during the www.vawarenessmonth.wordpress.com that we did during October 2011. And the statistics were frightening.
Most rapists rape not because they get provoked seeing a woman wearing provocative clothing. They rape because they have opportunity and believe they will get away with it. Most rapes happen not with strangers but with someone trusted, family and friends, in fact only six percent of rapes happen with strangers. The men who raped strangers through force and coercion looked for a victim who seemed vulnerable and uncertain. Interestingly, clothes were only perceived as a factor in terms of ease of removal. Not in terms of provocation. The provocation factor is all in the head.
Let’s get this clear right here and right now. Rape is not about the victim. Rape is about the rapist. Blaming the victim and shifting the blame on the victim doesn’t lessen the enormity of the crime.
Women have been raped when they have been wearing most unprovocative clothing. Pushing the guilt of being raped onto the victim lifts the blame squarely off the perpetrator’s shoulders. Much like our innocent rishis of yore who were tempted and seduced by dancing apsaras. She asked for it. Remember the Jodie Foster movie The Accused?
Finally, this is what the truth is, from a victim. “I was sober; hardly scantily clad … I was wearing sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt; I was at home; my sexual history was, literally, nonexistent — I was a virgin; I struggled; I said no. There have been times since when I have been walking home, alone, after a few drinks, wearing something that might have shown a bit of leg or cleavage, and I wasn’t raped. The difference was not in what I was doing. The difference was the presence of a rapist.“
The difference is not what the victim is wearing, and that she was ‘asking for it” it is the presence of the man with the intent to rape and who was prowling for a victim. Any victim. Regardless of what she was or wasn’t wearing. The fault is not in what a woman wears, but in the male gaze. Walk down any street in any Indian city, fully clothed, as a girl, as a woman, you need not even be very attractive, just being female will do. I have seen saree and salwar kameez clad women being ogled at and molested on the streets.
Jaclyn Friedman, author of “What You Really Really Want: The Smart Girl’s Shame-Free Guide to Sex & Safety” says, and she’s researched this long and hard enough to make this statement, “The reality is, there’s zero evidence linking how ‘sexy’ a woman is dressed with her likelihood of being raped. None.”
So let’s have some police who patrol better, conviction rates that are higher and sentences that are stricter as well as politicians who are more sensitive to women’s issues and rights handling these departments, because that is where the change will come from. Not from us women covering ourselves up from head to toe.