Are you a Mercedes?

Human beings love labels. People never think twice before labeling other people—good, bad, beautiful, ugly, fair, dark, strong or weak. Anywhere you go, there will always be someone ready to tell you – “Actually, you’re weak.” But honestly, just because one’s body hasn’t been trained to lift 100 kg weights like Karnam Malleshwari or face punches in a boxing ring like MC Mary Kom , can the person be immediately branded ‘weak’?

Let me illustrate: an ordinary ‘desi’ truck that you see on Indian roads is a sturdy, dependable vehicle in every sense of the word. You can drive it over potholes, rugged tracks, muddy roads or mountain paths and it will not be affected in the least. Everyone will agree that it is strong.

A Mercedes sedan, on the other hand, is not designed to be ‘rough and tough’. Take it flying over potholed roads and you’ll live to regret it. A truck driver can just ram his vehicle into a number of smaller cars and get away unhurt, reducing the other cars to pulp. A Merc driver, on the other hand, is always extra careful to protect the car from even the slightest dent or scratch.  So, if it were a comparison of sheer physical strength, yes, you could say that the Mercedes sedan is a pretty ‘weak’ vehicle. But the fact is that the Merc is and always will be infinitely superior and more valuable than a desi truck. Just comparing the two sounds ridiculous.

Therefore, dear label-lovers, before branding someone as weak, ask yourself — are you handling a Mercedes and expecting it to function like a truck? Well then, please go and get a truck.  The Merc is way beyond your league anyway.

(Yes, yes, I know you will point out that Mercedes trucks are also available — but just think about it: would a corporate hotshot want to travel in a Mercedes truck?

I think you got it now.)

Getting to the finish line...

There’s this curious thing about people who read. Talk about a book they’re reading at present and if you ask them how much of the story they’ve covered, pat comes the reply: “Oh, a hundred and fifty pages (say).” Bully for you, but honestly, that tells me nothing about where the story is right now, so pray tell me what’s going on in the book at that point. That will actually tell me how much you’ve read.  

Somehow, this page-number phenomenon strikes me as indicative of our love for numbers and our instinct to “get to the finish line.” The experience of the journey is somehow less important; the distance covered matters more.

The same is the case with (and I’m truly sorry to be saying this) our reading of the Holy Quran. The month of Ramazan is supposed to be the “season of bloom (bahaa’r)” for the Quran. It is a time for the purification of the human soul, and the reading of the Quran is supposed to be one of the ways to achieve this. Naturally, there is a lot of emphasis on reading the Quran in this month. Here I must confess, my husband and I almost compete with each other over who finishes reading first. I can’t speak for him of course, but for me (sinner, alas!) it becomes more of a 'get-to-the finish-line' feeling rather than actually gaining any knowledge from it.

Last year, after much insistence from my mother, I had left the race-through-Arabic verse routine and focused on the English translation that she bought for me. Incidentally, she’s not a Ramazan-only reader but  a year-round reader of the Quran, and not just in Arabic but English, the language she finds easiest to absorb; the purpose is to read and know. So I followed her example and began to really “read” the Word of the Almighty.

That’s when I discovered why non-Arabic speakers like us do not emphasise the reading of the translation and just keep going over and over the Arabic verse. The latter is so much easier. Going through the complete meaning takes several times the time and effort. You read a couple of lines and you’re compelled to reflect. And then you take time to absorb. At times (and I hope the mullahs spare me for this) you feel confused and try to find out more about the context, about how much has been lost in translation (yes, there’s a very real danger of that) and you set out on a never-ending quest. Sometimes your doubts are put to rest and sometimes you just have to leave it for another time. In any case, all this takes much, much longer. And you can’t even gloat, “Oh, I finished so many chapters in just so many hours,” or "Oh, I finished so many Qurans this Ramazan."

But now I can proudly declare that I managed to read the entire translation and now have some inkling of what the Quran really says. I also vowed to keep reading different translations in the future. 

However, the instinct (and also outside pressure) to get to the finish line is really strong, and I’m back to reading just the Arabic version. Just human nature, I guess!

Chat with South African best-selling author Wilbur Smith

South African best-selling author Wilbur Smith isn’t kidding when he says he looks upon India as “almost a neighbour, with just a little sea between us”. It’s because he has been visiting the country for over 20 years now. In the city on Sunday on the Landmark Wilbur Smith tour to promote his latest book Those in Peril, Smith says he first got an idea of the huge energy and diversity of the country from reading British Indian writers like John Masters and Paul Scott. It isn’t surprising to hear him say he loves India, but what really baffles you is when he says, “I love the traffic!” to which he adds, “It is just like a videogame; except here, if you lose, you die.”

His favourite Indian author is RK Narayan, and the mother of his wife (who’s from Tajikistan) “feels deprived if she doesn’t get to watch a Bollywood movie everyday!”

Then he promptly breaks into a tale of how, when he visited Jaipur, his driver told him that to drive in India you need four things: Good brakes, good eyes, good nerves, and yes, the most essential — good luck.

That’s the 78-year-old writer of historical thrillers for you — every minute with him is full of anecdotes. For instance, there’s the story of how, when he was in Sydney once, a man had travelled over five hours to meet him. “When I was talking to him, I noticed that one of his legs was a prosthetic leg,” he recalls. “He told me he was in college when he lost his leg and wanted to die. But then he said, he read my book Leopard Hunts in the Darkness where the hero had also lost one leg, and that inspired him to get his life back. That’s when I realised I’m not just telling stories, I’m giving people visions of what life might be.”

His latest book, set in the Indian Ocean, is a story about a businesswoman whose daughter gets kidnapped by Somalian pirates. From ancient Egypt to colonised Africa and now a contemporary topic like piracy — how does he choose his subjects?

“I don’t choose my subjects,” he says, “my subjects choose me. Ideas gel over time; one book suggests another, one character I create wants to continue… It’s like painting an infinite mural— you never quite finish, you go on painting. You cover generation after generation, century after century…”

And this particular subject chose him when he bought an island in Seychelles. “There I had contact with pirates and met people who had been captured and kept for years. So you had something right there.”

You want to know what it was that he found from the pirates. “I found out what they look like and what their boats are like! I met the pirates in passing,” he explains. “The boatman on the island I owned was a Somalian and when we went out fishing, we saw the pirate boats passing close by. I remarked to the boatman: Those are your brothers. But he said they are not my brothers, those are evil people.”

There’s another kind of piracy that Smith feels strongly about — the e-book variety, which, he says is being practiced by Google and Kindle. “These companies are like shadowy nations of their own; their only concern is money. You can’t put any pressure on them to play fair. They’ll be quite happy to pirate books and they pay pitiful amounts of money. There’s a possibility that they would destroy all creative talent.” Ask him whether he thinks e-books would soon take over the reading scene, and pat comes the reply: “I would hate that to happen.”

But he also acknowledges, “If you’re not on Kindle, you don’t exist!”

Chicken with Plums: Soul-touching graphic novel by Iranian novelist Marjane Satrapi

Even if you’re not an ardent fan of graphic novels, you’re going to love this one by Iranian-origin graphic novelist Marjane Satrapi. Curiously titled Chicken with Plums, it’s a story that dexterously blends grief with humour and surreal spiritual experiences with a tongue in cheek take on everything in life.

It’s the story of musician Nasser Ali whose will to live is apparently destroyed by one major episode —  his wife breaking his beloved ‘Tar’, the source of his music and his joy, after an argument. For eight days, he awaits death in the confines of his room, lying on his bed. The novel traces the entire course of those days, flitting in and out of the mind of Nasser Ali, moving noiselessly from past to present and back again, exploring every relationship in his life that mattered. There is an entire life that unfolds in the images of those eight days.

In the process, Satrapi also touches, in an offhand manner, small observations on pre-revolution Iran — the politics and the society — and a reference to the ‘American dream’ as well as the hollow side of it. Remarkably, it is all done in the manner of the perfect storyteller — blending in, with a touch of humour, with no traces of preaching, pitying or judging. You can make of it whatever you like; her job is just to tell you the story.

The ‘graphic’ part of the novel is the heart of it. It’s not just a pictorial depiction of a story. The images add vital information, and more importantly, vital emotions to the story. You need to go through every character’s expressions to be able to truly appreciate the effect. The tale meanders through every contrasting image possible. The most surprising being, perhaps, the surprise appearance of Azrael, the Quranic angel of death. If ever the generally perceived-with-terror angel of death could be presented in an overwhelmingly touching manner, it is in this book.

But the best, as they say, is reserved for the last. Through all the little things that keep hitting you at small intervals, what blows you away with the force of its impact is the end. There’s perhaps no better storyteller than the one who can catch you unawares. From the first image to the last, it’s an intricately woven, entirely unbroken web that completes a full circle as it ends. It brings you right back to the beginning, and makes you see the entire tale afresh. The penultimate image — a slightly altered, repeat rendering of the funeral — is the masterstroke of the perfectionist. It’s a brilliant illustration of the phrase ‘a picture speaks a thousand words’: you could gaze at it forever.

As for the title, you could have your own interpretations for it. To me, it just stands for Nasser Ali’s longing for life. The one longing of his heart… that no longer remains the same.

This is one book you won’t be able to put down until you reach the end. Very few stories overpower your emotions so completely.

Expecting a baby:is it really the "best" feeling?

Being an expecting mother is the absolute best feeling in the world. At least, that’s what every newspaper, magazine and TV channel proclaims. And, every time I come across these proclamations, I feel alienated. Two months ago,  around Mother’s day, a magazine happily announced that if you want to meet the “happiest” person in the world, just find a woman who is carrying life in her womb.  Really? Well, then, what about me?

Now, before you begin to give me that disgust-laden look, let me explain. It is undeniably an out-of-the world experience to watch the round, pulsating speck that’s your baby’s heart beating on the computer monitor, or to look at a tiny nose or a tiny spine in those very  first ultrasound images. But —and that’s a big, emphatic BUT—I wouldn’t rank it number 1. I’d rank it in the top five—maybe even number 2—but not number 1. Nope.

My teenaged sister (who, like most others, thinks I value my career above everything else) wondered aloud if being a journalist topped my list, instead of being a mother. Actually, that makes it to the top 5 too, but again it’s not number 1.  “So, what is it that makes you happiest?” she asked, intrigued. 

“Being with my one true love in a place that’s breathtakingly lovely and romantically secluded, where we can just be together without having to worry about whether the water pump is working or what’s to be cooked for dinner,” I grinned.  She shrugged, smiling. “I guess you’re just different.”

“Why don’t we ask mummy what she thinks?” I suggested. As our mother entered the room, we told her about our conversation. She was quiet for a few seconds. And then she surprised me. “You know, honey, what you just defined is every woman’s best feeling in the world. Having a baby counts, but it comes second. The stuff about mother hood being number 1 is just lots of hype.”

I couldn’t believe my ears! This, from the woman who’d joked with me a hundred times that the single biggest reason she wanted to get married was to have babies! But I felt infinitely happier. Happier, that neither I, nor my sister, were the best things that happened to her. It was, in fact, my father.

And I was happier that there is at least one woman who feels the same as me. Any of you other ladies out there want to cast your vote in my favour? 

(Read more on my pregnancy experience at www.znaqvisajjad.wordpress.com)

The eternal vows: Some thoughts on marriage, at my first anniversary (I still agree, and I'm close to the second one now!)

In about a fortnight, I’ll have completed a year of married life. Most people I’ve met speak of marriage as a noose, a life sentence. A year of ha­nds-on experience has taught me why. And no, I do­n’t agree. At least, not yet! True, it’s not a piece of ca­ke. But then, can you say that about anything in life?
Being married is like having a job. You need to slog and struggle and create your way ahead. Of course, most people are willing to work their brains out for their careers, but don’t even consider working at th­eir relationships. And then again, most people also ha­te their jobs, so it’s not surprising they hate their married lives, too. They’re working because they ha­ve to, not seeking something they want, not taking pleasure in anything they do — and then complaining about it every minute.
And while we’re at it, there’s something else I’ve he­ard so often it makes me want to bang someone’s head: “Arranged marriages work better than love ma­rriages”. (What is it that people have against love?) It’s the high level of expectations, people say, which makes love marriages break down.
There is, however, another major factor that works against love marriages, and it’s NOT love, or expectations. It’s the stubbornness of our families, supposed to be our support system, which kills the relationship. Consider these examples: A couple I kn­ow developed such serious differences they wanted a divorce. But families from both sides put in every ounce of effort to save the marriage. The result? They patched up and are living happily now. Contrary to this, another couple quarelled over some minor issue, but theirs was a ‘lo­ve marriage’. The family, very conveniently, left them to fight it out, since ‘it was their decision in the first place’. The couple lived separately for several years before things got better. So before you condemn love marriages for being too demanding, just think of all the other things working against them.
Actually, you'd stop thinking of marriage as a noose if you just stopped taking each other for granted.Think: how much you loved to dress up for your boyfriend/girlfriend every time he/she came to meet you. Well, then, why does it happen that people stop 'dressing up' for each other or make an effort to look good for each other once they get married? Remember how you used to pine and miss each other after a fight, or how you just bought each other small gifts for no reason at all.... well, is there any reason why you should stop doing that just because you don't need to 'woo' your partner anymore?
The point is: life’s not a fairytale. You can’t just ‘li­v­e happily ever after’. Relationships need a lot of hard work, and definitely a lot of support. So instead of drudging it out everyday, try looking at marital bliss as a career goal, and you might just get there.

Saddest words of tongue or pen

At a seminar a few days ago, I heard a sentence that, to me, seemed the saddest possible in a human being’s life. It was spoken in passing, without the littlest bit of grief, and had nothing to do with the subject being discussed. Just that the speaker, while answering a question, spoke of a nagging wish that his people used to have. “We’ve given up that dream now,” he added, before moving on to answer the question.
For some reason, the sentence filled me with immense grief. I cannot imagine a worse thing than having to give up a dream. Now, I know you’re thinking of much worse things — losing a limb, or a loved one, having your home destroyed in riots or wars… there’s a long list. But consider, for a moment, any of the above scenarios. Life doesn’t stop at loss. Whether it is your home or your loved one, you pick up the broken shards, and try to rebuild your life. And there’s only one thing that enables you to do it. Hope. Dreams. The dream that you can create a beautiful life all over again. However impossible they might be, in the end it’s just dreams that fuel life. Everyone makes it through the toughest times dreaming of something — a distant beacon that pulls them ahead.
People who are driven to give up their lives, that is, who commit suicide, are ones who have lost all hope. They see no light at the end of the tunnel, no way to rebuild their lives. You could call them cowardly, foolish, whatever. But the reason is always that. And that’s why, it is truly sad when you have to accept fate and give up your dream. As American poet John Greenleaf Whittier wrote, “For of all sad wo­rds of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: ‘It mi­ght have been!’”
Of course, the death of one dream won’t necessarily drive you to the arms of death itself. And that’s because we live with not one but a million dreams in our heart. That, perhaps, is the thing that keeps us alive — the other dreams that still might come true!

Waiting for Munnu: A tale of Maharajas, breathtaking jewels and an endless wait...

There are times when real life episodes compel you to draw literary parallels, when things begin to remind you of that piece of fiction you’d read. The past weekend took me through a very real rendering of Waiting for Godot… the ‘absurdist’ play with an endless wait for that one person to arrive. The tale unfolding before you now is one of maharajas and their jewels, creators and their art, and a bizarre, unending wait. But let me begin at the beginning.

There’s definitely more than a grain of truth to the phrase ‘diamonds are a woman’s best friend’. But I’d like to tweak that a bit: It’s not just diamonds. All kinds of jewels can be a woman’s favourite companions. We’re not just the fairer sex; we’re the glittering sex. So, obviously, a visit to one of the oldest and the most ‘royal’ jewellery houses in Jaipur can be nothing less than a breathtaking experience.

At Gem Palace, you could get lost in the maze of scintillating objects that hold you spellbound, some of them dating back to over a century. It has been quite at the centre of the global spotlight, comparable to brands like Cartier and Tiffany’s in its clientele and craftsmanship. Creating jewellery for some of the most elite jewellery houses in Europe and America, Gem Palace has a permanent exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum, New York, for which it has especially designed ‘Ancient Egyptian’ and ‘Ancient Greek’ and ‘Byzantium’ collections. Gem Palace creations are also retailed at organisations like Barney’s in New York and Caribou Jewels in Aspen.

But the reason I am here is not just to marvel at the intricacies of the art. I am here to meet the man who is, apparently, the greater creative force at Gem Palace and the more ‘visible’ one internationally, among the three brothers who run the place now. I have an appointment with Munnu Kasliwal, the youngest of the trio — the elder ones being Sudhir and Sanjay Kasliwal. He has graciously requested me to have lunch with him.

I arrive at Gem Palace at the appointed time, expecting to meet a middle-aged man. Instead, I set my eyes on a young, very attractive and quite un-Indian looking man. He introduces himself as Samir Kasliwal, son of Sanjay and the newest one to join the family business. Born in Italy, Samir came to India four years ago. He’s happy to show me around, but has no clue that I’ve an appointment with his uncle. I call up Munnu. He tells me (as he had the previous day) that he’s very unwell and has a headache, and feels too lethargic to get up. “But”, he quickly adds, “Are you there?” I confirm that. “Please wait, I’ll be there in half an hour. Meanwhile, why don’t you speak to my son Siddharth?”

Siddharth is not around and I begin my tour with Samir. We move through rows and rows of gem-studded jewellery, lots of traditional kundan-meena-polki work that Gem Palace is famous for, and yet more rows of silver objects — with lots of stories behind them. The walls are covered with mustard yellow cloth that has red block prints all over it. This, I’m later informed by Sudhir (the head of the joint family), is the design that’s been there since the time of his great grandfather. This establishment was founded in 1852, when Sawai Jai Singh founded the city of Jaipur and invited jewellers from all over the country. Of course, as Sudhir says, this is the “new showroom”. Before 1852, they had a shop in the “old city of Jaipur”, which “had been there forever”.

I move to the inner room that has two large, throne-style silver chairs and a silver trunk, both with intricate carvings that impart the room a look of old-world charm. One by one, Samir takes out velvet boxes that contain the ‘Indo-Russian’ collection, made around 25 years ago. The first one is a long necklace with strings of pearls and diamonds and a pendant (if it can be called that) the size of a large palm —studded with rose cut diamonds and emeralds. That one costs Rs 1.8 crore. There’s another with a huge emerald up front; there are turban ornaments, belts and armbands, all from the same collection — encrusted with emeralds and diamonds.

“This is called Indo-Russian because the polki work, or the rose cut of the diamond, is Indian. But the designs are inspired by the Russian Czars, particularly the technique of their times of mixing gold with silver to give the pieces an antique look,” Samir explains. He then brings out a “diamond-box” in the same antique look, replete with diamonds all over. Everything is handmade, and may take anywhere from nine months to two years, on an average, to make. Samir tells me he has studied gemology, but, as he candidly states, “In this business, you can only learn through experience. The study might give you a larger approach but you can’t really learn that way.”

That’s also why, he says, they like to “retain” their workers over generations. “You need skills not to waste the rough stone in cutting and polishing. That needs 10 to 15 years to perfect.”As he speaks, he flips the pieces over, and shows me the craftsmanship on the reverse. Every single piece in the collection has intricate veins of diamonds and rubies running across its back. I am amazed. And curious.

“This is based on our belief that the body can see and feel as well,” Samir tells me. “There should be a feeling between the diamond and your body. It’s something that only you should know; it’s not for others.” The sentiments are later echoed by Siddharth, when I meet him. For now, my eyes are transfixed on what seems to me the most personal kind of indulgence in the world.But we must move ahead, there’s more. Much more. Samir brings out a sketch of a person wearing something that, for the lack of a better word, has to be described as a necklace: It flows, in several layers of cascading natural pearls and diamonds, right from the neck of the wearer down to the thighs.

“This was ordered by a special customer,” says Samir, and on a little prodding, reveals that the customer was from the Arab world. “They had given us a fixed timeline for making this piece, and it was to be worn by the bride exclusively on her wedding. We had 90 per cent of our craftsmen working on this one, stopping almost all other work.” The price? He answers after some hesitaton: “around $4-5 million.”

There is another order for a ladies’ purse in silver, which will be set with diamonds, emeralds and rubies, with a finishing in gold filigree work. Aladdin’s cave seems puny beside the treasures opening up here...

We are now walking across the room and I am treated to the sight of two of the oldest pieces the Kasliwals made for the Maharajas, and then bought back when the royals were selling off their assets to pay taxes. There’s a 150-year-old enamelled, diamond encrusted chess-set that features Rajasthani men sitting on miniature horses, elephants and camels, with the king in a howdah atop an elephant. And then, there’s the famous, 165-year-old, enamelled and diamond studded life-size parrot, perched on a branch and holding a rose in its beak. The parrot is actually a liquor flask, I’m told — the liquor is poured in the birds’ head, and sipped from the rose bud in its beak. You cannot but stand mesmerised as you hold the bird in your hand… there’s a reason why even the British wanted to live like ‘Maharajas’.

By now we have been joined by Sudhir, the head of the family business and Siddharth, Munnu’s son. I suddenly realise that it’s been about an hour, and the one I’d come looking for is still missing. I call up Munnu again.

“Are you still there at Gem Palace?” Munnu asks. I reply in the affirmative. “I am so sorry, it’s just that I’ve been so unwell…just one of those days…” I express my concern for his health, and enquire whether he’s feeling too weak to come over. “No, not weak, I just have this headache…” he trails off, and then adds again, “Please wait, I’ll be there in just half an hour.” Since I am already enjoying myself, I don’t mind waiting another half hour.

There are other things laying claim to my attention. This time it is a sindoor box, which, Siddharth tells me, has taken four years to be created. It has 927 rubies cut, polished and set to such precision that they could be mistaken for meenakari. And 21 pieces of emeralds in diamond setting, like a solid green ring. “This was an art that was dying,” says Siddharth, “and it was really a challenge getting this done. This was made by a third generation worker.”There are other things here preserved for generations, and are now being restored. And that’s the forte of Sudhir Kasliwal, aside from gemstones, and his first love — photography. Sudhir shows me original, century-old designs made by the chiteras and the restorations compiled by him in a book called “Meenakari of Jaipur”.

“You know, you cannot reproduce the same colours in the meenakari now,” he says wistfully, “and that’s because of the furnace. In those days, there was a special coal furnace while now it’s an electric furnace. Even a papad or a chapatti doesn’t taste the same when cooked on a chulha, compared to when it is cooked on a gas stove!” he muses. He shows me photographs of coal furnaces being used in meenakari, clicked by him around 30 years ago. Sudhir has many other things to show — solid silver objects from the Mughal period, miniature paintings, opal and jade atrdaan and gulabpaash and a zillion other baubles, private collections that dot the insides of the place. “These are not for sale,” he points out. “They are irreplaceable, both in value and in craftsmanship. In fact, we regret having sold some of them now.” I am taken further inside, and there are more ‘collectibles’ on display. Vintage cars, among them a Mer­cedes roadster restored by Sudhir “from scratch”. A 1941 Packard, a 1956 Cadillac, a 1933 Dodge, Studebaker, Hummer, Hudson … the list can go on. There’s really something to be said for the Kasliwal penchant for collecting.

There’s still more to be seen: The family museum being created on the first floor. Looking more like a hall from a Mughal palace than anything, the walls have designs inspired by the famous Palace of Mirrors, or Sheesh Mahal, from Jaipur’s Amber Fort. Samir says this place took 30 to 40 years to complete, and is used as a “guest room” for “visiting VIPs”. And Gem Palace definitely has a huge list of those. From Lord and Lady Mountbatten, Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, Rajmata Gayatri Devi, Prince Charles and Princess Diana, King and Queen of Sweden and Emperor of Japan to Jacq­ueline Kennedy, Judi Dench, Gwyneth Paltrow, Mick Jagger and Richard Gere… you’d get exhausted counting the names. It’s interesting to know, tho­ugh, that the “royals” don’t really buy the big things, they go for “small stuff, mostly as gifts.” That, Samir says, is because “they’ve inherited all the big stuff already.”

The last stop at Gem Pa­lace is the workshop, again on the first floor, where, in one room craftsmen are busy cutting, polishing, faceting and carving stones, while in another, some are creating the gold “setting”. In a corner there’s one man setting the stones into the gold. In another corner, there is a man carrying out the kundan work with great concentration.A huge amethyst in the hands of one of the craftsmen suddenly catches my eye. That’s apparently going to be set into a ring inlaid with rubies at the bottom edge. “That’s a poison ring,” the man grins at me, observing my fascination. I look at him closely. “You’re pulling my leg aren’t you?”His grins widens as he holds up the amethyst to show me that it’s actually a hemisphere, hollow on the inside. Putting it onto the body of the ring, he shows me the spherical space left inside.“See? That’s where you put the poison. The amethyst is detachable. So you can just crack open the ring and tip the poison into someone’s cup and no one would be the wiser.” I could well imagine its use in the times of the maharajas, but now….

I am still marvelling at the ring when my glance falls at my watch. It’s been another hour and a half. Two and a half hours since my appointed time, to be precise.

Another phone call to Munnu.“I’m still waiting for you, are you coming?” I ask.“I’m on my way,” he says. “Are you still there?” he asks.“I’m just going out to see where I can get a quick bite,” I tell him.“Ahh… well, I’ll be therein around half an hour or 45minutes.”I’m a little relieved; he says he’s on his way.

After almost another hour and a lunch of burgers, fries and coke later, I’m back at the gates of Gem Palace, having yet ano­ther conversation with Mun­nu on the phone.“Shall I come over to your place to meet you?” I offer, wondering how ill he is.“No, no…” he’s obviously reluctant. Then he seems to get an idea. “But tell me, do you know Hot Pink?” I do not. (It’s the Fashion and Lifestyle label created by Munnu along with French jewellery designer Marie-Hélène de Taillac in 2005).“Well, are any of the guards there? Can you please give the phone to one of them?”

I look around, and spotting one of the guards, hand him the phone. (For a bizarre moment I wonder if the man is being instructed to never let the badgering journalist cross those gates again.)

The guard hands the phone over to one of the drivers. In a minute, the man is opening the doors of one of their cars for me. I am beyond puzzled.“Bhaisahab has asked me to take you to Narain Niwas Palace,” he says. (That’s where Hot Pink is located) I point out to him that I have my own car. “Well, could you please ask the driver to follow us to that place?”

Completely amazed, I agree, wondering where the wild gem… er… goose chase will land me.A 20-minute drive lands me inside the gates of Narain Niwas Palace Hotel, and I am escorted into the Hot Pink store, which, true to its name, has lots of orange and hot pink thrown in the décor. There’s a hot pink rug and hot pink and orange cushions in every room. There’s a chandelier that looks exactly like it’s been done in kundan-polki work, and a brass reproduction of the neebu-mirchi combo that every shop in Jaipur hangs at its doorstep to ward off the evil eye. There are clothes, purses, accessories…everything, except, of course, what I’m looking for — Munnu himself.

The store staff doesn’t know he’s expecting me. They suggest I call him up. Again. I’m begin to marvel at my own reserves of patience as I call him up for the nth time.“I’m here at Hot Pink,” I tell him simply.“Have you had anything to drink? Would you like some tea or coffee? I’ll tell the staff…”

I want to come straight to the point. “How long will it take you to reach here?”

“Please have something, I’ll be there in about half an hour.”I really have nothing more to say after that. Sure enough, a boy from the staff comes along to offer me a drink. Water is the best thing to soothe my nerves, and I ask him for that. Then I spot the book — Munnu: Irresistible Jewels, and start flipping through it. That’s like visiting Gem Palace all over again, and for a long time I am completely imm­ersed in the pictures. They are all jewels designed by Munnu, photographed by Eric Deroo. More, many more books and two hours later, I am still waiting. Waiting for Godot. I finally tell the staff to call him up and tell him I’m leaving. Five minutes later, the boy comes to me with a cell phone. “Sir would like to speak to you.”

Munnu is extremely apologetic. “I’m sorry I have wasted your entire day. I’ve really never been so ill since ma­ny years. I think I must have done something really nasty.”I stay quiet, not knowing quite what to say. He continues, “I have taken an appointment with the doctor. This headache, you know…”

“Wish you a speedy recovery, I think I’ll be leaving now,” I really can’t engage in pleasantries now.“Oh, but did you like Gem Palace?” he asks.

I tell him it was unbelievably fabulous, but that it was him that I really wanted to meet. And I’d been waiting for six hours now.“I know, I’m feeling so bad, but I thought you would be enjoying yourself at Hot Pink?” I can’t believe this. “There is a book there by Eric Deroo, did you see it?”I tell him I have. He begins talking about it. “You know these pictures, he was clicking them to write notes on the back of. I loved them, and I asked him to take as many as he wanted to write down the notes. I really love the way he’s done them. And I asked him to use the pictures of miniature paintings from our collection, so that it would give the book a different feel. I didn’t want all those usual images of maharajas decked in jewels…”“It really is lovely,” I agree. But I haven’t forgotten the time. “I think I should be going now,” I come back to the point.

“No, no,” he says, much to my surprise. “Please stay, it’s not far from where I am, I’ll reach in 20 minutes.”

I am absolutely amazed now. “Are you sure you can? You seem to be very unwell…”

“No, no. I want to talk to you. That’s why I’ve called you there. Please wait. I’m really sorry about this. I’ll be there.” And the call is disconnected.I swear to myself that this is the last half hour I’m waiting for him. I move towards the gardens, watch a Rajasthani dance performance, find some really old postcards on display, talk to the artists… all this for having something to do. Samuel Beckett’s play is beginning to seem uncannily similar.

Two more half-hours. And I think it’s time for the curtains to come down. I go back into the store, tell the staff to inform Munnu that I’m leaving, and march back to my car.

I shake my head in disbelief: Beckett’s play was perhaps not so ‘absurd’ after all. I had actually spent the entire day waiting for Godot.

Of course, my wait has been infinitely more fruitful than Bec­­kett’s characters. An afternoon with the most heart-stopping jewels ever will always be unforgettable…don’t you reme­mber? Jewels are still a woman’s best friends!