Curator Pilav

Among the words fashionably in vogue now is ‘curate’. This means it gets my malignant attention. 

Earlier, a curator was an old fuddy-duddy in a museum, whose only skill as an archeologist was that he knew seven different ways to dig his nose. Then things changed (though his nose remained the same). I read some years ago of a nude museum somewhere in Europe that advertised for a Curator and got more applications than the population of Belgium.  Imagine the ad: “Wanted, Curator for Museum of Birthday Suit Art.  Previous exposure required.  Dress code: none at all”.  The job profile involved going through heaps of photographs, (which task if you did in regular jobs would get you locked up) and passing comments that – it being Modern Art – nobody including you would understand, all the while having a great time and getting paid for it. 

But back to the word Curate.  Nowadays, people curate anything – fashion, cakes, watches, handbags, furniture, veggies. This means that they choose what you can buy - at their price.  The other day I was staying in a biggish hotel and walked downstairs for dinner, only to discover that it was curated by a Chef Somebody.  I was looking for rice, dal and dry veggies, but was told that I could have Zaphrani Pilav with mustard-apple sauce and tamarind baigan (mustard baigan and tamarind apple sauce.  It does not matter.)
“But why can’t I have rice and dal?” I asked with some petulance.

The Chef – that Curator chap – was hurriedly called, so he came by with a big smile (in big hotels, they are trained to do jackshit, but with big smiles).

He was (and remains) the fattest human I have ever seen.  The many layers of his stomach rolled over and – this is fascinating -  his belly button (that had dispatched a reluctant shirt button into outer space) was within whispering distance of his knees.  And if that doesn’t impress you, he had a triple chin on his double chin (ie, subsect of main set – pls refer Set Theory for photographic description).  
As he ambled slowly towards me, there was steam from his nose, so there was probably someone inside, feeding coal to keep the engine moving.    
“Sorry Sir, today’s dinner is curated,” he said, as if that explained everything including global warming.  
“But I want something light, a little rice?” 
“Sir, you can have the Zaphrani Pilav with mustard-apple…..”
“No, no.  I want something light like plain rice.  You know rice?  Stuff that is boiled in water? Pressure cooked?  White in colour? Grown in a paddy field?” This was a weak attempt at sarcasm, which, of course, is completely lost on fat curator chefs.

He gave me a big smile and ambled off never to be seen again.  After reading about half the book that I’d carried down, I went back to the room and ordered baked beans and bread from the Room Service menu.

The baked beans was tinned and therefore utterly ghastly but the bread was good.  Nothing, not even the salt, was curated, so, on the whole, all’s well that ends well

Philip Kotler Is Passe

 

Marketing has its 4 ‘P’s.

So do Bongs  who travel in Calcutta buses (the male ones, I must be careful to emphasise).  The 4 ‘P’s of Bongs in Buses are: Phight, Pheesh, Phone and Phootball.

Calcutta buses were all made around the time shock absorbers were just an idea. but the bongs aren't concerned.  Bongs board them partly because they need to go somewhere, but the larger, deeper reason is simple:  every Cal bus doubles up as a free-for-all arena to express a Bong’s views in the most uninhibited manner.  In general, the Bong in Bus will phight about anything and if the fare has been revised to the minutest degree, it’s fair to expect a sequel to the Bolshevik revolution.  Nobody stays neutral, of course - you could get the worst from both sides.  In the deeper philosophy of cooperation, everyone joins in with spirit and verve, has his say, disagrees with everyone else and mutters under his breath with an air of superiority.  It’s really win-win.  

When he speaks on the Phone, the Bong in Bus can get positively splenetic, splaying his hands, eyes narrowed and staring at the imaginary opponent, the words rattled off at top speed, with a series of insults, each sentence ending with a rhetorical question.  Once I heard a fellow call the chap on the other end something related to a dog (kukkoor), after which he called him - or so it seemed - a stale fish (maach) and continue in the Natural History vein. The other fellow was up to scratch too, but this guy wasn’t listening and I had to lean it closer since the conversation wasn't on speaker, which seems to have got the fellow to think that I was part of it and he began staring at me with virulence.    

The only time the Bong in Bus is silent on the phone is when his better half gives him an earful, such episodes being regular and most lively (for the party of the second part).  When the women in Calcutta buses have an opinion, they do not just express it, they imprint it on stake, much like the common Bee Eater impales its prey.  

I have had many rides, but my shortest in a Cal bus was when, after boarding at Gariahat, I smelt the presence of at least four pheesh, one of which was in an advanced stage of digestion in someone’s intestine.  But pheesh is everywhere in the Cal bus: on top at times, under a seat, in a bag or box and the conductor no doubt neutered his sensory glands with his first salary.

When silence reigns in the back of a bus where the men stand or sit, with their heads uniformly down staring at their mobiles, you know it’s phootball time.  Often, phootball will be interrupted with phight, but these are listless efforts, for the Bong’s attention is on a higher plane.  Occasionally, the Bong in Bus will slap his thigh in irritation and freely curse, and when there is goal by his favourite team, he will slap his thigh in joy and freely curse.  

And, on a philosophical note, if he has reached his destination, but the match is engrossing and he has a seat, he will continue, for the journey, you see, is the destination.