I remember my childhood visits to the cinema hall at a time when they ran a single movie for all four shows. The women in the group were pressed into service to wait their turn to buy the tickets in the Ladies Queue.

The cinema hall snack counter had greasy samosas, vegetable puffs, pop-corn and bottled soft drinks, that too, only two varieties. Most of these snack bars also had an ancient ice cream machine, which would swirl out milky ice cream, always vanilla flavour, into a cone that the attendant deftly moved to catch the swirl right. Towards the climax of the movie, we would exit the theatre so that we could leave in our car without getting caught in the rush of vehicles at the end of the show. So, invariably, we didn’t know what happened at the end of the movie.

Multiplexes have changed all that. Now, you have a bigger choice of movies to watch thanks to multiple screens and different movies showing on the same screen over a day. The experience begins even before you’ve set foot in the premises. You can book tickets on the internet, the phone, and even by messaging from your mobile. If you want the ultimate in luxurious movie watching, you can book seats that recline. If you visit the snack counter before the movie starts, you can place an order with your seat number as identity, and ask to be served at an appointed time during the movie. The snack counters now have chocolates, cookies, potato wafers, sandwiches, samosas, doughnuts, soft drinks from vending machines, pop corn in three sizes of portions, and of course, ice cream that still comes out of a machine, only more snazzy looking. No more missing the end of the movie – the parking is organized and sometimes, you pay extra for it. If you’re wondering who would watch the kids at home while you went for a movie, there’s a new service at some multiplexes where children are chaperoned while you catch up on the movie.

Needless to say, one pays a hefty rate per ticket, now touching an average of Rs. 200. The difference between earlier and now, is that then, we paid for products and now, we pay for service and convenience.

However, one of my greatest desires is to experience the ‘tent’ cinema theatres of yore, with the men and women sitting in segregated sections on the ground made comfortable with fine sand. I imagine that when the hero appears on the screen, there would be whistles aplenty and silver paper thrown on screen. Some members of the audience would dance energetically during songs only to be shushed by those whose view of the screen was blocked by the dancers. The Interval would see the audience rushing to get their share of oily ‘gold finger’ and ‘murukkus’, along with ‘colour’, a sherbet-like drink. There was also, I presume milk lollies and stick-ice creams we used to call ‘kucchi Ice’.

Ironically, what hasn’t changed between then and now, is the fact that the movie is incidentally only a small part of the entire cinema-going experience.

The concept of the Mumbai Local (as the Suburban Train Network is called) is rather interesting, as I discovered when I had to take my first ride.

I was advised to buy a First Class ticket as that compartment would be relatively less crowded. Step one accomplished, I found the right platform number and made my way there. There was already a train waiting. I was suddenly in a quandary. There seemed to be no First Class compartment as far as I could see. Finally, not wanting to be late for my appointment, I boarded the nearest Second Class compartment, that gradually got so crowded that I began to worry about getting off at the right stop.

I noticed that there were more men than women here, and people had a peculiar way of folding the newspaper, that they read even as they were holding on for dear life. All of a sudden, the train stopped at a station and everybody trooped out. Turns out that I took a train that would go only half the distance I had to cover. I stepped out and on a different platform, found another train that was headed to the right destination this time. This time too, I couldn’t find the First Class compartment. As the train was pulling out, I entered the compartment nearest to where I stood. A strange odour pervaded my nostrils and I discovered the concept of a special compartment for fishmongers. Luckily, in that compartment that day, there were no mongers, only the whiff of bygone fish.

I was advised to buy a First Class ticket as that compartment would be relatively less crowded. Step one accomplished, I found the right platform number and made my way there. There was already a train waiting. I was suddenly in a quandary. There seemed to be no First Class compartment as far as I could see. Finally, not wanting to be late for my appointment, I boarded the nearest Second Class compartment, that gradually got so crowded that I began to worry about getting off at the right stop. I noticed that there were more men than women here, and people had a peculiar way of folding the newspaper, that they read even as they were holding on for dear life.

All of a sudden, the train stopped at a station and everybody trooped out. Turns out that I took a train that would go only half the distance I had to cover. I stepped out and on a different platform, found another train that was headed to the right destination this time. This time too, I couldn’t find the First Class compartment. As the train was pulling out, I entered the compartment nearest to where I stood. A strange odour pervaded my nostrils and I discovered the concept of a special compartment for fishmongers. Luckily, in that compartment that day, there were no mongers, only the whiff of bygone fish.

Finally arriving at my destination, I felt a great high as I had done my first train journey in big, bad Mumbai all by myself. The high lasted all day, and long after I returned. That was until someone I know gently pointed out that in addition to the Second Class and the First Class, which was predominantly male dominated, there is such a concept as a Ladies Compartment and a First Class Ladies to make the division even finer. No wonder the men in the compartment I rode looked hostile. I had erringly put it down to find-a-seat aggression.

I also discovered from my friend, that on the platform of any station, the pillars have differently coloured diagonal stripes to indicate First Class and Ladies Compartments. Now if only I had known that BEFORE my journey. It could have saved my riding a Second Class compartment clutching a First Class ticket. Some day, I hope to restore the balance by riding a First Class compartment with a Second Class ticket.

Finally arriving at my destination, I felt a great high as I had done my first train journey in big, bad Mumbai all by myself. The high lasted all day, and long after I returned. That was until someone I know gently pointed out that in addition to the Second Class and the First Class, which was predominantly male dominated, there is such a concept as a Ladies Compartment and a First Class Ladies to make the division even finer. No wonder the men in the compartment I rode looked hostile. I had erringly put it down to find-a-seat aggression.

I also discovered from my friend, that on the platform of any station, the pillars have differently coloured diagonal stripes to indicate First Class and Ladies Compartments. Now if only I had known that BEFORE my journey. It could have saved my riding a Second Class compartment clutching a First Class ticket. Some day, I hope to restore the balance by riding a First Class compartment with a Second Class ticket.

One day, between mouthfuls of brownie, a friend of ours visiting Kodai with us, said “India is the best place to holiday – the main reason being food. If you holiday in Europe for instance, you’ll be spending a lot of money, not to mention working up an already worked-up appetite searching for a place to eat.”

We heard this refrain, not to mention lavish praise for the sheer variety and flavour, at every mealtime on our three-day trip to Kodai. This, from an Indian who lived in India until a couple of years ago.

We didn’t know what he meant then, but these things have a strange way of turning up in one’s life.

The Better Half (henceforth referred to as BH) and I are just back from a three-week trip to Europe and believe our friend should sport a halo for the truths that he uttered between mouthfuls of brownie.

We had three main problems with food in Europe.
a. Vegetarianism
b. Affordability
c. Flavour

With vegetarianism, things are clear. Go or no go. Provided the person at the restaurant understands the concept. Or understands English. In any case, our consumption of yoghurt and fruit went up substantially.

While our vegetarianism did complicate things, the ordeal was in finding affordable food. Outside every restaurant, a menu is on display. We saw so many menus in an average day, that we’ve turned menu-scrutiny into a fine art. It’s a miracle we even managed to see the Eiffel Tower!

When it comes to flavour, the Indian palate is saturated. We love the pungency of garlic, the cloying sweetness of masala tea, and the ‘dunk-myself-in-the-lake’ spice of pickles. In Europe, the blandness is disconcerting, probably because we didn’t quite have the local fare that was mostly non-vegetarian.

Then comes the issue of museum food. Most museums in Europe are humongous and one can easily spend an entire day, thinking it’s just been a couple of hours. When the hunger hits home, there’s only one place that’s accessible – the museum cafetaria. Believe me, some of the food in there, should have been part of the permanent collection of the museum. A wedge of Spanish omelette, costed an awful lot, came stone cold and just as hard.

We did discover some Tandoori outlets where the food was not all that affordable but at least authentic. The owners were friendly and ensured the food was spiced a little more than what they’d serve otherwise. My most vivid memory was of a quiet meal where BH and I focused completely on the task at hand – wolfing down parathas and sabji in record time, all the while calculating how much the food would cost us if converted to Indian Rupees.

Maybe we were inexperienced. Maybe we didn’t hit the right outlets. Maybe we were naïve. The end result was that in all our photographs of the trip, we look hungry. Coming home, we gushed, not unlike our friend, about the sheer variety and flavour of food in India. Our value-add to the description was ‘inexpensive’.

As one owner of a Tandoori eatery in Paris said, “Indian food is like a drug. If someone tastes it once, it’s an addiction for life.”

Unlike with our friend at the beginning of this article, this time, we understood exactly what he meant.

Burp.

The day I left Chennai to begin a new life in Mumbai in late June this year, emails from friends started pouring in. “Hope you’re having fun in the rain – we lesser mortals are languishing of thirst in Chennai.” “All settled in? You must be – with water in taps, what more do you need?” All in jest, but badly timed.

Having lived in Chennai for 16 years, sunk roots, made some deep friendships and dreamt some Chennai-based dreams, it seemed as though it would all end with my move. I detested Mumbai for its alleged squalor, its pace, its distances. But with no option but to move, I steeled myself for the challenges that the change would bring with much proclamations of “You’ll love the place!” from my husband.

Friends tried to dissuade us, colleagues warned us of the fast pace of life there, but in every conversation, I could detect a veneer of envy. I, for one, was beginning to look at the plusses.

No more auto drivers, doing that swift mental juggling of variables to arrive at the rate, in the nanosecond it took for you to say “Airport?”, and him to say “Rs. 250.”

No more undisciplined ‘over-takers from the right’ – one could now peacefully erase from memory, choice phrases like ‘Savugiraki!’ and ‘Veetule Sollittu Vandhuttiya?”

Above all, no more water problems – there would be enough water to warrant the ownership of a washing machine. More importantly, under a shower in the bathroom, one could, at least in some small way, begin to finally fathom why all those film heroines under waterfalls, almost always broke into song.

Gradually, I began to get attracted to the notion of being a Mumbaikar. I was going to become a chilled-out bindaas babe.

Once the move happened at the beginning of the Mumbai monsoon, it didn’t take long for the truth to seep through my cranium.

All that I had fantasized about – water in taps, meters that worked and orderly traffic – it took less than a week for the novelty of these to wear off.

I missed Chennai.

I missed the morning walkers and evening hawkers of Marina Beach. I missed the kitschy charm of Pondy Bazaar. I missed theatres where I’ve watched many a movie alone, without worrying about which letch was sitting next to me. I missed Spencer Plaza, where I spent many lazy afternoons window-shopping dreams of depleting the husband’s income. I missed the discount sales at the various exhibition halls. And friends – no more hot gossip sessions over cups of even hotter coffee. Most of all, being the self-confessed foodie, I missed sambar of the non-sweet kind and coconut chutney. I missed the bajjis, peanuts and sundal on the beach. And my mouth watered at the memory of adai, appam, and steaming hot masala milk.

While I fantasized about the aroma of set dosas in hole-in-the-wall eateries in Chennai, things weren’t going very well for me in Mumbai. The expansive supermarket near home stocked a vast array of nearly-expired snacks on discount, totally useless photo frames and an unusually large variety of car accessories. What it didn’t stock, were those little essentials that we can’t do without – cloth clips, buckets, dust bins. Another revelation was that people don’t make social calls on their friends during the week. And weekends are a parking nightmare practically everywhere. Movie tickets in the more decent theatres costed the earth and parking there, the moon.

On her first day at work in my home, the Bai left the tap in the kitchen sink open while she went about cleaning the counter. As soon as I heard the water, images of our water-starved life in Chennai gushed forth, unbidden. I couldn’t stand there silent, while she let down the drain, the equivalent of an average Chennaiite’s precious bucket of water for the bath. So, I advised her that she shouldn’t be wasting water, when parts of India (Chennai, for instance), was reeling under a water shortage situation. She stopped, as though someone had shouted ‘Statue!’, cocked her head, and asked, “Aaiga! No water? Why?” I wish I knew. How does one explain water shortage to someone who wades through knee-deep water to get to work?

But what changed my perspective on the city, was this. On Torrential Tuesday or Thunder Tuesday or whatever the media is calling it now, life came to a grinding halt in Mumbai.

I’d love to have been out there, battling the surging waters, giving a helping hand to people stuck in the flood – at the very least, I’d like to have participated by being stuck in a traffic jam! But there I was, in the comfort of a 11th floor apartment, watching the scenes unfold on TV – a mere spectator. I was, pardon the term, literally high and dry. The large window of my living room, provided a very dismal view of the rain pouring down, as though some wrathful higher being had upended a large drum of water.

Mobile networks were jammed, telephone lines were down and power was cut off in some of the suburbs. The people of the city showed more gumption and spunk, by taking things in their stride. When taxis or buses broke down, people got off, and started the long walk home, some through over 15 kilometres along roads with water logging at depths varying from ankle-deep to chest-high. Cars, some very expensive ones too, floated about like paper-boats. Someone I know reached home 26 hours from the time he left office. Along roads, in some places, people distributed home-cooked food and drinking water to those who were trudging home. Some played anthakshari while waiting it out at office. Those stranded in cars, passed the time listening to those annoying rain-themed songs on radio. The radio stations got going on transmitting messages from people in search of their loved ones, the TV channels followed suit.

On the one hand, my first thought was that Chennai would be better off with even a fraction of those 944 mm that descended on Mumbai that day. On the other hand, I’m beginning to think that like the infamous Chennai summer, the nemesis for Mumbai is its monsoon.

This much I know, no matter how bad the water problem or the summer heat in Madras, it didn’t ever get to the point of the city becoming paralysed. While in Mumbai, the rain played games with us – letting up for a few minutes just to get our hopes up, and then proceeding to empty more dark clouds. So, today, my husband grapples with how he is going to make sales calls in this water-logged city, while I worry about whether we will get supply of vegetables and milk.

So, before you curse those of us who have moved out of Chennai, remember – the water is bluer on the other side!