India Diary - Exploring the Enchanting Ruins of Old Bhopal - Part 2

A pea-shaped face peeked from behind a set of rusted iron doors at the Taj Mahal palace as I firmly rapped the heavy door-knocker against its metal backrest. “I wish to look around”, I said determinedly in response to the quizzical expression that stared back at me. The possessor of the tiny, question-marked face – Abhinav, a young boy of perhaps 15 turned out to be one of the three caretakers who had been bestowed upon the responsibility of guarding the premise. At first, he seemed mighty reluctant to let me in, let alone explore, but a healthy dose of incessant cajoling and emotional blackmail made him buckle and agree to show me around. 

Moments ago, fuelled by the tea at Raju tea stall, I had been high as a kite at the thought of exploring the ruins of Begum Shah Jahan’s castle which, if I were to believe the rumors, was a magnificent structure, spread over a whopping 17 acres in the heart of the otherwise congested Jahangirabad locality. Threatening to burst my happy bubble of adventure though, was a rather sad vision that welcomed me at the venue. A decrepit, narrow frontispiece snuggled in an easy-to-miss recess by the main road. It was hard to envision a grand citadel hidden behind those doors. But, sure enough, as Abhinav cranked them open, a gargantuan forum of ruins unfurled magically like a page in a pop-up book. 

 

Within minutes of wandering with him, I realized that Abhinav’s bag-of-bones constitution was deceptive. Once he started regaling the castle’s history it was as if an electric wave of energy had coursed through his lanky frame. I could tell he loved every nook and corner of the crumbling acropolis as he bounced vivaciously from one section to the next. One of the fully intact features within the premise, he told me, was Saawan Bhado – an airy structure peppered with wrought iron spouts that were used to sprinkle cool underground water on the palace walls to temper down the excruciating summer heat. Standing beneath one of its red stone arches, I could almost smell the aroma exuded by a patch of earth, the cracked lips of which had just been caressed by a refreshing trickle.

Contrary to the hard-as-nails reputation earned by her mother and grandmother, Begum Shah Jahan (who was number 3 in the line of Bhopal’s 4 Begums) was said to be soft and lady like, with a penchant for all things beautiful like poetry, architecture and art. Her love for intricate architecture is evident from the mirror work and carvings found in the Sheesh Mahal, one of the many sub-sections of the palace. Even in its current state of abandon, the walls of Sheesh Mahal give an illusion of being studded with bits of precious stones; leading me to believe that in its hey-day, its glitter must have been quite a sight for sore eyes. From the jharokhas that hang over the adjoining Motia Talaab (Motia Lake), the twin minarets and the colossal dome of the Tajul Masjid can be seen along with their inverted mirror images reflecting in the lake. The mosque, which was also the Begum’s brainchild, is supposed to be one of the largest in Asia and is perhaps just as imposing as Delhi’s Jama Masjid or Lahore’s Badshahi Masjid.

It is said that those predisposed to literature and fine arts tend to be emotional fools by default. Begum Shah Jahan too seems to have conformed perfectly to this rule. From falling hopelessly in love with her ambitious, gold-digging tutor Syed Siddiq Hassan to upholding a 13-year long iciness towards her daughter, the then heir apparent - Kai Khusrau Jahan Begum, upon whom she squarely placed the blame for the untimely death of her first grand-daughter– there are plenty of stories that give an idea of how drama riddled the Begum’s life was. This is not to say that she was an inept ruler who turned a blind eye towards the welfare of her subjects while engaging solely in frivolous activities. A truly secular ruler, Begum Shah Jahan established a Hindu Property Trust for conserving Hindu properties. She also inaugurated the railway system in Bhopal, a project once spearheaded by her grandmother. It was projects like these and many others that made her a much loved sovereign. 

On one hand, the palace’s quiet seclusion and lack of publicity allows one to peacefully soak in its splendor without being distracted by packs of noisy tourists, annoying school children on class picnics, roguish touts trying to palm off cheap trinkets and fake guides concocting spicy stories to pique their clients’ interest. On the other hand, the government’s obliviousness towards its upkeep has forced the structure into accepting a life of neglect and subsequent decay. The flourishing jungles of wild grass that seem to have gobbled up portions of the palace, fungus laden walls that are lined with webs of pitiful fractures and rotting animal carcasses that can be found within the once sumptuous rock pile are sad reminders of the fact that the palace is fast approaching its own demise.

Yet, Abhinav seems hopeful. The local newspapers have reported that the property is soon to be converted into a fancy heritage hotel. He sees himself getting employed in some capacity as part of the enterprise and this pleases him immensely. I, on the flip side, can’t help feeling dismayed at the news even though it probably means a much needed face-lift for the palace. Chances are pretty high that this is the first and the last time that I have the luxury to pry around untroubled like a true adventurer examining prospective trapdoors or simply sit by the lake in a dreamy trance like a poet mulling over frilly ideas. 

As the sky changed into its evening garb of crimson streaked china-blue, with great difficulty I pulled my spellbound self away from the untouched beauty of a quaint castle. A castle that was once the loving abode of a wistful princess who dreamt of things like finding true love, creating a world where all faiths coexisted in harmony, providing for each of her subjects  and growing old gracefully, surrounded by a happy roost of children and grandchildren. Just as I exited, a band of grime-covered, wide-eyed urchins ambushed me, hungrily eyeing my knapsack, clawing at my arms and pointing towards their famished mouths. And just like that, the spell I was under broke, its shattered pieces taking on the form of these wretched souls who dragged me back to the real world.

India Diary - Exploring the Enchanting Ruins of Old Bhopal - Part 1

Picture courtesy - www.tripadvisor.in

The city of Bhopal is like a mysterious old bard. In a tattered gunny bag swung over one of his atrophied shoulders, he hides a treasure trove of rare gems plucked right out of history books. It takes effusive flattery, gentle persuasion and an unrelenting perseverance to get him to allow a peek into his sack of stories. But once he warms up, there is no stopping him. Not only does he whisper mystical tales from his past into eager ears, but also abets greedy eyes in shamelessly feasting upon sights that only few know exist. 

One chilly winter evening in Dec 2014, I found myself in the august company of this Methuselah of sorts, who after years of constant wheedling had finally agreed to chat with me. For the first time I experienced a Bhopal that I had never seen before – one that remains unsullied even though the rest of the city is undergoing rapid remolding in an effort to keep up with changing times. This is a section that represents an era of iron-willed Begums who ruled the city with a flair that is hard to find even today.

My peregrinations were flagged off as I stepped into the rose pink edifice of Gauhar Mahal – a 19th century palace built for the first female ruler of Bhopal – Begum Qudsia. Against its moss-encased arches a handicrafts exhibition was in full swing. In the center of the main courtyard sat a dried up marble fountain wearing yellow stains of age. Around it, the air was thick with the sweet essence of rose, lotus and sandalwood attar originating from the open vials of a hijab clad lady whose ingenious advertising gimmick was proving quite effective in luring customers. Hand-painted silk scarves hung from makeshift displays, fluttering tantalizingly in a cool breeze and life-like figures carved in brass silently beckoned clamoring patrons.

The mise-en-scene was such that it transcended all borders of time, invoking images from when Bhopal was 200 years younger. I could almost spot the sparkling anklet of a lady-in-waiting just as she disappeared behind a carved column or hear the hoof-beats as patrolling soldiers returned from their nightly vigil. Through the torch-illuminated corridors of this very palace the aristocratic Begum, who shunned the purdah amongst other regressive traditions, must have once walked, pearls tinkling and silk and brocade robes swishing around. With a shopping bag overflowing with goodies and a head overflowing with sepia toned ideas, I returned home, excited about the prospect of exploring other jewels of Old Bhopal in the coming days.

As the nebulous rays of winter sunshine escorted in a new day, another 19th century relic patiently waited for me to come calling. Hidden behind a coat of white-wash, in the busy lanes of Royal Enclave, I found Sadar Manzil. The pearl white paint that was deemed suitable for the ancient structure by new age ministers is in-fact totally inefficacious in concealing its true age. Built during the reign of Bhopal’s fourth and final female ruler - Kaikhusrau Jahan Begum, the palatial building was used as a hall of public audience where the Begum convened with her subjects. Despite the seemingly mundane administrative work that went on within its walls, it is apparent that no stone was left unturned in its beautification. The proof of this can be seen in a series of decadent murals that decorate its domed ceilings. Through charcoal wisps of decimated cobwebs and a thick blanket of dust, one can still trace the beautiful patterns of blossoming buds, dewy leaves and curling stems on the walls.

Wall Art at Sadar Manzil

Keeping up with its tradition, Sadar Manzil now houses government offices like those of the Municipal Corporation. As a result it has taken on the appearance of any other modern day government office in India. Every available inch of space bears towering stacks of old official files tied with pieces of frayed red string and brown with years of accumulated grime. Most corners and alcoves are encrusted with maroon spatters where scores of insouciant paan masticators over years have mercilessly regurgitated the contents of their mouths. Picking my way through haphazard rows of sealed Godrej almirahs, scurrying rats and piles of rubble, I made it to the terrace from where the Bhojtal or Upper Lake can be seen placidly stretched out in all its silvery grey glory. I can well imagine court poets of yore making use of this visage as inspiration for producing soul stirring poetry.

Breaking my fable-like journey for a cup of tea at the famous Raju Tea Stall at Sultania Road near Peer Gate was a revelation in itself. Who could have guessed that a seemingly footling tea stall which had innocuously elbowed its way between tightly packed hardware and kirana stores could serve the most succulent mawa jalebi and rabri, crisp pakodas and aromatic chai. Legend has it that despite its rather run-down veneer and common-man clientele, many an important government officials frequent it to get their regular fix of chai and snacks....To be continued

India Diary - A Long Road Home

The only part that can be appropriately labelled as ‘excruciating’ in a 3.5 week vacation home (India), is perhaps the 20+ hours spent cooped up in an air-plane or counting crows during layovers. An 8 hour flight from Detroit to Amsterdam, wandering aimlessly through the occluded corridors of Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport before boarding the next 8 hour flight to New Delhi, landing in New Delhi hours before the first blush of dawn, napping fitfully on the rock hard benches at the terminal and finally embarking on the last leg of the journey, a 1.5 hour flight to Bhopal – post all this, it wasn’t surprising that I was mere inches away from collapsing in a pitiful heap of cramped muscles and sore bones, yesterday.

Regardless though, the moment I stepped out of the airport at Bhopal, it was as if the familiar smells, sounds and sights of this much-loved city breathed new life into a travel-weary me. Soon enough my jet lagged eyes popped wide open in excitement as Papa meandered through the narrow by-lanes burgeoning with life and past the quiescent ‘bada talaab’ (big lake) over which a translucent curtain of mist hung low, adding manifold to the acute sense of nostalgia that was slowly setting in. The moribund yet charming pink arches of Gauhar Mahal and the quaint minarets of Tajul Masjid seemed to break into wide smiles as they welcomed me back. Even the stern looking Raja Bhoj carved in stone looked pretty pleased to see me. What accentuated the hilarity of the situation was me grinning foolishly back at all of them. This is what happens when one has an imagination that gallops faster than wild horses.

For the first few days everything feels surreal. It is as if I have stepped out of a Skype session with my parents, right into their living room. The transition from miniature 2 dimensional images on my computer screen to real flesh and blood 3 dimensional versions has left me momentarily dazed and I constantly feel the need to reach out and touch everything and everyone around to make sure that this is not a dream. Even the city pretends to unfold slowly and dramatically in front of me, making me believe that I am seeing it in a fresh perspective today.

Small town India peeks cheekily from around every nook and corner – a posse of students crowding a tin shanty, from within the charcoal walls of which a delectable breakfast of ‘poha-jalebi’ materializes on square pieces of newspaper, mothers balancing their cubs on two-wheelers while on their way to drop them at the school bus-stops and old men in monkey-caps and thick wool sweaters, emitting bursts of loud belly-laughs in the park early in the morning. Neither do I have to try too hard to hear the sounds of small town India, as they filter in seamlessly through meshed windows and make their way to my eager ears – the loud whistle of a train zipping on its tracks somewhere in the vicinity, the strains of Hindi movie songs trickling in as they play on someone’s radio-set in the neighbourhood, the cacophony of competitive honking on the roads and the constant hum of life as it goes by.

Picture this - I am sitting cross-legged in the living room, with a blanket of golden sunlight warming my legs and the sound of Ashoka trees rustling merrily in a mild winter breeze. From the corner of my eye I can see Ma shuffling from one room to another, carrying out her ritualistic morning chores. Papa is lounging on a chair in front of me with a cup of tea. He has his nose buried in today’s newspaper. On my left, my brother, Pranay is lying supine on the couch, his eyes glued to the television set on which an India-Australia cricket match is on. This is my very own paradise. None of the harshness associated with life as a grown-up touches me here. With me are those who love me unconditionally, a bookcase that groans under the weight of books from all around the world and crisp mooli/methi/gobhi paranthas that turn golden brown in Ma’s kitchen. I can speak in Hindi all day long without having to see even a hint of incomprehension on the faces of those whom I am speaking to. If this isn’t pure joy, then what is?

A Holiday Treat - Thanksgiving in San Francisco

Experiencing a city during the festive season is like meeting someone on their wedding day. People tend to be on their best behaviour the day they are getting married. In fact, even the most obnoxious ones are amiable and benign on this day and just so, even the most vicious cities are friendly and becoming in the last quarter of the year. Holidays seem to bring out the most attractive features of every city and it is worth the while to spend the extra dough over inflated costs of flight tickets, hotel reservations and other similar logistical expenditures to be able to partake of all the conviviality.

For instance, a city like New Delhi which is infamous for all the insidiousness that festers in its dark pockets any other time of the year, does not intimidate as much, as soon as the streets light up for Diwali and Eid. It is hard to hold up one's guard when wading through seas of happy people on streets swathed in twinkly fairy lights and colourful streamers. The aromas wafting from kitchens where lip-smacking treats are being conjured from scratch further melt away any residues of our guarded self. For a few weeks, the bonhomie and joy brought along by the holiday merriment shines so bright that it illuminates even the darkest nooks and corners and souls.

I had a chance to spend some time in San Francisco, California over Thanksgiving this year. Now, since San Francisco is not a city of ill repute, there were no preset caution bells ringing in my head. Also, as I have been there several times before, I wasn't expecting too many new revelations and experiences either. How wrong I was! From the glittery Christmas tree standing tall at Union square to the red and green mistletoes suspended in every display window of multi-storey retail havens like Macy's and Bloomingdales to the bejewelled Golden Gate Bridge which streaked the night sky like a frozen shooting star to the throngs of happy people crowding every inch of space on the sidewalks - everything was a thousand-fold brighter and more cheerful.

The husband and I are not big shoppers and so we did not fall victim to the crazy Black Friday shopping fever that afflicts most people during this time of the year. Instead, we were part of a small group of bemused onlookers, sitting with mugs of steaming hot cocoa, soaking up the gleefulness of others lugging bags and bags of great steals. Strangely, the excitement of those who have struck gold on this day of deals and sales after camping for hours outside mega malls, is contagious. It rubs on to even people like us who have little patience and inclination to jostle against others to grab that 100 dollar television at Walmart or that 5 dollar knit dress at H&M. Without spending a dime on retail therapy we ended up feeling pretty uplifted thanks to all the tireless shoppers whose frenzy made for quite a show.

Food is an integral part of any celebration and Thanksgiving and Christmas are no different. Merry making without the appropriate stomach gratifiers is just as hollow as an éclair without the custard filling. Imagine a Diwali back home without the customary tin boxes of crumbly gujjiyas and namak paares! The mere thought chills me to the bones. Crisp apple strudels with generous helpings of whipped cream, sandwiches filled with turkey stuffing, rich pumpkin flavoured milkshakes, flaky pies and quiches, piping hot coffee with cinnamon sticks and cocoa with cloud-like marshmallow bits floating on the surface were treats of the season we gladly indulged in and then promptly worked off the calories by walking miles through the city's sharp uphill and downhill streets.

I have always believed that the best way to get to know a city is by walking its streets. Living by this philosophy, we walked through the alleys of Chinatown with all its Mandarin sign boards, antique shops bursting with Chinese pottery, carved dragons and oriental figurines and vegetable markets with wares spilling out on the side-walks. We walked past the beautifully archaic apartment buildings that snake along either side of most streets around Union square, occasionally peeking through open windows to catch a glimpse of tastefully decorated living rooms of the wealthy. We admired the art galleries dotting Fisherman’s Wharf and of course the vast inky black ocean that stretched placidly into infinity. We even walked through the serpentine hairpin turns of Lombard Street, trying not to get dizzy. And when we could walk no more because our feet had gone leaden and were ready to drop off, the famous San Francisco cable cars came to our rescue.

 

The killer uphill walks

A holiday special play at the San Francisco Playhouse theatre, a visit to the land of the bourgeois - Palo Alto - to pay homage to where it all began for us (material for another post), a walk through the cool serenity of Muir Woods (material for yet another post) and several quiescent moments of togetherness later, we were just about ready to give up our jobs and move to California right away. Alas, that is not an option. And so, here I am, back in freezing Detroit, yearning for one glimpse of that crystal blue San Francisco sky. But I will say this: “Every time I make myself a comforting cup of hot cocoa now, I make sure to sprinkle it with a few extra bits of marshmallow, just so that I can close my eyes and let the wisps of steam from my cup and the creaminess of molten marshmallows whisk me back in time to those two beautiful days of colours, sunshine and amity.”

A piece of the blue sky captured by my puny cell phone

Haider - Hamlet in Kashmir

The sludge like greyness that I woke up to this morning was a perfect nod to the movie I had picked for the day – Haider. From the moment the lights dimmed in the theatre and the movie opened to a rather dreary scene, I knew that it was going to be two and a half hours of hard hitting cinema. Through Vishal Bharadwaj’s lens we are whisked to an eerily silent village cradled in the beautiful yet bloodied Kashmir valley of the 90s. The only sound that resonates once in a while is the collective clattering of soldiers’ boots as they hit the stone pathways or the muffled whispers of those who scuttle back home, trying to make it in time before the curfew sets in. Within this premise, unfolds a tale of a boy (Haider) who returns from college to charred remains of his childhood home, a missing father (Dr. Meer) whose name now bears the black mark of a terrorist-sympathizer and a mother (Ghazala) who is seen happily humming Kashmiri folk songs with her brother-in-law (Khurram) instead of being crazed with grief.

Even though the story is primarily about Haider’s hunt for his father and his burning desire to avenge everything that he has lost, there is a haunting larger picture. To me, the poignant exchange that takes place in the first few shots between Ghazala and Dr. Meer sums it up. To Ghazala’s quivering question – ‘Kiske taraf hain aap’ (Whose side are you on - India, Pakistan or the Separatists?), the composed doctor replies ‘Zindagi ke’ (I am on life’s side). It is an exchange that is rife with many unanswered ideological quandaries. On one hand the humanitarian aspect prods us to believe that a human life, irrespective of whether it is that of a fierce terrorist or an innocent bystander, is of utmost importance. On the other hand, the possibility that the same terrorist will, in all likelihood, end up mauling anyone who poses a roadblock in his quest for validating fanatical beliefs, makes us question the humanitarian within.

That the Indian Army isn’t shown in a particularly positive light is definitely a big dampener for me especially because the story feels lopsided in its narration. This is not to say that the plight of Kashmiris whose loved ones have been taken away for interrogation is in any way less excruciating than what has been depicted. What is missing though is the delineation of the circumstances under which troops are obligated to conduct cordon and search operations and catechize those found suspicious. Contrary to what is shown in the movie, this task isn’t one that our soldiers find amusing or pleasurable.

A close personal source once shared his own experience of just how physically strenuous and mentally draining these operations are. Imagine waking up at 2:30 am and preparing for an exercise that will last almost 20 hours, carefully shepherding the village men (many of whom are often hostile towards you) to a designated area, thoroughly scouring the village for hidden troublemakers – all under the constant threat of sudden ambushes and open fire from unseen vantage points that might leave you dead within seconds. Having seen them at close quarters for the better half of my life, I can assure you that these soldiers and officers are far removed from what they are made out to be – insolent louts lounging inebriated in interrogation camps which double as torture cells, deriving sadistic pleasure in the misery of those imprisoned.

Apart from the above, the movie is quite riveting in its account of Haider’s journey. As he painfully exhumes the rancorous truth about the iniquities perpetrated by his uncle, Khurram, the unintentional flaws in his mother’s character and the confusing canons of the ‘Azad Kashmir’ movement, you can see his soul swell with a black rage that eventually pours out and destroys everyone. Tabu as Ghazala, the woman torn between a desire to fulfil her personal needs and those of her enraged son is as usual a pleasure to watch. Her eyes speak a thousand words with the help of which she credibly portrays Ghazala’s insecurities and failures.

Kay Kay Menon plays out an apt version of the treacherous uncle Khurram – a consequentialist who believes that the end justifies the means. Without a flicker of remorse in his hardened eyes, he not only pretends to be a messiah to the grief-stricken masses with the sole intent of furthering his own political interests, but also double-crosses his brother in order to bring to fruition his personal agenda. Irrfan Khan brings a cold metallic insidiousness to the story with his character – Roohdaar – an ISI agent. In sharp contrast to Haider’s fury and Khurram’s greed that profusely dominate their expressions and dialogues, Roohdaar’s calculated vileness is subtle. Yet he is successful in sending a shiver down your spine. It suffices to say that Irrfan Khan has proved his mettle once again.

Shraddha Kapoor as Arshee, Haider’s love interest, breaks the morbidity for a few rare moments with her scintillating smile that calms raw nerves and her hazel eyes that are pools of innocence. And last but not the least, Shahid Kapoor’s aura as Haider himself is a far cry from the chocolate boy image that he has been known for in the past. Dangling precariously between sanity and insanity, Haider’s character demands a certain degree of precision which Shahid Kapoor has painstakingly achieved. Through him you experience the five stages of loss – denial, anger, bargaining, depression and eventually acceptance and at each stage his emotions are honest and palpable.

The director clearly focuses on telling an unsparing tale and carving out characters and dialogues that fit like puzzle pieces in it. Resultantly, the landscape fails to win even a smidgen of screen space. There are no wide angle shots of the serene Dal Lake and the umpteen houseboats bobbing in it or of the breathtaking apple orchards and snow-capped peaks that Kashmir is famous for. Snippets of still life in the region are however recreated by things like carved walnut-wood furniture, multi-hued namdas and firans, rows of arched windowpanes and handle-less cups brimming with steaming kahwa that can be spotted in the background in most scenes.

All in all, in spite of not sharing the storyteller's beliefs on the subject of Kashmir, I enjoyed the multi-layered intrigue of the story itself. And to the naysayers, more importantly the ones who are foaming at the mouth about the movie’s lack of patriotism, all I would like to say is that in a democratic country like India, each one has the right to form an opinion and talk about it. After all, isn’t that what sets us apart from countries like North Korea and Afghanistan where every non-conforming voice is unceremoniously muted?

Mohallas, Kebabs, Colours and more

Years ago, when I lived in Hyderabad, I remember spending most weekends with like-minded food lovers, scouting the congested by-lanes of Charminaar, looking for hidden gastronomic delights. The dusty old city never disappointed me. Under the fairy-light strung canopies that illuminated the bazaar each night, I found flavourful biryanis, melt-in-the-mouth kebabs, spicy qormas and saccharine desserts like khubaani ka meetha and double ka meetha that appeased my taste buds immensely. Aah... those were the days! Without batting an eyelid I could give in to the desires of my palate, for, adding inches to my waistline wasn’t even a speck on my blank slate of concerns.

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Watching ‘Daawat-e-Ishq’ yesterday, brought back some memories of that time. After Ishaqzaade, this is YRF’s second attempt at a watered down, ebullient version of the more intense cinematic style called ‘kitchen-sink’ realism – one that simulates the domestic situations of the working class. It is a story of a father-daughter duo battling the age old social illness that afflicts the great Indian middle class even today – the dowry system. The backdrop is an ancient mohalla in old Secunderabad where lunch boxes are packed with flaky shaami kebabs at the crack of dawn just as the 323 year old Charminaar stirs to life to the cooing of early morning birds. 

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Let me tell you at the very outset that the story isn’t a masterpiece. It is not something you haven’t seen before. What is captivating though is its depiction of commonplace lives that thrive in those sections of Indian cities that haven’t yet caught the ‘mall-food court-flyover’ bug. Be it purani Dilli, Old Bhopal, Secunderabad or Lucknow, each one has its own network of crumbling nukkads and gallis - remnants of a bygone era that hang on to dear life as wave after wave of modernization threaten to raze them to the ground. Ensconced within their cramped alleys, life goes on unabashedly, without giving a second thought to the cracked walls, frayed curtains, broken lattices, frequent power cuts and open sewers. 

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It is astonishing how, in spite of this decay, everything still feels more refreshing here. The fruits pedalled on wheel barrows under the scorching sun are juicier than those sitting symmetrically on shelves in air-conditioned grocery chains, milk from the steaming handis at a local halwaai looks creamier than that poured out of a tetra-pack, rows of seekh kebabs roasting merrily on a makeshift coal grille under a tin shanty smell more heavenly than anything at a fancy restaurant. I might be totally wrong but even the people working here seem to have lesser worry lines crisscrossing their faces than those working in high rise corporate offices.

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 But, I digress. Habib Faisal, the director of ‘Daawat e Ishq’, deftly walks a tightrope while recreating the aforesaid essence. It is a fine balance that needs to be struck. He avoids going overboard with the cultural stereotypes but at the same time he doesn’t underplay them either. As a result, the Hyderabadi ‘hau’s and ‘nako’s that pepper Gullu’s (Parineeti Chopra) conversations with her Booji (Anupam Kher) do not sound over the top. The buxom aunties with beady kohl rimmed eyes and paan stained mouths do not look burlesque. The narrow lanes flanked by handcarts groaning under the weight of plump mangoes, twinkly glass bangles and earthen pots of tangy jal jeera look very much a part of the picture that is being painted.

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While Parineeti Chopra has proven one too many times in the past that she can do a fabulous job at playing rustic roles, Aditya Roy Kapoor as the roguish Taaru is quite a revelation. The suave, city boy from ‘Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani’ and ‘Aaashiqui 2’ has transformed into a gold earring toting, broken English mouthing heir to the kebab king of Lucknow and may I say, the transition is seamless. There are no residual dregs of urbanity hanging on to him as he rattles off his restaurant’s menu in typical tapori style to an amused group of foreigners. The supporting cast too is sufficiently plausible and in fact quite a riot. Taaru’s potbellied friend Neeraj, Gullu’s first love interest Amjad (Karan Wahi) and Taaru’s greed spewing parents are characters that have not just been etched well by the writer but also convincingly portrayed by the actors.

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Films like these are telescopes that allow us to peer into the heart of India. Their purpose is not to merely tell a tale but to present a snapshot of daily lives in ordinary households – the kind you and I grew up in. As long as they are successful in doing that, it is perhaps easier to let the flaws in the storyline slip by as we sit back and rekindle memories of simpler times.