![]() It saddens me deeply that for boring logistical reasons he didn’t travel up to Edinburgh to see the Permit Room before he left us. (My personal favourite poster is of the Gujarati parody of Hamlet – “Hamlet no Omelette”). We dug up crazy old plotlines, created drinks in tribute to crazy old characters and hung the fantastic photography and posters of Parsi Theatre of the early 20th century on the walls. (It was also delicious coincidence that Sir Patrick Geddes, the historical figure whom we fancied might have been creator of Dishoom Edinburgh was an actual fan of theatre in Bombay). I eventually listened to him and we found the charming Meher Mafatia the earnest historian of Parsi theatre who helped us create the Permit Room in Edinburgh at the back end of last year as a homage to this wonderful old Bombay institution. He was the one who used to tell me – frequently and for years – that there was a fantastic and barmy tradition of Parsi dramatics that we should explore. He was certainly our most joyful and ardent cheerleader, and finder-in-chief of obscure nuggets to turn into fully-formed ideas. Without us really noticing, I think this all somehow seeped into what we do at Dishoom. He was interested in narratives in people’s lives, in history, in mythology and fiction. He was un-self-consciously interested in everyone’s story, whoever they were, wherever he met them. ![]() I’m fairly sure that my father is the reason we think so much about stories at Dishoom. These stories weren’t all happy ones, but they were absolutely key to his understanding of who he was. But as he smilingly considered his end, he knew exactly which stories of his life were important to him. I’m not sure that he necessarily achieved an understanding of the political forces which had so massive an impact on his life and that of his family. He was utterly at peace, even in the knowledge that his time with us was suddenly curtailed.Ĭlearly, he didn’t choose events that happened to him. One of the things he was most proud of was somehow finding himself as a much-loved swimming teacher to young children late in his life. I heard about the things he truly took pleasure in. I heard of his strength and determination as a brave young entrepreneur rebuilding his life after the ground beneath his feet had completely shifted. I heard of his adventures as he and the rest of my family were forced out of home (I was not yet a year old). During the last months that he was with us, I had the enormous good fortune to spend days listening to him tell the stories of his life. I lost my greatest friend, the best role-model and a mentor who was invariably right (of course, most so when I thought he was wrong). He was much too young to pass away, but he did. Doing so has left me somewhat exhausted and confused, unsure of what to think, how to respond. I – like many – have been obsessively reading about recent events, trying sincerely to understand them, trying conscientiously to discern the patterns, trying earnestly to fathom what ‘should be done’. 2017 has enthusiastically followed through. ![]() 2016 had been a weird one, hadn’t it? It unleashed all sorts of post-truth alt-right anger and mayhem that had been breeding for years. In the world, 2017 was an energetic successor to 2016. I’m still working on being at peace with it. Not unusually (and, clearly, not uniquely) my own twelve months have seen joy and (intense) sadness. It is, as you now know, a December habit of mine to think about the last twelve months. Reader, I should acknowledge that you’re once again doing me the favour of sitting with me at the end of another year. It helps me believe that my sobriety is slightly racy, when plainly it is not. A good friend who has recently given up drunkenness has taken to calling himself ‘sober-curious’. It’s very good, but it’s having the lamentable effect of keeping my head clear or at least not making it more foggy than it generally is. He assures me it doesn’t have actual whisky in it, but some sort of clever (albeit fictional) alcohol made with botanicals and herbs. I’m getting by with what our Daru-walla calls a ‘Virtuous Sour’. I’m not as dashing nor as handsome, not as wayward and, to my regret, I haven’t bested any corrupt police inspectors recently.Ĭyrus, a real (albeit fictional) man, would have a proper drink by his elbow. Sadly, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s not. It’s just rain-sodden London in the last cold dregs of 2017. Wondering whether it’s still 1940s Bombay in here. INEVITABLY, I’M HERE AGAIN in the Permit Room.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |