Spoiler Alert: Don't read further if you haven't seen BBC's Sherlock. There are no plot giveaways, but it may ruin some surprises.

I was fifteen when I first saw a rerun of E.R on Hallmark. One episode and I was hooked. It used to air at five in the evening, and I meticulously planned my day around that one hour episode. It didn’t matter if I had an exam the next day. Or tuitions or social engagements. Five o’ clock on weekdays, I was unavailable. And weekends meant withdrawal symptoms.

Seven years later, the same thing is set to happen again. With BBC’s Sherlock.

When a friend told me about the series, I was sceptical. A modern adaptation of Holmes seemed a bad idea, especially since the Americans had disappointed me with their version of a gun-toting, testerone charged Holmes. But I knew my scepticism was ill founded as soon as Sherlock introduces himself to John Watson for the first time, and tells him the Central London address of the flat he wants to show him. 221B Baker Street.

The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street

Sherlock is modern, yes. But he is still the detective I grew up reading about. Yes, he texts instead of using the wire. But still loathes legwork unless the “case is at least a seven”. Nicotine patches may have replaced the pipes, but he is as careful as ever, to delete trivial information from his‘hard drive’, lest the brain get needlessly crowded. And he doesn’t wear the deer stalker as comfortably as ACD might have hoped, but his condescension for Watson’s (and the Scotland Yard's) lack of observation is intact. Happily, so are his supreme deductive powers, whether he is using that to solve a case, or simply to show off. Technology is important to the extent that these are tools to help our hero (though he scoffs at the term himself) along. Not to forget the street urchins who continue to provide useful service.



Sherlock puts on the deer stalker as Watson looks on

What also keeps Sherlock from getting too new-agey to digest, is London. The famous black taxis step in for the hansom cabs. The buses, the roads, the buildings are a beautiful amalgam of the modern with the old-worldly. The sets evoke the same idea. The background score too, is pitch perfect, adding mood to every scene.



London

An adaptation such as this, always runs the risk of being labelled spoofy or silly. And if I said there was none of this on the show, I would be lying. In fact if I were to use one word to describe it, I would probably use 'fun'. But this does not take away anything from the clever dialogue, the well thought out characters (and their development), each with a back story of their own, and most importantly the relationships that the characters forge in the course of the series.

Freeman as Watson is perfect- intelligent, patient and staunchly loyal. When he meets Cumberbatch's Sherlock, he is first wary, then intrigued and then completely fascinated by the latter. But you can see that he is never awed. He is the friend, the reliable assistant, but never a sidekick. Together they share the best moments in the series, helped along by natural chemistry as well as wonderful dialogue.

In a particular scene set in the Buckingham Palace (with Sherlock dressed in a bedsheet),

John: Who are we to meet here? The Queen?

Sherlock (seeing his staid elder brother walk in): Apparently yes.

Both break into giggles.

They aren't even shy of giggling at crime scenes, though Watson does from time to time, attempt to rein in his flatmate's absolute jubilation at the occurrence of an intriguing crime. It's not just the frothy bits. Towards the end of the second season, when Sherlock accuses John of harbouring doubts about the former's integrity, John reassures him saying, "Nobody could pretend to be an absolute dick, all the time".

There are other important relationships as well- each of which, as in real life, evolve. Mrs Hudson, the kindly landlady (not housekeeper) and her 'boys'. Sherlock's uncomfortable relationship with his brother Mycroft, Watson's uncomfortable relationship with Mycroft. Sherlock and much of the Scotland Yard. In fact, after the last episode, I also began to appreciate the potential that Sherlock and Molly, the non descript lab assistant had.

Maybe this is where the movies went wrong. A two hour movie can never hope to have its characters grow on you, as a leisurely paced episodic series can. I will have to admit, that when I saw the first episode, my favourite character (and actor) was Watson. However by the end of it, I was well and truly a Cumberbitch. A discussion about Sherlock is grossly incomplete without a shout out to the actor who brings the titular character to life, with all his brilliance, his arrogance and his idiosyncrasies. For some reason, Cumberbatch's beautiful voice also lends credibility to the character. (Also, completely as an aside, he is extremely good looking, but as in the case of the character, you have to let that grow on you)

Probably my only issue with Sherlock, is that there is so little of it, with the shooting of season three slated to begin only in 2013. Till then of course, we have to settle with the repeat viewings of the previous seasons, not a completely unpleasant idea, come to think of it.

Hoohahahaha !!

        This commands pride of place in my refrigerator at the moment:

                                                       Amongst others....

                                                           Another view:

        














                                                             

 To compensate for all the time that she was ‘wasting’, Priyanka read the Hindu during the metro ride to Nehru Place while I shamelessly listened on to the conversation that two of my co passengers were having. She impatiently cackled at her watch when I wasted two minutes haggling with the auto wala outside the station. I ignored her.

I would not have recognised the building had I not been so sure of its location. The old structure appeared to have been pulled down and rebuilt completely, for not only was it taller than what I remembered, but also more modern and welcoming- a simple paint job could never have managed that. The chambers were still in the basement but the furnishing indicated that the doctor had prospered since I last saw him. He was inside, seeing patients in his office. He still seemed to spend as much time with each patient, as he did back in the day, and after every patient left, a pre recorded female voice asked the next patient to be ready to see the doctor.

Anticipating a long wait, Priyanka sighed loudly and flopped into a sofa, picking up an India Today from the pile of magazines on the coffee table placed in front. I craned my neck to watch a news channel that the receptionist was gawking at, on a television set perched on the wall. On mute.

After about an hour, when the disoriented female voice prompted, he pointed in our direction to tell us that the Doctor was ready to see us.

He looked the same as he had the last time I saw him. And he had the same genial smile, when he greeted me- as he had when I was ten. His hair looked much darker than before though. And more unnatural. But I managed to peel my eyes off his mane, to smile and introduce him to my friend. He checked her for around 10 minutes while continuously asking after the well-being of the rest of my family, and about what each one was doing, since his last consultation with them. For the three minutes in between that he didn’t, he was talking on the phone, with another patient, asking the person on the other end to come in with a chest X ray.

To Priyanka, he went on to prescribe a variation of the medication I had suggested to her, previously. I think our disappointment showed on our faces. So he enquired whether we always had a good breakfast before leaving for work. Priyanka replied that we seldom had the time.

“That is what is wrong”, he proclaimed, happily. “Here take a look at this”, he ordered, shoving pieces of glossy colourful paper in our hands.

A closer examination showed that the paper had DIET PLAN as the heading. Below, it listed all the essential micronutrients that the human body needed, and exactly what each of them did for the body. A table also enumerated the foods that were rich sources. I was quite sure I had seen that before in a fifth standard science lesson.

“What subject do you study?” the doctor asked Priyanka. She did not think that General Studies counted, so kept her silence. I helpfully said that I studied economics. He smiled then went on to lecture us about the role of carbohydrates and fats in our diets using banking terminology. My fifth standard teacher had been less patronising.  I nodded at regular intervals while Priyanka just looked around helplessly.

He let us go after thirty minutes, but not before adding a bunch of anti-oxidants to the prescription.  He also talked a little about the company that manufactured them, after express instructions from doctors and health care specialists like him. When Priyanka looked worried, he assured us that they were easily available. Heck, even his clinic stocked up on them- the receptionist would give them to us if we asked.

We asked. The pills were priced at 950 bucks a leaf. Both of us together did not have enough cash to cover that and the consultation fees.

“Anti-oxidants are fine, but I could just take tomorrow off?” She suggested. I concurred with her.

PS: After paying up the consultation fee, I had just enough money to buy us a chicken roll each, from Dadur Dokan in Market 2. Priyanka said she felt better even as she ate it.

Priyanka has had a fever for the last two days. I told her to pop a crocin and take it easy, but I think the latter is an alien concept to these civil service aspirants. Fever or not, the girl wakes up at four every morning to swot for the exams. She is still doing it when I leave for college, then sometime after that she leaves for her own classes. When I return at around five in the evening, she makes us chai, and we chit chat for a while. That is the only break she takes in her entire day. Even then, I am the one making the bulk of the conversation while she thumbs through the Times of India, the least taxing newspaper of the four that she reads in the course of the day. She is generally in bed by 11. That is when I sound a missed call to Maa to call me back.

I never really have much to tell her. I remember when Didi used to work in Hyderabad- Maa and she would talk for at least an hour every night, and the conversations were simply never ending on weekends. With me, I crib a little about the tough course, about how I have no life, and before exams, I tell her exactly how confident I am about failing. She has learnt to sidestep these issues over the months, and moves swiftly on to gossip about the family. Sometimes I listen with a lot of interest and ask her a lot of questions about everything. At other times, I mumble that I am sleepy, and then promptly spend the next two hours surfing through what is mostly drivel, on the internet.

Anyway, last night I told her about Priyanka’s fever. She suggested I take her to Doctor Bannerjee, our ex-family doctor. The ex part is because I am the only bit of the family left in Delhi now, and I have a surprisingly strong constitution. At least I don’t catch anything that a Crocin and taking it easy won’t treat. But I remember I used to love him as a child. His clinic was really the basement of a dreary grey forbidding bungalow that has father-in-law owned in C.R Park, right opposite Market 2.The doctor himself was the complete anti-thesis of the building he worked out of- young, cheerful, and sharing wonderful chemistry with all his patients. 

 The elderly would dote on him because he would make house calls for none but them, and charge lower fees for the retired, like for my grandma. I loved him because he would keep up a friendly stream of conversation especially when administering injections. And offer a toffee afterward. My dad, a sufferer of the White Coat Syndrome loved him for the same reason. For diverting him with the chatter while checking his blood pressure I mean, not the toffees. The women loved him too- his studious good looks may have had something to do with it. But also because he wasn’t like a lot of other jaded doctors at the big hospitals, who would spend less than a minute to check what was wrong and immediately pass judgement on the unhealthy lifestyle you led. Instead, he would laboriously explain what was actually wrong with us, with the help of pictorial depictions of the human body that hung from the walls of his office. Admittedly, that was when I would lose interest and start salivating about the varieties of rolls that Dadur Dokan in Market 2 offered, fully intending to throw a tantrum if my parents refused to buy me my choice of delicacy that day- fever or not.

Priyanka smiled when I reminisced thus, but baulked at the idea of going all the way to C R Park for just a fever. However, when the fever did not abate for the third day in a row, she acquiesced.

The ten-minute drizzle was enough to ensure that the traffic on Lake Town Road was inching forward slowly, and painstakingly. She waved at the 215 to slow down further, to let her board.  He whispered to her that it was unnecessary. She agreed, laughing, and started folding her umbrella, while he shielded her, with the black one he had in his hand. He waited while she got on, unperturbed by the honking motorists, signalling him to move.  He peeped in to see if she had found a seat. The conductor gruffly assured him that she had. The girl was young, about eighteen, the boy probably a year older.

She watched out for him until he had made his way back to the footpath. When he did, he turned to see if she was looking at him. They smiled at each other when their eyes met. Then he started walking in the same direction as the bus, still gazing at her. She smiled back at him, all the while that he did. The bus momentarily surged ahead.  She strained her neck to see if he had been left behind.  Not two minutes later, he caught up, the bus forced to wait, entrapped in the traffic.

It was the last signal before the narrow road met the wider V.I.P Road. The traffic would be easier ahead, the pace of the bus faster. He waved at her to tell her that they were finally to part ways. She nodded and waved back.  The light turned green and the bus picked up speed. He stood waiting till the bus was no longer discernible in the distance. Then he slowly turned to the left, continuing his lonely walk back home.

I took a deep breath to deflate my stomach in order make the button slip into its designated hole. When that failed to yield results on the eleventh attempt, I decided I had had enough, and dejectedly extricated my legs from the fancy pair of slim fit jeans I had bought just  last month.  It had fit then, but an intervening month of exams between then and now had led my exercise schedule astray. With the result that twenty minutes later, I stepped out of the tiny one BHK Rajinder Nagar apartment I shared with Priyanka, in my regular, much soiled, pair.

My metro card showed that the thirty-minute ride to Khan Market had left me poorer by fifteen bucks. I did a mental calculation to reassure myself that the free lunch that awaited me would be enough compensation for these necessary expenses. Priyanka had insisted that it would be- it wasn’t everyday that a cousin anchored in the city and offered to take a penniless member of kin, especially one she did not take a particular shine to, out to lunch. To an abstractly named restaurant whose upmarket location promised it would be an expensive affair.  If nothing else, I could order the most expensive dishes on the menu and have the satisfaction of bleeding her dry of her month’s salary. And I could always go on my diet from the next day.

Malini di was waiting for me when I reached our designated meeting place. She was dressed in a lime green sleeve less kurta and a pair of slim fit jeans, and had clearly lost weight. That was enough to put me in a bad mood, made worse when she flashed me her dazzling smile. I attempted to smile back. But her expression showed that I had failed. I pointed to the sun to indicate that the heat had caused my sullenness, so she smiled again, this time a benign, kindly smile, and put her hand on my back ushering me into the cooler confines of the aforementioned abstractly named eatery.

A waitress proffered menu cards. I took one while Malini waved her hand to decline hers and asked for a pitcher of iced tea. She would have done well to check the price list before ordering that, I thought to myself.

“I am full, heavy breakfast at the hotel. You order”, she said.

I nodded and scanned the menu. I settled on a pasta and a slice of their famous mousse cake, fearing that she might not offer to buy dessert later.

“So, what’s up?” She beamed while waving her fingers in the air to indicate that the phrase was in quotes.

I did not want to confess to my eventless existence. So I vaguely hinted at a life filled with happening parties and glamorous friends, and then asked her what she was doing in the city.

“Oh, just a regular work assignment, “, she shrugged.

The conversation was flagging already. I racked my brains for other subjects we could talk about.  She fiddled with her mobile. I knew she was looking at the time.

“You have to go somewhere?” I asked helpfully.

“No, later. How do I get to the Modern Art Gallery, from here?” she enquired.

“Take an auto from C sec,” I replied.

She looked puzzled.

“Ummm...c sec?”

“The Central Secretariat Metro Station”, I intoned.

She beamed again.

“You and your short forms”, she said.

I immediately wanted to slap her for acting like she was from a different generation.

Thankfully, the arrival of the food diverted my mind. I began wolfing it down as soon as the waitress set it down while Malini di looked on. I reluctantly offered her a spoonful. She declined.

“I have been putting on weight like crazy”, she explained while pointing at her slim waist to underscore her point. I again had a burning desire to slap her.

“So, why do you want to go to the art gallery? Sight-seeing?” I asked, to stop her from staring at my food.

“Yeah, you could say that. There is an exhibition on by Dhrittiman Ray. ” She answered.

I shook my head to indicate I had never heard of him.

“I am not surprised. You have lived in Delhi, all your life”, she said, smiling her kindly smile again. I sensed an insult. So I asked her what she meant, a little roughly, I suspect.

She hurried to mollify me.

‘No I meant he is an upcoming artist in Kolkata. Everyone knows him there. He is lesser known here. And you know you have to accept that people from Delhi are a little you know....” she searched for the right word. I refused to help her.

“You know...caught up in their lives. And more likely to be found at the mall or at a Shah Rukh Khan movie, than an art gallery”, she opined.

“Yeah, I agree,” I nodded sagely. “People here work hard all week, so at the end of the week they don’t want to be attacked by an exercise in self aggrandisement by a pseudo intellectual artist whose understanding of art matches that of a six year old with a set of crayons” I finished. Then rued that I hadn’t wiggled my fingers to indicate that the word artist was in quotes.

She looked taken aback at my verbosity. I decided I didn’t want to say anything else to antagonise her. After all, she was paying for the food.

Four months later Maa told me over the phone that Malini was getting married. The whole extended family was jubilant at the news. I was singularly disinterested.

“He is an artist. Very famous around here.  Dhritimaan Ray,” Maa said.