Sikkim chronicles: Day 1

I took a trip to Sikkim with my family recently. Sikkim, known to its natives as Sukhim (the land of peace and prosperity) smote me with its largely untouched beauty. Unlike Shimla and Manali, which are done-to-death tourist hubs, thronged by tourists from the length and breadth of this country and abroad, Sikkim remains under the wanderlust radar. I wish its immaculate beauty would stay that way, but tourism could actually bring in some much needed revenue and spur infrastructural growth for this North-Eastern state. There are already signs of man's insatiable spirit of enterprise conquering this hilly frontier- as we drove from the Bagdogra airport in Siliguri, West Bengal to Gangtok, our garrulous Sikkimese driver, Jite pointed out the hills that were being blown up to make way for hydel power plants- a development which rather saddened me. I quite like hills whole, unkempt and enigmatic, untamed by any of man's grandiose plans of "development", raw and feral- hills should awe, and not be pitiful testaments to man's avarice. But, such is life. Progress at any cost. We don't like concrete-free, steel-less spaces. Down with Nature.

Jite was a little sparrow of a man. He swelled and puffed with pride when he showed us the various professional degree colleges that the Manipal College has set up in conjunction with the state government, and reminded me more and more of a wet sparrow which puffs up to shake off excess moisture. The line where West Bengal ends and Sikkim begins is a curiosity- for one, the demarcation between the two states was so stark and pronounced that I had to catch my breath. The shops on the West Bengal side were tumble-down, derelict, poorly lit and the owners desultory, while a few hundred metres away, on the Sikkimese side the market place looked prosperous, planned, spick and span and the owners jovial, happy with their lot (a fact that Jite didn’t forget to point out). The transformation was not only aesthetic, but also spiritual- something that was reflected in our dispositions as well. Attending my cousin's wedding in Kolkatta in an oppressive 40 deg C, battling a power outage and braving tenacious mosquitoes had made us sleep-deprived and not-so-happy troopers. All of us snapped and bickered at the tiniest provocation throughout the flight from Kolkatta to Bagdogra and the drive from Bagdogra to somewhere around Sevak Road. Sikkim brought about the major metamorphosis-the low temperatures and lush green hills caused a meteoric increase in the "happy" quotient (which had run dangerously low for quite some time) in our hired Wagon-R.

The 4 hours long, tortuous drive from Bagdogra to Gangtok reminded me of the drive from Manali to Rohtang- except, this time we heard Kishore Kumar and not some obscure Punjabi folk, Pankaj Udhas (who just seems to sing of alcohol, alcoholics and pubs/bars- it sounds better in Urdu though) and the Dus soundtrack. It was as though a sacred hush had descended in our car- the combined magic of Sikkim’s hills and Kishore Kumar’s melodious voice was simply arresting- quite a far-cry from Kolkatta’s heat and Mumbai’s hustle and bustle, both of which I was glad to escape. The river Teesta wound in green and silver threads, with each bend, each curve in the road, as if keeping time with the car’s advance

Just as we entered Gangtok at about 8 p.m. and headed for our hotel, our car suffered a flat tyre and I shuddered at the thought of carrying our bags (crammed to capacity thanks to my dad who comes prepared for a snow-storm in a desert) up some 150 steps at an 85 degree incline (ok it wasn’t 85, but fear tends to exaggerate reality). And miraculously, this toothless, toothpick of a man emerged out of nowhere and offered to carry four heavy bags for a mere Rs. 30. I asked my dad to give him more because it didn’t seem fair and besides the guy looked so decrepit and ragged that I wondered if he would be up to the mammoth task. He did it without so much as a whimper and we, the well-fed, city slickers with the best healthcare that money can buy huffed and puffed and panted and were ready to collapse after climbing 10 steps. (My heart’s memo to me: *Gasp* Exercise *Pant, huff, puff* Stop eating junk food *Pant, scream!!! May-day, May-day. Heeeeeeeellllppppp!*)

A few torn ligaments and minor strokes later, we reached the hotel and I have almost never been as happy as I was then to see flat, solid, terra-firma with no slopes and inclines and definitely no stairs. Phew! The room was OMG, to die for and I would have kissed my dad for this wonderful arrangement if we were on those terms (we have only managed to shake hands so far-not too touchy-feely, my family). Dinner was complimentary (wow,wow,wow!), but I didn’t get too attached to the fare. My camera was buried deep in my luggage, so I don’t have any pictures of this leg of my journey :( However, this is what my room looked like (I shared it with my mum and watched trashy saas-bahu serials till my eyes couldn’t take the psychedelic saris and make-up, while my dad and bro feasted on IPL matches)

The rest of my trip will be narrated in a three or four part series- depending on how verbose I feel :)

Feeling good.

Sana and Sali- two beautiful, intelligent, spunky, talented girls with stars in their eyes and so full of goodness that it breaks my heart. These kids graduated out of my organization recently.

Sali is a great cook and insists on getting lunch for me everyday. So, in addition to my own lunch which my mum packs for me so lovingly, I end up eating Sali's lunch- not great news for my increasing waistline, but who cares so long as we are feeling good right?

Sana couldn't care less about cooking. She talks nineteen to my half a dozen. She keeps calling everyone "gorgeous" (me included..yippee).

Sana and Sali are best friends and my heroes. I admire and respect them. They bought me a chocolate and made this for me:

They are incredibly talented and create the most beautiful art I've ever seen. They make me so happy, I feel like I'm floating high up somewhere, away from all the despair and sorrow.
I have almost never been this shiny and happy in anyone's company :) I think I prefer kids to grown-ups.

Animal crackers

Conifer and I have the habit of taking a stroll after lunch (which in my case is just an excuse to walk to the little shops that line the roads leading to my workplace and buy chocolate for my daily chocolate fix). The shop which is nearest to our office is next to this little spot where pigeons (gazillions of them) come to feed. So everytime we walk by, we have to be careful not be smattered by pigeon poop (Conifer's score is 2 and mine 1-so she's still leading me by 1 point for getting smattered more frequently than I). When we do get smattered, some idiot says "buy a lottery ticket" because apparently it's lucky to be pooped on, and it makes me wonder if that superstition was invented just to cheer up the victim. It makes me wonder if most superstitions have some mundane explanation- e.g. maybe too many accidents occurred when people walked under ladders, may be mirrors were hard to come by (those who didn't want to deal with 7 years of bad luck would have to be careful with their mirrors) and so on.

Conifer is a huge animal lover. She wants to join PETA, but can't because she loves her chicken and fish. She contends that meat/fish is dead anyway, so why shed tears. She sees no conflict between her carnivorous food habits and her otherwise tender feelings for animals. I agree. A girl's gotta eat. Anyway, she is fond of animals and birds ( my charity rarely extends beyond my immediate circle of humans, so I find her love for animals quite unusual) and feeds the stray dogs of her area, celebrates her pet canary's birthday and the list of her cookiness is never-ending. Whenever we walk on the streets of Mumbai in sweltering heat, dodging traffic, perverts, bulls and other stray animals, Conifer stops to marvel at the "cute way the stray cat sleeps", or the "sweetness of the dog" who patiently waits for the biscuit as she unwraps it for the dog and then sniffs her in gratitude or whatever.

I took this picture when Conifer and I were on one of our strolls to the pigeon-poop store. She bought a packet of biscuits and split it between the dog and the cat, who broke bread (or biscuits in this case) side-by-side, in peace.




Whatever happened to fighting like cat and dog, I wonder? Funny thing peaceful co-existence, wouldn't hurt to try it out for size, I think.

Auld Lang Syne

I was woken up last night by the wistful cry of the friendly neighbourhood koel. There seemed something deeply eerie and haunting about that cry which rent the still night. Like it wailed for lost times, memories in which it both rejoiced and mourned. Like some deeply entrenched emotion in the darkest recesses of it's being had been released and all it could do was coo in response.
It was an epiphany of sorts for me. Nostalgia struck. I thought about seemingly unconnected things- things which were important once or had touched me or affected me deeply, but had been since forgotten. So, should old times be forgotten...

For Donna di. I remember how you were the only one (except Bubun da) who came to watch me debut in my 10th standard school play. You made it a point to come for my play since my parents were out of town.You said Christmas Carol came alive for you with my "Ghost of the Christmas past" (hideous wig and make up and all). I remember how I stayed at your place for a while when Ma and Baba were out and we listened to country music on 107.1 till 12 a.m, how we experimented in the kitchen with random masalas. I remember how you kissed me on my cheek (right on the street, I might add) the day my 10th standard results came out , happy with my performance.

For Bubun da. Thank you for scaring the bully in my class who used to torture me and call me names, when you were 8 and I was 5 (then I became the class monitor and got back at him.) We barely speak anymore, but I will remain forever grateful to you for teaching me how to burst Diwali "crackers" (atom bombs, hydrogen bombs, lavangi etc) and for introducing me to your delicious "banana cream" and Table-tennis. You were the one who accompanied me on my first day of engineering college and even paid the travel fare!

For Tinks. Am not going to use your real name out of respect for your privacy and because I'm too ashamed to admit my flaws. You were one of my best friends and I don't remember ever having as much fun as I did with you. Yet, I went ahead and betrayed you quite wantonly, for perverse reasons of my own which I'm neither too proud to admit not too strong to forget. You are my greatest regret. Not a day goes by that I don't think about the pain and hurt I must have caused you. I never remained in touch because I was too ashamed to do so. But the golden girl that you are, you forgave me for my transgressions and even called me before you left. You wanted to meet the one person whom you considered a friend and who gave you betrayal in return. How did you come to be so generous?

Unspoken words. I wish I had the courage to say these when it mattered.

Karmic Carousel-Part 2

(Where tables are turned and stuff comes around)

Where I work, we have something called “assessments” to assess (what else?) the learning that has taken place in a given academic year. The word is only a euphemism for “exams” so kids are lulled into a false sense of security and they don’t panic about these as kids normally do when they hear the E-word. But I think the kids we teach are smarter than that. They panicked anyway.

As an assessor, I went to a younger learning centre which had 5-year olds who were being assessed (damn, too many Ss in that word. No red squiggly line from Word, which means I actually spelt it right. I’m deeply worried, therefore). I recently read this piece about how children get deeply scarred emotionally after traumatic experiences in their early childhood and are socially maladjusted as adults. I didn’t really want to perpetrate such “trauma” and have these kids reclining on couches years later pouring their hearts out to shrinks who would squarely put the blame on me. So, I was understandably jittery.

Following are the excerpts from my assessing experience.

(Enter Kid1)
Me: (Making my voice and general bearing as cloyingly sweet as possible) Hi K1. My name is XYZ. How are you doing?

K1: (not making eye-contact, stares desultorily out of the window as if looking for an escape route)

Me: (smiling still, while my brain tells me the assessment is already going downhill since I haven’t established any warm rapport with the kid, as the training manual had sermonized) Good. May I ask you a few questions, then? Is that OK?

K1: (nodding mechanically and turning limpid doe-eyes towards me)

Me: (already feeling like the wicked witch of the West. Hell, I will probably be the prominent feature in this kid’s nightmares. And I look at the window and wonder if it’s too late to make my getaway, job be damned) OK. Good. Can you count from 41-55 for me?

K1: (stares at me silently. There is obviously no recognition of the words coming out my mouth. I bet his thought bubble would have said, “Why is this crazy woman talking to me in this high-pitched voice? I want my mommy.”)

Me: (Adjusting my hair, nervously. I rattle off all the questions on the list and still no answer)

Me: (at the end of 15 interminably long minutes during which I had been talking to myself. I now realize how difficult it is for actors to deliver monologues. I will never, ever deride them. Never.) Thank you K1. It was nice meeting you.

K1: (walks away without so much as a glance in my direction)

(Enter K2)
Me: Hi K2. (still talking in the retarded voice) My name is XYZ. How are you doing?

K2: (flashes a brilliant smile and my spirits lift) Hi didi.

Me: (silently thanking K2 for being born. I love her already) Is it OK if I ask you a few questions?

K2: (Still smiling, nods vigorously)

Me: Ok, Can you count from 41-55 for me?

K2: Yes, didi. 1,2,3,4..

Me: 41-55 K2, not 1,2 etc.

K2: 1,2,3,4…

Me: (my soaring spirits crash to the floor) How about 81-95?

K2: I don’t know didi.

(The rest of the interview goes pretty much in the same vein. After K2 leaves, I take a little break to check on Conifer to see if it’s just me or is everyone going through the same. Conifer seems ready to cry. Better not aggravate matters, methinks and I withdraw silently)

Of, course there were some really smart ones who got all the answers right and I owe them my sanity. And there were a few gems of the other kind. Sample:

Q: Can you count from 41-55 for didi?
A: 41,42,43…49, forty-ten, forty-eleven, forty-twelve… (sigh)

And for the written questions, we had quite a few hilarious ones. And this was from older kids:

Q: Write a 300 word essay about life in 2250.

A: In 2250, because of global warming, fair people will turn wheatish (sic) and there will be no difference between blacks and whites. And everyone will be equal….
(So global warming solves racism. Is Green Peace listening?)

Q: Who is the most influential person in India, according to you?
A: According to me, terrorists are the most influential people in India.
(move over Gandhiji, LeT is here to stay)

Kids say the darndest things.

Karmic Carousel- Part 1

I don’t know if you have heard this song by Justin Timberlake, but don’t judge me unfavourably for knowing of its existence. It’s just one of those annoying songs that stick in your head steadfastly until another equally or more annoying song substitutes it. I was listening to FM Rainbow (107.1 in Mumbai, to the uninitiated. The only station worth listening to if you ask me). They were doing this one-hour Elvis special on the King’s birthday and I was glued to the station much before the special began, lest I missed my favourite tracks. That’s when this Timberlake song assailed me (right before Blue suede shoes assuaged my wracked nerves). I have never liked Mr. Timberlake and have never bothered to follow his career graph; in fact I thought Timbaland was just Timberlake misleading people into buying his music by changing his screen name (I don’t listen to Timbaland either, come to think of it). Anyway, the song had an eerie, prescient quality to it- in a totally different context though. It was something of an omen, a forecast of certain events about to unfold in my life.

(Following are the excerpts from my recent B-school interview.)

I was interviewed by a panel of three- a middle aged lady, flanked by two youngish people-one male, the other female. The Holy Trinity, ha. The lady in the centre looked oddly familiar and just as I was about to say “Good Morning”, realization dawned- she was in the interview panel last year when I had made a thorough fool of myself. Dear G, please let her not remember me, please, please, please. Even if she did recognize me, she wasn’t letting on much. Deep breaths, deep breaths, deep breaths. May be she doesn’t remember. Yeah, not everyone has a good memory. Just get me through this G; just this once and I promise that I won’t ask for anything ever again. Having got the obligatory social niceties out of the way, we proceeded towards the raison d’etre of the panel- the grilling of JD.

(All three started at the same time. Sheesh, there was such an enthusiastic, violent alacrity to grill me that they were all vying for first place. Anyway, the youngish female (YF) won by dint of a high pitched voice)

YF: So what made you switch from IT to an NGO?

Me: (smiling inwardly. I had rehearsed this answer at least a zillion times)
Blah, blah and blah, blah.

YF: (confused into silence at the profusion of words that came out of my mouth. Hoo-ha, take that! Score: Panel -0, JD-1)

OF: But you left a high-paying job for a pittance?

Me: (High-paying? Ha, hardly. Yeah, like the simple arithmetic never occurred to me. Duh.) Blah-blah. (Some noble, self-righteous jazz. And then some more. God I hope she buys it.)

The Only Man (TOM): So, which was your favourite subject in college?

Me: (Holy &@!%*$. It’s been two years since graduation and they still expect me to remember stuff that my memory retained only for exams. I don’t even remember what I had for lunch three days ago. Jeez!) Er, (smiling sheepishly) I don’t remember very well. But, I’ll try to answer. OR was my favourite. (I said tentatively, mentally gauging the depth of the shit I was in)

OF: (Finally in her element) Ah, ok. What is Linear Programming? Give me an example.

Me: (Phew! Easy-peasy. I knew this.) Blah-blah.Bl-

OF: (interrupting me with an imperious wave of the hand) You are complicating things unnecessarily. Give me an example.

Me: (the cockiness waning a little. Good thing I remember) Blah-blah. Blah-blah. And that’s how we solve it.

OF: But why only the points of intersection? Why is that the optimal solution?

Me: (stumped) Blah-blah. (Squeamish, tentative answer. 1 all)

OF: (leaning back in her chair, purring satisfactorily. She had had her fun with me.)

TOM: So, tell me. Do you remember anything in Thermal Engineering?

Me: Sir, not really. (again hoping he’d buy the smile. JD-1, Panel-10)

TOM: Ok. Can you tell me about the Narmada Bachao Andolan? And which side won?

Me: (Won? What was this, a cricket match?) Blah-blah. Blah-blah.

TOM: (not too pleased at my answer. Panel-15, JD-1) But, I though you work in the social sector. So you must have more than a lay-person’s opinion about the issue?

Me: (Damned ignoramus. Social sector, yes. But I work for children’s education. And it’s not as if we have a secret network of all NGOs and are totally up to date with the details of each and every NGO. Gawd) Sir, my involvement is with the education sector.

TOM: (silenced. As if education was not as meaty as dams and bhook-hadtals. Damnation. JD-0, Panel-20)

OF and YF: (In a ghastly jugalbandi of sorts, tag-teamed to ask me questions. One fired and the other glared. Then the roles were reversed) But why an NGO? What compelled you? What was your motivation? What are your plans? Why MBA? Where do you live? Why an MBA after working in an NGO?

(Good thing my sex allows me multi-tasking capabilities and a general verbosity. I wouldn’t be badgered. I wouldn’t perish. I’m a survivor played in my head. Damn, why always the songs I don’t like, why never the ones I do like? Why? Why? Anyway, I did manage to out-energize them, but was the worse for wear.)

YF: (the first to recover her breath) So, you are from West Bengal?

Me: (What are you, Raj Thackerey??? I have lived in Mumbai all my life, so what does that make me, huh? West Bengal, my left eye-ball.) Well, Ma’am, I was born and raised in Mumbai. (smiling sweetly) But, yes my parents are from W.B.

YF: So, what do you think of the happenings in Nandigram and Singur?

Me: Blah-blah. Blah-blah. Blah-blah.

OF: (wounded at being left behind at this modern day, B-school version of the Spanish Inquisition.) Which are the neighbouring countries of India?

Me: Blah-blah.

OF: Which is the link that connects Sri-Lanka and India? And what’s the controversy surrounding it? What are your views?

Me: Blah-blah.

OF: (looking very bored suddenly. Maybe I wasn’t sufficiently moronic for her predatory tastes. Sigh.) Ok. Thank you.

TOM and YF: (smiling in unison) Thank you.

Me: (a little unsure. Is it over??? I couldn't believe it) Thank you. (attempting a smile)

I came out blinking at the abrupt ending of the grilling. In fact, it wasn’t even a grilling. It was more like a light sauté, tenderly done- something which ended even before the heat could be turned on. Sigh. I can never evaluate these things. Was I to feel good or bad? Were the smiles welcome-to-our-college ones or hell-no-we-plan-to-keep-you-out ones? I can never tell. Inscrutable humans. Damnation.

P.S.-Panel-?, JD-????

The randomness of JD

I made friends with this really, really sweet American girl, Calamity (ok, she’s not accident prone or anything, but her name rhymes with the word) from California, who finds herself slap bang in the middle of Mumbai slums teaching under-privileged kids. Mumbai slums via war-torn Afghanistan. Well, obviously don’t ask her for holiday destination advice. Calamity and her husband W (who was a journo) shifted base to Mumbai and now live in a non-descript suburb trying to make sense of “mystical” India. Thankfully, they aren’t the tie-and-dye hippie types, or ISKCON adherents, or Rajneesh/Maharishi XYZ spouting weirdoes, or the white-blubbery, stringy clothes wearing Goan tourists whose major draw is cheap booze and other things we don’t mention in polite conversations- they answer to no stereotype, but are normal people who believe in this cause we are working for.

They shop for refrigerators and furniture and rush to Pantaloons’ “up to 50% off” sales, eat in Indian restaurants by pointing out to the waiter the unpronounceable food items (much like we would in French restaurants), go to the local darzi to alter their clothes and relish onion and tomato uthappa, well, atleast Calamity does. She digs the accompanying sambar and the coconut chutney. She joins Conifer and me for our “Five-star fruit and nut after lunch” ritual. She digs the “Five star” too. Yes, they are that unremarkable. But, it’s so cool to see her discovering everything in India for the first time- the Mumbai local trains, BEST buses, kirana stores, udipi restaurants, speaking Hindi, the unavoidable Roadside Romeo gaze- things which function in the background or are like second nature to us Indians, but must be so novel and exciting and even bewildering to her.

But the woman stumped me. We eat lunch in this small room called the “pantry” (a misnomer, considering it has no food). The sink in the pantry was clogged because someone forgot to unplug the metallic cap thingy from the sink-hole. So, Calamity thrust her hand in the murky, yellow coloured water of the sink and unplugged the cap- when I just wrung my hands daintily in the background. But the stumping part came when she told me that the tiny black ants which swarm her living room through crevices in the walls freak her out. Apparently, groping about in a filthy, putrid, clogged sink is harmless, but black ants mean the bubonic plague or something. Go figure.
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Learnt an important lesson in the adage “Practice what you preach”. Only about .003% of all the humans to have ever walked the earth follow it. And they are all dead. I realize that it is very easy to pontificate and power-point your way through to instant office stardom, and have people ooh and aah at your wisdom and spirituality at the seminal slides with seminal messages that you show. But, you can’t fool all of the people all of the time. So, dear pseudo, “example is better than precept”. You don’t read this blog, but if you ever do, I hope this makes you blush. I can’t believe you could meet my outraged stare after your abominable behaviour. For all your revolutionary ideas, you aren’t even worth the corn in Che Guevera’s dead and decaying left pinky toe. Yes, I’m naïve enough to think this is revenge. Ha. So, I should just stop expecting civility? Yeah, I bet you’ll quote The Bhagvad Gita about expectations. Guess what finger I’m holding up?

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Wunderkind is a sweetheart- a sensitive, discerning male of his species with an exceptionally high EQ and a silver tongue to boot. We loves him, my precious. But, platonically and all. (Nothing scandalous please.This is a PG-13 blog, states my priggish antaratma). He was nice enough to talk to me when I thought I’d burst. I owe the averting of an impending brain aneurysm to him.

Ok, so you saved me again from brain aneurysm through some human agency of yours i.e. Wunderkind. But, why did you have to break the mould? Your sense of what counts as decency is appalling. You should go see someone about it. Oh, right. You can’t possibly have shrinks where you live. With the tidy packets they make, they must have got a more tropical climate for their Eternal Rest. You don’t think things through, do you?

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Learnt another important lesson about first impressions and how stupid and simplistic it is to judge someone based on an off day they may be having. I seem doomed to be simplistic and stupid- I never learn from my past wherein I’ve had to change my impulsive judgments of people, much to my mortification. So, here’s what I’ll do- if I don’t know somebody or just barely know them and they are lousy to me, I’ll just be a lamp-post with no opinion, turn the other cheek and smile sweetly. They may just be having a bad day. If someone I know well is crappy to me, God help them.

I never thanked you….

It was rude, I know. I haven’t been raised this way, you know. You DO know. Of course, you do. You ARE omniscient after all. I should have thanked you earlier. It is funny that when something bad happens, or something goes wrong, and I’m debilitated by grief or confusion or anger, I waste no time in railing at you. I rave and rant. I scream and cry. I abuse you, I revile you, I ask you “Why? Why me?” .But now that a thin shaft of the sunlight of hope and joy seems to have pierced the thick pall of gloom that had set in, I dither in thanking you.

I think I know why, though. Maybe my eyes are so accustomed to the dark, that light is painful and suspect- it’s like one would mistrust pleasantness in a desert, thinking it a mirage. Light hurts now and my brain instructs me to be wary, to shun celebration, and to suppress the expression of joy. Do you think me blasé, jaded, an ungrateful brat even? That I doubt your ways? That I stand at the brink of the calm sea that you have set before me- dipping a toe in, doubtful of the calm, wary of violent undercurrents? Do you think I lack faith, or do you understand this state of being?

You know, I had toyed with the idea of disbelief. I tried to be one of those who dismiss you as superstition, myth, a figment of our imagination or the resort of the weak and cowardly. Some say I could go to Hell for such sacrilege. But, I know that the whole idea of “Heaven and Hell” was something you let them believe- it was just a practical joke you played on them, to keep them in line. I know that Heaven is a place on earth. And so is Hell. And that’s how you intended them to be.

I won’t argue with your logic, but I think you are taking the “mysterious ways” bit a little too far, don’t you? Wouldn’t it be just easy to give us a bird’s eye view of your grand schemes for us? So we know that the black weft threads interlaced with the gold warp ones actually form your rich, beautiful tapestry of a plan and are both equally important for the integrity of your plans? So we bide our time during downs and are sedate during ups? But then, you never intended this puzzle to be simple right? I agree. But still, there’s no harm in negotiating, right? Right.

So here I go. Thank you. Even for the black threads and especially for the gold ones.

Confessions of a closet bigot

Did someone say “sugar and spice and all things nice” make girls? Ha, this should teach you to be wary of stereotypes, especially those in nursery rhymes. A case in point, Tommy Stout may have been nicer than Tommy Thin, but not all those with adipose to spare are jolly. Look at Idi Amin. Look at the woman who nearly pushed me off a running bus. (Ok, mean-fat-people examples are getting scarcer and scarcer with our “size zero” fixation.)

But I digress. A few days ago my nerd-dom was firmly established and now I discover that I’m a bigot too. This is adding insult to injury, I tell you. Now that I’ve been found out for the unusual hybrid of a Ku-Klux-Klan member and Steve Urkle, my mum’s groom hunting has received a setback of biblical proportions, quite unbeknownst to her, poor dear. Us digressed again, my precious. Us has to stop running pell-mell. Where was us now? Oh yeah, bigotry.

My biases are many and varied. Some are not even logical or rational. They just are. Evidently, I’m a pathological bigot. And all this while, I’ve been pretending to be a purist or whatever-else-ist. But let’s not mince words. In the spirit of “outings”, let’s call a spade just that.

Sample my bigoted views.

Music bigotry
I judge people based on their taste in music. I will hang up on a person if I don’t like their caller tune. Heck, I won’t even be polite to them. Let alone fraternize with them in broad daylight. And I will air my disapproval quite overtly. Anyone who likes techno, trance or stuff that goes “dhichak-dhichak” is no friend of mine. People’s ringtones have to be tasteful too, or else. Who think Himesh Reshammiya is God’s gift to those with sound aural faculties- “I heartily invite such birds, to come outside and say those words”* .Those who go into whirling dervish trances on hearing the pretty boys from 98 Backstreet, Britney and her ilk, Shakira and her ridiculous lyrics, Enrique etc , had better stay away from me. I wouldn’t put unspeakable acts of cruelty past me, should the opportunity present itself. The list of those at whom I would crinkle up my nose is long and going strong.

Book bigotry
This close friend of mine once lent a guy Five Point Someone and a Wodehouse. The guy had the audacity to think the former funnier; he saw no humour in my beloved P.G.W. creation. Wodehouse compared with Chetan Bhagat. The nerve. This girl told me that she thought Catcher in the rye was trash, “Don’t recommend this to anyone ever again”, she said, right after going gaga over God of Small Things. Bloody murder, cried my inner Nazi. This is what I’m talking about-those who read Nancy Drew, Mills and Boons, Daniel Steele, Sidney Sheldon and such atrocities and call themselves discerning readers and actually, and this is rich, recommend these books and then maddeningly enough compare a Sidney Sheldon with O.Henry. It’s like comparing Marlon Brando with, oh I don’t know, Adam Sandler may be? I am busy thinking up something violent and macabre for such criminal ignorance.

Food bigotry
Veg. Manchurian (which in itself is a mongrel of sorts) with Naan, Tandoori chicken/paneer pizzas- another hybrid, diet/sugar-free mithai- either eat these the conventional way with tons of ghee and sugar or don’t eat at all, papad with everything (lasagna and papad, falafel and papad, fries and papad), adding dollops of ketchup to food- it kills the inherent taste of whatever you are eating, insipid and diluted coffee, cookies/biscuits with no character-plain bland varieties not worthy of human consumption, non-chocolate candy- totally not worth the empty calories and sugar rush (Rich, dark, chocolate? ummm, now you’re talking!). These push my buttons in so many ways it’s not even funny. Gas chamber? Impaling? Firing squad?

Film bigotry
Those who think that a film is good just because it’s in a foreign language (read: English), not only have a colonial hangover but also have cheese for brains. So these people catch a C-grade English flick with Paris Hilton in the lead and then brag about watching an English film, “Oh look how sophisticated we are”. Engage them in a conversation about quality cinema (they have never even heard of The Godfather) and they will look at you like you are the interloping square egg and label you arrogant. One tight slap!

Language bigotry
Don’t even get me started on this one. This is where I am an inexorable purist. The normal, everyday language that we speak is peppered generously with words borrowed from other languages. I speak a curious mixture of English, Hindi and Bambaiya with my friends. Fair enough, ‘coz let’s face it, regional languages express some ideas more succinctly and beautifully than English does. My problem is with hybrid words- marofying, talofying, fekofying; take a verb in Hindi, suffix a –fy and voila, you have a stylish (?) new word. How I wish I could tolchok these words and their progenitors into oblivion. Also, copious usage of the word “like”- aaarghhh. I see those in the entertainment business lacking adjectives; almost anything can be qualified by the oft-repeated ones- “rocking”, “mind-blowing”, “amazing”, “awesome”, “sexy” (why, but, why?). I plan to buy them all their own personal copies of The Roget’s Thesaurus, even if it results in my bankruptcy.


I have made new enemies, haven’t I? Sigh.

*Borrowed from Dorothy Parker. She said this of Charles Dickens:

“Who call him spurious and shoddy
Shall do it o’er my lifeless body.
I heartily invite those birds,
To come outside and say those words!”

Borrowed from Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange

It's official. I'm a nerd.

There. I've said the taboo words. There go my mum's chances of ever finding me a groom, at least no male who reads this blog (assuming that there is such a person) would be suicidal enough to be yoked to me. Er, but those perusing my blog form a microscopic minority anyway, so Ma don't move to the Himalayas yet.

I have always had this sneaking feeling about my nerd-dom. It was always the wart I tried to camouflage with make-up. It was a side of mine always hushed up or spoken about in muffled undertones. It was always the chink in my armour. But now I'm outed and don't know where to hide. Political correctness be damned, I don't like being a nerd. Period.

I should probably begin at the beginning. I took these two quizzes that my friend had sent to me- "Which character from Friends are you?" and "Which Harry Potter character are you?". And I took these quizzes on two different days, so there was an outside chance of getting a cooler personality evaluation (don't ask me why, I thought these are like fortune cookies or Orkut fortunes- totally arbitrary and your evaluation is randomly generated). But no. Never try to second guess online quizzes. Here's my evaluation (drum-roll, please)

1. You are Ross Geller. You are the most intellectual of your friends and you know it! You're a realist who knows rational thought and doesn't get carried away with the moment. While people may view you as slightly uptight, most people find it to be a sign of responsibility and maturity and when the time is right, you definitely know how to have a good time!
(Yeah, right. The "good time" bit was only to handle my achy breaky heart with kid gloves. I'm a nerd you know, don't insult my intelligence)

2. You are Hermione. You're a bookworm always in search of answers. When pressed, however, you can always be counted on to put away the books and help your friends.
(see how they use the euphemism "bookworm" instead of "nerd". Damned kid-gloves again.)

And did you notice the imperious declaration? "You are...". Why not say, "You seem to be.."? At least then there is a tacit admission of the possibility of erroneous or faulty assessment. But no. We have to rule on people with booming, authoritative voices (in this case bold font) gavel and all.

Well, what the hell? I'll be a nerd. The geek shall inherit the earth. To Nerd Pride. Hurrah.

P.S. Shouldn't I get brownie points for willfully inviting public humiliation? Can I then be Chandler and Dumbledore?

To new beginnings

The silence has been deathly on the blog front for a while now. Not that I’m delusional enough to think that anyone was waiting for my next with BATED breath. (Still, one hopes)
Not that anything even mildly exciting, anything of the least import transpired. Yes, sometimes even I wonder why I blog.

* * * * * * *

I started work again about two weeks back. And this after a six month long sabbatical the better part of which was spent inanely chasing a wild goose, an impossible dream. But that’s not the point. (Bygones, to quote Richard Fish) .The highlight (if any) of my re-integration into the working population of our great nation is the changing of tracks- my joining an NGO after purely capitalistic pursuits, after four years of engineering and two years with a software major. (“Lucy, you got some ‘splainin to do”, as Desiree Arnaz would put it).

Thankfully, my parents spared me the whys and the wherefores (well, at least the whys and the wherefores were not gone into ad nauseam) - they were just over the moon because I was making myself useful (according to my dad, wasting youthful energy is criminal- an act warranting Puppy Manohar’s “Linear execution”). But a close relative (whom I generally admire for his wisdom and prudence) lectured that community service is something that retired people pursue in the autumn of their lives, after amassing wealth and wallowing in materialistic pleasures (or is an antidote to “affluenza” induced ennui). Well, I chuckled, finally something that I’m too young to do.

But seriously, it would be spiffy to have a ready reckoner of these rules. Every time someone throws the book at me, I only smile sheepishly and bury my choicest retorts in incoherent mumbling noises. Really, is there a “Big Fat Book of Life’s Rules”? Is that where I would find the rule about age, sex, caste, creed, nationality, race, colour, religion, weight, bank balance and what have you determining and cordoning off your options in life? Or that one about Indian parents hitting the panic button when their daughter reaches a particular age? Or the one which says that you can’t work for an NGO because you are an engineer? Or that one about birth, marriage and death being the only milestones worth attaining in a person’s life?

* * * * * * *
Passion and dedication. These have been the motifs of my life for the last two weeks. Well, not my life, per se (drifter that I am), for I’m only an innocent bystander, a mute audience member to the spectacle of the extraordinary work executed by ordinary people- people who dazzle me by the sheer brilliance of their efforts, people who reach sublime heights through their actions, people who embody passion and dedication. And it’s not as if they are social outcasts, or corporate refuse or losers without direction. Some have left cushy jobs for the causes they believe in, some who probably worked very hard to get into Indian “Ivy League” colleges and gave it all up for unenviable jobs and then some who have left their families in lands far away to serve strangers in another country.

There’s Di, Conifer’s and my dream English teacher. Di’s commitment to her work takes my breath away. The rapport she shares with the kids she teaches and their families touches a chord. And she’s young, funny, intelligent and wonderful company. The kids adore her. And I’m a gushy groupie.

There’s Wunderkind, a minor celebrity of sorts. But he’s so unassuming and down to earth that you are instantly comfortable around him. And I’m jealous of his clarity and focus. He’s only a few years older than I, but reaching his level of wisdom is something I can only aspire to. I have the greatest respect for him.

These have been the superstars of the fortnight. And I’m sure there will be more in time.

Howazzat!!!!

India just beat Australia. And man what a drubbing! We brought the Australian juggernaut to a screeching halt. Stymied, finally after sixteen Test matches. And we did it like gentlemen too! Ah, sweet comeuppance.

A few points of note:

• Newbie Ishaant Sharma getting Ponting’s wicket (ha,ha,ha). There is a God after all!
• Australia chasing a huge total of 413; a historic chase considering that the number of successful chases in the 400+ runs category have been only three.
• The “very very special” innings of Laxman.
• R.P’s and Pathan’s knocks.
• No McGrath though. Oh, well.

Revenge is a dish best served cold.

Judging

Pillaged by insecurities within,
Often I’m weak and numbed by self-doubt.
Truth would be a marvel to all who
See me merry without.

So perfidious the mask,
So set the mask I wear,
That should I face a mirror,
Out, a stranger should stare.

With you, I did not pretend.
With you, my mask melted away.
With you, the dark recesses of my mind
Could see the light of day.

‘Twas reassurance I sought,
The aplomb of an eagle’s flight,
The quiet confidence of feline grace,
Oh! To be a sovereign, assured of his might.

Alas, but you think me essentially frail,
And a little ridiculous, perhaps
That I turn to you quelling my pride,
And seek your comforting clasp.

“This I surely can’t have, and that I simply won’t”
This, you impose on me, and that you depose.
Oh, to be able to rage, reflect or grumble,
Without Judgment’s harsh riposte.

I thought that I could breathe with you,
I thought you would let me be me,
I thought, perhaps you were "different",
Ah, how daft could I be?

I’m just a girl

par·ent n.
1. One who begets, gives birth to, or nurtures and raises a child; a father or mother.
2. An ancestor; a progenitor.
3. An organism that produces or generates offspring.
4. A guardian; a protector.
5. A parent company.
6. A source or cause; an origin: Despair is the parent of rebellion.

I was watching the “news” today (if Zee News can be called a news channel, that is) or rather, channel-surfing when I came across this human interest piece about two sisters, Anjali and Rimjhim aged 5 and 6, who were abandoned by their parents a year ago. Their “parents” admitted them to a school in Patna, Bihar and never came back for them. Why, you ask? The same reason that the sex-ratio in Punjab is 800 odd females for every thousand males, the same reason that female infanticides/foeticides are prevalent, the same reason we still have dowry deaths, the same reason that human-trafficking of young girls is a booming trade, the same reason that poor farmers in drought ravaged regions of our country sell their female babies for paltry sums that wouldn’t even pay for half a semester of my engineering education, the same reason that the notion that it is futile to educate girls persists even in affluent families. And the reason is this-we have it in for girls, the females of the species.

We have X billionaires in our country-many who make it to the Forbes’ list, we aim at a GDP growth of 8% and then some more, we want Mumbai to become another Shanghai or what have you, we want more malls and metro railways, more foreign capital, more of India Shining, more of…just more. But we don’t care what happens to thousands of Anjalis and Rimjhims. We’d much rather tut-tut at their plight and change channels to watch Siddhu bluster in his colour-coordinated suits and pagdis. It’s much more entertaining.

This doesn’t happen to people like us, those born in privilege, those born on the right side of the tracks or the poverty line. But the chance of birth is what’s so uncanny. It’s like those rolling-of-the-dice probability problems we tackled while in college. It could have been any woman in my life. My mother, my aunts, cousins, nieces, best friend; it could well have been my story. What was fortuitous was our birth-that the chance of birth decided the luxurious course of our privileged lives. Good parents, good education and nurture that gave us a fair chance at survival and finding our place in the sun.


What disturbed me? Do I even need to answer this one? The inconsolable tears of the two cherubic little girls abandoned when they were barely out of infancy, the tragic hopelessness in their eyes, how they still wait for their parents, how their innocence was snuffed out so cruelly, how the people who should have taken care of them and protected them neglected their duties. They may have had their reasons. They may have had financial difficulties, may have struggled to make ends meet. I appreciate and understand fully. But nothing justifies hurting defenseless children and exposing them to a lifetime of pain and misery.

I think there should be gadgets (you know, like the ones James Bond or the fellows from Star Trek would carry) to determine someone’s “parentability”. Those of childbearing age would be subjected to these gadgets to determine if they would prove to be good parents, worthy of bringing a child into the world. And the tests would be made mandatory by law, failing which people would be subjected to the same plight that befell some in Midnight’s Children.

“Jo ab kiye ho daata, aisa na kijo/ agle janam mohe bitiya na kijo”
- Umraao Jaan

P.S. This may be a case for Linear Execution (borrowed from Puppy Manohar and Baby V)

The grass is greener.

The other day, my friend lamented the absence of profound/intellectually stimulating conversations (a la Before Sunrise and Before Sunset) in his life. I admit that I felt all too keenly, the mundane, prosaic nature of all my conversations, after watching these films- envious of the riveting conversations of the lead pair. But I comforted my friend (and myself) by averring that the conversations weren’t real, but scripted by intelligent script writers and executed by talented actors. And no one talks like that in real life anyway.

(Besides, I would be loath to accept a total stranger’s invitation to accompany him/her on a sightseeing tour (no offence meant to Vienna, which I’m told is very picturesque). I mean there is already no dearth of psychopathic axe-murderers in the world without my inviting potential peril. Personally, I thought the guy was ardently hitting on the girl- it was routine“pass- making”, but old wine in a new bottle, nevertheless. The novelty was that he didn’t presume that the girl had only enough intelligence to open her mouth to eat food. The conversation was not only fascinating but also refreshing and flattering because they exchanged ideas and thoughts and not phone numbers. As you can see, I have no imagination and too much pragmatism)

I was watching Brothers and Sisters the other day and got thinking about my relationship with my brother. It’s cordial and civilized. We respect each other’s space, discuss work, I play agony-aunt to him and he supports my harebrained plans. So you see, I thought that it was a convenient arrangement- simple and mutually beneficial. That is until I saw the aforementioned series about siblings. The rich verbal sparring, constant ribbing about embarrassing episodes (again, no embarrassing episodes in our lives), the humour and vibrancy of the conversations made me rethink my tame and muted sibling revelry.

(Many years ago, when our aversion to extreme violence was non-existent, when we hadn’t discovered passive-aggression, when we were still young-ish, my brother and I settled any argument with, let’s just say no diplomacy or tact and a conspicuous lack of words. Now, with our advanced years, our relationship is more Victorian, quietly conservative and placid- quite a departure from Brothers and sisters.)

I think that good cinema and art inspire something akin to distaste/dissatisfaction for one’s own normal, meek and mild life. We tend to escape through these glamourous portals and get to play out our fantasies. But then again, good art is supposed to be true to life, is supposed to imitate life. However, I think that no art is without distortion, without a tinge of the artist’s personality; art is coloured by the artist’s fantasies, his dreams, his desires, his disappointments and triumphs, his soul- which cause these deviations from real life. And these deviations appeal to us, the audience. And we wish our life could imitate the art supposedly imitating life.

For some, the demarcating line where truth stops and fiction begins tends to get blurred. They never do detach themselves from the self that was moved in the movie theatre by some film. They identify more with fantasy and are baffled when their hackneyed lives don’t live up to the hi-falutin’ promises of fiction. And thus begins a rapid descent to dissatisfaction and even depression. The steady, stable quality of their lives is the first casualty. They seek adventure and novelty- the racy, fictional variety and rarely find it. Just like Don Quixote’s wind mills, sane women’s chasing the elusive prince charming from fairy tales/Howard Roark/Rhett Butler, children’s looking for Famous Five adventures, people looking for friends like Friends- the list is long. These peddle dreams, after all. These promise impossible highs and seductive lows.

Escapism sometimes is a defense mechanism, which lets us deal with pent up emotions- without being indecorous. Many of us have dreamt of the retort we should have used for a particularly malicious remark made by a virulent colleague but didn’t out of politeness, or aimed a well-deserved kick (in our fantasy) at an obnoxious fellow a la Ally McBeal or wished we had our very own genie on those Monday mornings. Escapism offers us hope, helps us cope with life’s vagaries and gives us an outlet for our baser instincts, which millennia of civilization haven’t been able to eradicate.

For the most part though, I think we should watch good cinema with a memo to ourselves- “Dangerously fantastic.Don’t try this at home. ”

Saffron haze

Dear Bal uncle,

One hardly sees you in any public forum nowadays. Is retirement going well for you? Or are you still calling the shots? I am almost beginning to miss your incendiary speeches, your fiery interviews, your formidable dark shades and your saffron glow. Almost.

But what’s this I hear about your lackeys defending hooligans who molested women on New Year’s Eve? The media folks are painting innocent "boys” criminals again, are they? Pesky gossip-mongering nuisance, these media fellows, I tell you. Take their duties as the fourth pillar of democracy too seriously. Why, we wouldn’t have coups, famines, wars, assassinations, terror-strikes and such unpleasantness if the media didn’t report these. We civilians would then have such a strong, unshakeable sense of security. (What was that about ostriches with their heads buried in sand?)More trouble than good, the media, I tell you.

And so what if these alleged wrong-doers were caught on camera? They are innocent until proven guilty. Some are more so than others. Being Marathi gives them your clean-chit, after all. I’m sure these media-types are just harassing nice Marathi boys from good families; boys who were just minding their own business outside the J.W. Marriott.

Besides, even if the allegations are true. I’m sure the “boys” were sufficiently provoked and hence justified in their reaction. You must agree with me, I’m sure, that the women who were molested dressed provocatively and (horror of horrors) drank and made merry on New Year’s Eve, with complete disregard for our rich, ancient Indian culture and aped the “West” so shamelessly. Therefore, they got their just desserts. They deserved it because of their wanton, un-Indian behaviour and boys, with their raging hormones, will be boys after all. How can they be faulted for acting on instinct?

I think many crimes can be prevented (prevention being better than cure) by extrapolating this notion of yours. For instance, thefts of property could be prevented if we stopped carrying money about, shut down banks, stopped buying valuables like gold, cars, TV etc, because they are just invitations to thieves and robbers. Murders could be avoided if we all wore medieval knight armours. As you can see, most common crimes can be avoided by exercising precaution. Not complying with these precautionary measures only makes one a sitting duck for would-be criminals. How can they be faulted for acting on instinct? There is a lot of potential in this revolutionary theory of yours. It would ease the workload of policemen, courts would be relatively free, and lawyers could utilize the free time by protesting against Hallmark and Valentine’s Day and, digging up pitches before India-Pak cricket matches.

I know that “Mumbai is for Marathis” is your abiding refrain. Yet, I request you to consider my case as a naturalized Mumbaikar. I was born in Mumbai and have lived here all my life, which is a substantial number of years. Although I descend from dubious East Bengal stock, I am willing to swear allegiance to Maharashtra. I celebrate Durga pooja and Ganesh Utsav with equal gusto. I speak Marathi, albeit haltingly, and am eager to learn to speak it fluently. I seek your express permission to call Mumbai and Maharashtra my home.

Regards
A non-Marathi female.

"All animals are equal but some animals are more equal than others."

- George Orwell (Animal farm)

Why, Mumbai?

I’m mortified, stupefied, petrified, and mystified. In all those debates of Mumbai vs. “X” metro, I would smugly mention my beloved city’s “live and let live” motto and promptly win the argument. I would complacently state that women felt safe here, that the city let you be who you are- regardless of your cast, creed, colour, religion, sex and bank balance, that she assimilated everyone in her fold, everyone who ever set foot in Mumbai.

Now, I can’t even brag about Mumbai without squirming uneasily, without making excuses for her shortcomings, without calling reprehensible crimes “one-off”, isolated incidents. Not after what happened outside J.W. Marriott on New Year’s Eve, not after Mumbai and the integrity of its denizens were besmirched by the actions of a few. I arrogantly thought that these things happened in the uncivilized cow-belt, in Delhi and those “other” cities which have none of Mumbai’s sophistication and…spirit.

“Spirit”- how I despise the word. I despise that it has come to encompass both indifference and resilience. I despise that vast multitudes of us just absorb shame, shock, terror and remorse and get on with our lives. It is such an annoyingly convenient cliché, the word “spirit”. But it is just our spirit, our essence, our soul, our ethos and our identity that have been called into question.

Do we dismiss what happened as an anomaly? Is Mumbai on the fast-track to becoming another Delhi, in terms of crimes against women? Will assaults on women be a regular feature henceforth? Should we mourn the death of the legendary Spirit of Mumbai? Do we care?

Of course, we care. This is our home. We are under threat and have to fight so that this city doesn’t lose its identity. We need to wake up and smell the coffee and see ourselves for what we were and what we have become and not wish away these bugbears. Change begins with the acceptance that there is a need for change, a need for tweaking things back to normalcy, a need to eliminate these worrying distortions. May be then I will stand a chance of winning those debates with a clear conscience.

A gentleman’s game

Dear Mr. Ponting,

I take this opportunity to congratulate you and your team on your sixteenth consecutive Test victory. The ways and means you applied to clinch victory from the jaws of a draw have reinforced everyone’s faith in your dedication to victory, by hook or by crook.

By the way, it was quite a shrewd move to declaw the Indian team by getting Harbhajan Singh out of the way, racist bigot that he is. Quite a spanner in the works he was becoming, what with getting your wicket thrice and scoring sixty-four runs. Good move Mr. Ponting. You showed him that Aussies aren’t called world champions for nothing- champion strategists, champion sledgers, and now, champion truth-modifiers. (But I’m quite sure Bhajji did not mean to insult monkeys; so don’t get PETA to hound the poor lad. He has enough troubles with the three match ban as it is)

Have you read “The Alchemist” Mr. Ponting? Well, the author Paulo Coelho has this curious notion that when you want something badly, the universe conspires to bring it to you. You really wanted this win badly, didn’t you Mr. Ponting? The match umpires, working for the universe, ruled in your favour eight times out of nine in the appeals made. Phew! That’s some potent force, the universe.

And of course, the Indians are being babies by crying foul, aren’t they Mr. Ponting? Oh, and wasn’t the match referee simply a prince of a fellow by believing your “boys” without an iota of evidence? That happened even though it boiled down to the Indians’ word against yours. I think it was the universe at work again. Of course, it is silly to believe that racism had any part to play in the referee’s decision. Racism is only when Bhajji calls Symonds “big monkey” (if he called him so, that is), what you Aussies do is just healthy, spirited derision, all in good humour and an integral part of the game.

Oh, but the Indians say that they could never be racists. India gave the world Gandhi after all; the same Gandhi who fought apartheid in South Africa. Ha. I’m sure Gandhi was part Australian. How else would you explain his egalitarian ideals and devotion to truth? Speaking of truth, it was clever to point the pavilion to Ganguly. It was touch and go for a minute there wasn’t it? When the umpire asked you if you thought Ganguly should be given “out”? A lesser man would not have had the presence of mind or the gumption to raise his index finger and lower his principles. But you were equal to the moral pressures of this deed. Kudos to you, Mr. Ponting!

You have shown the world that the Aussies are world champions…in something.

Regards.
An Indian.

A letter to Ekta Kapoor

Dear Ms Kapoor,

I wasn’t sure of the spelling of your name, what with numerological considerations. So, please forgive me for resorting to the conventional spelling of your last name. I know that in order for my letter to even merit a glance of your esteemed self, I would have to sufficiently alter the spelling of my name in accordance with the rules of numerology. My signature will tell you that I have changed my name from the numerologically unsound “Jane Doe” to the numerologically sound “Kjaane Kdoie”.You will be happy to know, I’m sure, that I intend to change it legally through an affidavit and there will be an announcement about the name change in The Times of India shortly.

But, enough about me. Let’s talk about you. I have been a great admirer of yours ever since your soaps took Indian television by storm. Your soaps have captivated thousands, set many fashion trends, made numerology a much sought after science (yes, I believe you. It is very scientific), made small-time actors household names and you the unquestionable Queen bee of the idiot-box, sorry, small screen. Having followed your sky-rocketing career graph closely, I firmly believe that you should run for President in the next presidential selection oops, election.

(I would have advised you to seek the post of Prime Minister, but that post requires actual work. So let’s leave politicking to the boring old fogies in Delhi, with no fashion sense and you can enjoy the post of the nominal head of our nation and still continue to do good work for Indian television.)

I am aware that you are a shrewd businesswoman and wouldn’t take any declarations at face value, albeit made by a fellow numerology aficionado. So, I have buttressed my views with facts and figures. I hear that you are a busy woman, so I’ve collated the said facts and figures in bullet points.

• You will be backed by at least 65.34% of the women in the age-group of 15- 100 (the upper limit is undecided, for obvious reasons). And that’s only a conservative estimate of the viewership of your soap operas; there are many, many more women (and men, if whispers discussing your serials at office water coolers or during coffee breaks are anything to go by) who watch your serials but are too ashamed to admit it. I have every reason to believe that you reign the 9-11 pm time-slot, known as “prime time” in TV parlance. Women who watch your serials are generally quite docile, but come 9 p.m. every Mon-Thu, they turn into GI-Janes if anyone dares to take the remote away from them or so much as breathes “channel-surfing”. With such obvious militant tendencies bubbling beneath the thin veneer of serenity, they would definitely take up cudgels if your candidature fell through and the authorities wouldn’t be able to deal with them. You have muscle-power on your side. And in India that counts for a lot.

• The grandparents and parents of twenty-year olds in your soaps, look like they have just stepped into their thirties and mid to late twenties, respectively. Tell me, Ms Kapoor, have you found the Elixir of Youth? You surely must be in possession of some secret technology that prolongs youth and makes anti-ageing creams and botox seem medieval. With such a potent weapon in your arsenal, your victory is guaranteed. Given the obsession with youth and beauty, you with your answer to the prayers of thousands fighting a losing battle against wrinkles, are bound to have sufficient bargaining power and leverage to bag the post.

• The protagonists in your serials seem to have boundless energy. Again, Ms. Kapoor, what is the secret? They run business empires worth 100 crores, throw lavish bashes at the drop of a hat, organize parties/festivals/ceremonies for weddings/child-births/birthdays/ recovery from illnesses, accidents etc/ ear-piercing/ breathing, solve the problems of all and sundry in their burgeoning joint families, sire numerous children (caring a whit for the population explosion in India), go to the gym, hold elaborate praying rituals, scheme and counter-scheme to bait the villains of the piece and still have enough energy/time to make aloo-parathas for the aforementioned family. Phew! Just that list boggles my mind. With this energy, you are well-set for world domination. Imagine the number of problems you could solve- poverty, cancer, AIDS, terrorism- to name a few which beset us. Surely, as President, you could do much good.

• And the women in your shows. Man, they look as fresh as daisies when they wake up in the morning, not a hair out of place, impeccable faces, no puffy eyes, draped in beautiful silk saris- quite the opposite of what I look like after a good-night’s sleep. I’m sure all the women (and men) in India would be grateful to look like that, effortlessly, in the morning (the men sans the silk saris, of course). And as President of the country, it would be incumbent upon you to make sure that your subjects are well-groomed and you, Ms. Kapoor, would be equal to the task given your vast experience. You would be like manna from heaven for those aspiring to be “shiny happy people”.

• And you have always upheld Indian culture in your soaps. All the leading lads and ladies in your serials are fashioned after Ram-Sita, Arjun, Savitri-Satyavan and even the villains are like Ravana, Duryodhan and so on. You have introduced “our culture” to a generation raised on a staple diet of MTV, that representative of “western” culture. I’m sure you would be a worthy icon and parents would urge their tots to emulate you. And what better example than the president of India?

• You have given hopes to thousands of plain-janes who want to look like anyone but themselves. Plastic surgery has come to the rescue of so many unfortunate people who have had accidents in your soaps. Not only does it alter facial features, but it also transforms one into a completely new person- new voice, new hair, new height, new eye colour, new weight. (Will you please make me look like, ummm, Catherine Zeta Jones?) Imagine the multitudes of people you would be helping as president.

So you see Ms. Kapoor, I have very compelling reasons to urge you to give the post of President serious consideration. Do ponder carefully about the points I’ve made. I request you to keep in mind the hopes and dreams of thousands when you make your mind.

With warm regards,
Kjaane Kdoie.
(formerly Jane Doe)

Ring out the old, ring in the new

I quite steadfastly resisted the devil of dissecting the year that was and sharing acquired wisdom (such as it is), but I realize that introspection, soul-searching, and such psychobabble, are made of sturdier stuff.

Most of us buy into the great indulgence of January 1st- checking-off the fulfilled resolutions from the previous year and making new resolutions. I tried to convince myself that just because one has transitioned through 31st December 2007 to 1st January 2008, taking stock is not in order. In fact “stock-taking” can be satisfactorily indulged in on, say, 17th May or 25th July of any year. Heck, it can be done everyday. Commerce does it on the 1st of April every year. My friend takes stock after each boyfriend. My mother does so on birthdays (my birthdays. For further information, read previous post).

Fate seldom plays fair and, as I said, stock-taking comes from hardier, well stock! Just when I was scoffing at people who make resolutions on the first day of each year and then suffer through the humiliation/frustration of not achieving their goals and are then reduced to embittered souls driven down the vale of depression (ok, I exaggerate), I came across the list of my new year’s resolutions from 2003, buried in the pages of Gone with the wind.

I had used the list as a bookmark. I have forgotten why I stopped making resolutions; perhaps because unattained resolutions reminded one of one’s foibles, of the innate weakness of not staying the course. Wondering why now, of all times, it had to surface and why I never threw it away, I went through the list. After the overwhelming nostalgia subsided, I too slipped into self-examination mode, exorcising demons and ghosts and basking in the afterglow of triumphs, as they were.

Ok, demons and ghosts first. Shrinks call them “lost possible selves” or “alternate versions of oneself”. What we could/should have been. “I wish I had taken singing and guitar lessons more seriously”. “I wish I still spoke to the friends I have left behind”. These reflections are almost always tinged, nay, always have generous dollops of regret/remorse/penitence. Past mistakes or missed opportunities, vie for your attention. If only I had. What if I had…? I wonder what he/she is doing now. And so on. We wish we could do things differently, turn back Time and redress the past. I try to have an optimistic view of regrets; that they come with expiry dates. “Regret” ceases to be “regret”, when you view it in the context of the joys you have now. May be getting what you wanted then would never have resulted in this present happiness. Perhaps, with the benefit of hindsight, regrets just become the roads which you didn’t take, so you could go down the path you have chosen for yourself. Seen in the grand scheme of things, gains outweigh regrets…er, maybe.

And then there’s the good news. Events, things and people I’m grateful for. The gains which outweigh regrets. The joys, triumphs, goodnesses, mercies, favours and blessings that came your way. “I got a raise”, “My son has a job”, “My health has improved”. Things that fill you with hope and happiness. Knowing that you braved the storms with fortitude and emerged undefeated and stronger, and not worse, for the wear. The skills you gained, the new friends you made, the places you visited, the smiles you brought, the tears you wiped, the adventures you sought and the lessons you learned. You can then greet the New Year with open arms and a toothy grin, and get ready for yet another roller-coaster ride.

Happy new year everyone. Bust your ghosts and count your blessings.