Rains, MJ, and Absolut...a Different Weekend

Just the other day I was telling my husband, how nice it would be if it rained mindlessly for a while…if the pigment and shamrock greens of the land merged with the russet horizon…and all this while we would sit by the window, sip a cup of Castleton Caddy, and munch on some buttery popcorn.
This was just a near-utopic picture that I was trying to conjure up, to momentarily escape reality. I never realized an off-season Santa Claus was eavesdropping. And so my wish came true…almost.
While we went on a drive by the coastline this Saturday, the skies opened up. There was no popcorn…I dug into butter scotch candies instead. There was no Castleton Caddy…we celebrated the sudden downpour with a couple of pepper Absoluts. But I’ll forever remember the drive by the coastline, the plump nimbus brigade meeting the grey waters of the Bay of Bengal, and The Man in the Mirror playing in the car radio.

It’s not such a big deal that I should write a post on it. But it’s just a different weekend we spent after a real long time. Feels good.

Shock-proof

This post should have been written quite a while back, when I was still reeling under the general shock of ‘thaeer sadam’ (Curd rice), ‘HR’ (pronounced hetch R), ‘where’s your native?’ and such atrocities. However, I thought I'd write about them anyway for the record, if not for anything else.

The following are a few instances when I was shocked out of my wits during my years in South India (Now that is an ignorant term…I should say, in Bangalore and Chennai). I’m sure you don’t have a clue. Let me explain.

Sample the following shockers. Most of these shockers cannot elicit a response. They are too shocking, and in most cases, I was dumb with amazement. On a few occasions, I have formed an opinion. The sections in bold, are my inputs.

1. ‘Where’s you’re native?’ First of all, this is incorrect English. It should always be ‘Where do you come from?’ This is a question that’s been bugging me since I moved to Bangalore. Later on, the question chased me till Chennai, and has stayed with me ever since.

2. ‘You are a North Indian?’ No, I come from East India, if you ask me. From a place called Calcutta, which has now been renamed to Kolkata. Kolkata is the capital city of West Bengal, which is one of the states of India. The map of the country seems to have dissolved into nothingness beyond Andhra Pradesh.
3. This is Bhanupriya from Hetch R. The moment you cross Orissa, ‘H’ becomes ‘Hetch’.

4. 'Why don't you learn Tamil'? Because I speak Hindi, which is the national language, and English which should be spoken all across the country. You have a problem? 'But I had to learn Hindi when I was in Mumbai. Why don't you learn Tamil in Tamil Nadu?' Oh, but you didn't learn Marathi. Both Marathi and Tamil are regional languages.

5. ‘Hi, I am Savitha’. That’s right. The Savita from Delhi, or Mumbai, or Kolkata, or Pune, or for that matter any other place in the world, becomes a ‘Savitha’ in the south of India. South Indian logic is that ‘th’ is the soft pronunciation. ‘Savita’ without the ‘H’ is much like ‘Beta’ with a sharp ‘T’ which is wrong. Okay, let’s agree for a change.
Now there is this place down the road that serves decent food and you also get live music over the weekends. So what’s it called? Ladies and gentlemen, it is called ‘Khaana Ghaana’. Now why that ‘h’ in ‘Ghaana’? Is it a piece of Africa? Does the removal of ‘h’ in ‘Ghaana’ make it a sharp pronunciation? How can you pronounce ‘Gaana’ sharply? Beats me.

The other day, a Bong friend called up...he knew about my general intolerance towards the unnecessary 'H' in Tamil English. The following bit is in Bengali:

"Aami ekhane Vellore-er Golden Temple-e eshechchi...bujhli? It says 'way to Dharshan'!" Bongs, stop doubling up with laughter!

6. ‘Satyajit Ray is a great director? Is he so famous?’ As famous as Balachander? No comments.

7. ‘Sean Penn won the Oscars. Great actor…what do you say?’ Oh but he is so subtle. Actors should be like Shivaji Ganesan. No comments.

8. King Lear? Never heard of him. The story that you tell me sounds like a Tamil movie. No comments.

And the hits just keep on coming. By the time I leave Chennai, if I ever do, I will be shock-proof. That’s a promise, to whoever is listening.

Childhood: Lost and Forgotten

Here comes Scribbler’s tag again…and so I write once more, as per her request. But if you ask me, I don’t have specific memories like Scribbler does. Childhood for me has been a set of vague and beautifully melancholic moments…the kind KG was talking about the other day…moments that make you feel nicely weepy, and you enjoy rolling in that melancholy, realizing how oddly fascinating it is.
I am not sure if I am able to explain myself to any of my readers. If you want it simply, of course there have been those days when I would painstakingly accompany my dad to the robbarer bajaar just to pick up a Bikram aur Betaal comics, a cheap yo yo, or a pair of red sunglasses with a lion sticker in the middle, on the way back home. Ma would scream and make my hidden agenda quite public. But I would unabashedly accompany Baba again the following Sunday. Then there were days when I would feed the crows my share of bread and Druke’s orange marmalade, just because I was bored with the same old Tiffin Ma would give me every day. Once I puked on myself (however impossible that sounds; people usually aim at neighbours)…I was in the nursery class, and a compassionate nun sent me home with only my skirt on…can you beat it? Then there was this one instance when I chased a hen…for whatever paranormal reason…got pecked big time by the hen in return…this was in a remote place called Amarda…wherever that is.
My biggest childhood memories of course revolve round my sickening fixation with the supernatural…my loyal attachment to Ramsay horror shows. I would stay put in front of the television, watch the horror shows, and invariably roll down the bed, carrying with me the mosquito net and the paraphernalia, or squiggle in between my parents in the wee hours of the night, completely delirious with fright.
The beautifully melancholic parts of my memories however, pertain to all my vacations in school…when I used to visit my dad in North Bengal, where he was posted. If it was summer, I remember sitting in the backyard, by an old swing and an old well, counting martins, and thinking how lucky or unlucky I would be. If it was winter, I remember running for the quilt after lunch, ready for a siesta, smelling the sun in the warm quilt covers. Sometimes my grandmother would send some tetuler achaar (sweet tamarind pickle…I thought I should translate this one…way too remote for my non-Bong readers), and I would wallow in its tangy taste, gazing at the squeaky clean sky from the bedside window.

Gone are those winters, and the alluring smell of sunshine. These days, all we think about is work, money, promotions, and sometimes, well just sometimes, global warming. Kids play with mindless gizmos. The good old tales of a petni or a kimbhooth (Bengali names for two ghost varieties) do not fascinate them anymore. Maybe, forty years from now, a kid, if asked about childhood memories, will talk about how he had a whale of a time, listening to music on his dad’s Mac...or better still, how he drank all the sugarcane juice, stuff that his dad had saved to make alternative fuel!!!

Thought I’d follow it up with a list of dislikes too…just to give it a feel of completion

I passionately dislike:
1. Chennai summer
2. Power cuts
3. Curd rice
4. Loud Tamil songs (completely over the top)
5. Moral policing
6. Jasmines and payals (I’ve had an overdose of it)
7. Smelly men with hoarse voices
8. Smelly women with hoarse voices
9. Cooking on weekdays
10. Cruelty to animals
11. Poaching
12. Exercise (Well, I should be doing it ASAP)
13. Vegetables
14. Pep talk from laws, in-laws and outlaws
15. Khushwant Singh
16. Monday mornings
17. Tuesday mornings
18. Wednesday mornings
19. Thursday mornings
20. Hypocrisy in any form
21. Long hours at work
22. Project Managers
23. Rajnikanth
24. Waist flab – that jiggles
25. No money to go on a world tour
26. Choosing what to wear to work – we should have uniforms to avoid this shit
27. Good girls who don’t swear
There are a lot more. Will keep adding, as and when I remember.

I Like...

Since life is gradually careening out of control, I thought I’d paint the ideal picture and keep reminding myself that this is what I need to go back to. It is a list of apparently inconsequential things…but for my benefit, and on Scribbler’s request, I decided to pen it down.
I like:
1. Fries of all sorts (Yes, it’s a pity that my list had to start with food…I have become an incorrigible glutton after marriage)
2. Dark clouds and the smell of a norwester
3. Getting under the blanket in a dark room when it’s raining cats and dogs and pigs and horses outside
4. Sun-kissed windows, with soft cream curtains
5. Winter afternoons
6. Rubbing my feet on the carpet on such winter afternoons
7. Late night movies with popcorn
8. Coke…plenty of it
9. Pudina Cha
10. Lebu Cha
11. Lemon and Gin
12. Beer on a hot sunny afternoon
13. Beer anytime
14. Money plants and sunrays on the leaves
15. Long drives to nowhere
16. Sea-breeze
17. Beef-steak by the beach
18. Smell of lemon
19. Squashing silver fish in between torn yellow pages of old books
20. Conversations with my father
21. Bitching with my mother
22. Johnson’s Baby Lotion
23. Wildlife
24. Wildlife tours
25. Horror flicks
26. Cheese
27. Pedicure with aroma oils
28. The smell of candy floss at the Calcutta Book Fair
29. The distant cry of a kite...up in the sky

30. Making travel plans

31. Heavily frothed cappuccino
32. All the Oxfords, the Landmarks, and the Higgin Bothams in the world
33. Pot-pourri
34. Evening skies
35. Smell of baked confectionaries
36. Barbecue on a moonlit night
37. Jacaranda
38. Neem trees on breezy mornings
39. Crispy clean pajamas for the night
40. Mint
41. Junk jewelry and boho pants to hide the flab
42. Friday evenings (This is the most obvious…why isn’t it there in your list?)
43. Kalyan Verma’s photography (http://kalyanvarma.net/)

44. Steve Martin movies
45. Dark chocolate
46. Mustard paste
47. Ham
48. The hard ‘thush’ of newspapers at doorsteps in the mornings
49. The Banana Boat Song
50. Taking off my contact lens at the end of the day

Now that’s a completely incongruous and lengthy list…don’t know where it’ll take me.

Mr. Bean...the Mess!!!

I have managed to be alarmingly consistent when it comes to making a fool of myself in public. When I am behind closed doors, and I’m sure not a single living soul is watching, I behave like a complete Aristotle. When the doors open and I am in company, the Aristotle disappears. Mr. Bean takes over…what a pity!
Today at lunch, Mr. Bean made a grand entry, messed up with my public image big time, and made a slow exit, as the whole world guffawed with mad laughter. Here’s what happened:
I was at the cafeteria with a couple of friends, buying a simple dosa, making a ridiculous effort not to look at the chocolate pastry counter. This was when my eyes caught a black attaché case, lying unclaimed at one of the lunch tables. What the hell is that, I wondered. One of my friends was sitting at the next table. ‘Do you hear a ticking sound from the case?’ I asked her. ‘Should I?’ she asked. ‘Well…I am a little concerned. You see, you can’t take things casually…what if another 26/11 occurred?’ Dreadful images of terrorist attacks, maimed people, and ruined buildings flashed on my mind. ‘Do you think I should raise an alarm?’ I asked her. ‘Chill…have your dosa. Maybe the person has gone to the loo.’ Smart…maybe he really had gone to the restroom.
I dug into my lunch and thankfully, soon forgot about the attaché case. But I am a fast eater. The moment my dosa was over, (took me 10 minutes at the most), the paranoia rushed back. There was still no one to claim the case. That’s when Mr. Bean pinched me hard. ‘You know what, I am sure there is some good amount of RDX in there. It’s unbelievable how no one else is noticing this obvious truth.’ And before my friend at the table could stop me, I dashed for the emergency alarm and pressed it passionately, feeling rather heroic, having saved so many innocent lives, dreaming of a Red and White bravery medal from the President. Within minutes (I never believed Indian security men were so efficient) commandos were all over the place like a swarm of bees, looking for the issue. I pointed gallantly at the attaché case.
One of the men, after some explaining, came forward with a bomb-detection tool and punched the case open. All it contained was an oily lunch box, a set of old ink pens and a wad of official papers. My friends had already disappeared, deeply ashamed at my idiocy. I began to look for a place to hide.
The man behind all this finally returned, looking surprised that his attaché case had created such brouhaha. He seemed to be suffering from diarrhea, and my friend was right.
Needless to say, I was reprimanded by the grand panjandrum of those commandos, for having been so stupid. ‘Please madam, be sure of all these things before raising such an alarm. You are wasting public time.’ Feeling angry at Bean, I made a hasty exit. I hope everyone at the cafeteria suffers from amnesia on Monday.

A Slice of My Country

As an over-urban Indian who works 5 days a week, slogs till late nights, and on most occasions, drags some of that slog to weekends, I thought I didn't have time for patriotism. After all, this quaint feeling is far removed from my reality...right? Patriotism doesn't solve job dissatisfaction, work pressure, ugly tiffs with mad bosses and husbands (;)), recession, global warming and so on.
Patriotism isn't going to fetch me a fat pay cheque, or earn me a holiday for two to Lavasa. Patriotism isn't going to fetch me a seat at the G8 summit, or a place in Manmohan Singh's Facebook friend's list. So why indulge in it? The term 'Bharat' today simply weaves a knitted image of ugly potholes, power cuts, corrupt politicians, faceless, poverty-stricken humans, traffic snarls, mad heat, and fight over religion...
However, tonight when the Jana Gana Mana played loud and clear on foreign soil (India-West Indies match at Lord's), I felt a lone tear glisten in my eye, and a lump formed in my throat. Ideally, this should have been an August 15th post. But patriotism I guess isn't an outdated feeling. I hope it never is.

As an over-urban Indian, I thought I had overcome traditional mush. But I haven't...and I am proud of it. Long live the Tricolour...long live my country.

I Don’t Remember When I Last Looked Attractive

Thoughts of a delirious mind. Not worth reading.

It’s after a lot of RSI (repetitive strain injury) on my inflated ego that I thought I’d finally write something on this. Excuse me if this sounds like unmistakable narcissism. It’s actually quite the opposite. I hate my shape…and the peripheral feelings that come with having to deal with obesity.
Point is, I am gradually becoming a shipping hazard. I used to fit in denims…but I don’t anymore. I used to look acceptable in sleeveless Kutras…now I hide under oversized clothes that resemble ugly pillow cases. I used to wear matching accessories. Now I feel too much like a pasta-mama who deserves to hide.
Do I sound like an adolescent? Perhaps I do. But how do you deal with crazy routines and still fit into that cosmic latte skirt that you bought nearly with half your salary?

Sample the conversation with my alter ego:

My day starts with no-exercise ______aha! that’s it…you fatso should just move it_____I am only too tired from sleeping late____why did you sleep late?____there was a mammoth power cut_____ok then what?____I cook and manage the maid_____by the time she is gone, its already too late____so?_____I get a bath and get dressed______work huh?______yeah, and would you believe? I feel like moving jello when I walk those few steps to the reception; the wind blows in the opposite direction; my hair blows up like a set of electric wires, and my Kurta flies up…and those thunder thighs!_____so don’t use the elevator, just walk____duh! It’s on the 6th floor_____so wake up in the morning and go for a jog____you know how it is; people shit all over the place____you’re just creating an excuse, you loser!_____ I know, and I also have BED______yeah I know you have a bed______not a bed! I have BED; binge-eating disorder______get lost! You deserve your size and shape!


And that’s how it ends. Maybe I should just leave work, quit social life, go to the mountains and become a hermit…a big fat hermit. These are just thoughts of a delirious mind. Not worth reading.

Pink About the Panther

Before I begin this one, a strong recommendation to all readers–please watch Pink Panther and Pink Panther 2 (the Steve Martin versions) if you haven’t already. I haven’t watched the 1963 Peter Sellers starrer…so I cannot compare the two actors who play the protagonist–the incorrigible cretin, Inspector Jacques Clouseau. All I can tell you is Steve Martin turned my weekends into a laugh riot. So if it’s some wholesome fun you’re wanting, in between the cricket, the Madras heat, the grocery shopping, the cooking, and the power-cuts, go for it.
The first film marks the reappearance of the precious diamond—the invaluable Pink Panther—amidst much football hungama. A famous football coach is murdered in broad daylight, and the diamond is stolen from his finger. As Henry Mancini’s orchestral jazz plays on, Jacques Clouseau, the gaumless French policeman indulges in delirium. Is he like Mr. Bean? Well, definitely not. Bean indulges in idiocy, and somewhere in his journey, experiences remorse. Clouseau is too full of the archetypal French self-pride to feel regretful.
This man is a sad case of personified self-conceit, much like some of Congreve’s and Shakespeare’s characters. Be it banging neatly against cars in the parking lot, or sitting on the Pope's peaked mitre, be it ogling at a blonde with bursting shirt buttons, or setting a whole restaurant on fire by merely spilling wine, Clouseau is nonpareil.
And that amazing French accent…Steve Martin deserves an honorary French citizenship, if you ask me.
There is this session with an American accent trainer who coaches Clouseau before he is on his way to New York. He just has to say ‘I want a hamburger’. The way Martin makes a complete mess of it is novel. Old timers say Sellers did a better job out of portraying the idiocy. Having seen and loved Martin in My Blue Heaven, Father of the Bride (both parts), Bowfinger, Cheaper by the Dozen, Novocaine, Jiminy Glick in Lalawood and so on, I have my loyalties defined.
Trust me; there are big names in both of Martin’s Pink Panthers. Kevin Kline, Jean Reno, Beyonce´ Knowles, Andy Garcia, Alfred Molina and some of the others. But Martin leaves an indelible impression, and at the end of it all, you’re pink with those bouts of delirious laughter.
And now a line or two about our desi beauty, Aishwariya Rai. She plays a crucial role in the second movie, yes. And to keep the secrecy of the plot intact, I’m not going to disclose what it is. But the truth remains that Rai is a complete non-actor and a coquettish waste. Of course, this is a personal view, and I do not expect hate mails after this.
All said and done, please go ahead and watch Steve Martin shine in his imbecilic armor. You’ll not regret it.

The Sunshine Made Me Sad…

It’s a strong glow…in an otherwise frigid world in the 1950s…a sepia gloom that’s there throughout. Young Michael Berg gets a bout of scarlet fever, and a mature Hannah Schmitz cleans his bile on their first encounter. An affair follows…nurtured under the warm glow of a German sun. Michael learns the intricacies of human bodily want and passion. During the duo’s love-making periods that last only for one summer, Michael reads to Hannah…Homer, Chekhov, and a host of others. Hannah looks forward to these reading sessions…and Michael, within the scope of his boyish fantasies, to the love-making…and the two form a special bond.
When the movie started, I thought, not again! Don’t give me another of those orgies of Winslet. But I was wrong…as for the sex; the movie couldn’t have been half as meaningful without it.
But I’m not here to talk about the sex and the intellectual elegance of the film. Nor am I going to praise Bernhard Schlink’s narrative technique, Stephen Daldry’s direction, Winslet’s gusto, or David Kross’s boyish charm. I just felt I needed to write about the pathos of the film…the sad light through Winslet’s windows, the rust in the bathroom pipes, the buff patches on the wall…maybe I should tip my hat to the amazing photography by Roger Deakins and Chris Menges.
All of us would have been part of this imagery, captured brilliantly by these guys, at some point in our lives. Try and imagine a warm June afternoon in Calcutta…preferably the north of the city, buildings with peeling walls, brick lanes, and pigeons creating a ruckus on the terrace…evenings come, with the hope of a thunderstorm…but nothing happens…the sepia glow of the sun turns to a soft orange haze. However much you take a bath, the sweat returns…the talcum powder on the skin feels soft and damp...no scarlet fever…but dismal nevertheless. There is no post war crisis here, but the oldness of the city debars hope from entering the crevices of the brick walls...the crevices of the mind. The only escape seems to be through literature…through a Upamanyu Chatterjee, through a Maya Angelou, through an Amit Chaudhuri, through a Bill Bryson…if not a Homer or a Chekhov. Be it 1950s or the current times…the oppressive reality remains. Escapades of the mind are what carry the promise of luminescence...