I am always completely startled when someone, in this day and age, with pretensions to being urbanised, westernised and modernised, with a so-call ‘liberated’ thinking and attitude, calls a wife the ‘better half’. While it may sound on the surface like a compliment, it has the flavour of being totally patronisingly chauvinistic, sort of like calling her the ‘little woman’ or 'amenuensis'. It smacks of a large serving of spurious superiority, coloured by years of listening to protests and then developing a self-conscious awareness of political correctness where women are concerned. And it is particularly Indian.
Marriage is about partnership, even in a traditionally male-dominated society set-up like the one that exists in India. A wife is not just a primary element in a husband’s goods-and chattels package, but someone who shares his life with as many if not many more responsibilities. And a woman is no longer an object to be owned, but a thinking, feeling, intelligent human being with needs, wants, desires and strengths. That the woman is the most powerful entity in a marriage and/or family is undeniable – she runs the house, bears the children, organises the budgets and very likely works outside the home, too, to supplement the family income, as well as to satisfy her own ambitions. All this does make her the better half, yes, but is it necessary to label her so?
Women always get labelled. Perhaps men do, too, but those titles are generally not mentionable in polite company. Also, since I am all woman, I prefer not to indulge in the silly name-calling involving my male compatriots, especially since that would be behaviour I consider juvenile and asinine. (That said with a magnificent helping of childishness, huffiness and some modicum of dignity, I continue…). When men look at women, they instantly see a tag attached – sexy, hot, maal, amma, aunty, babe – that depends on the face and figure they are looking at and the class of the man doing the looking. Some names are excruciatingly funny, particularly out of context, while others are so dialectic that they leave me wondering what language they are in. And some are downright nasty and vulgar, hardly worth the effort it takes to read/listen to/voice them.
A socialite, author, brand maker and society watcher (yes, all in one feminine package) that I know slightly once asked me, “Do you object to being called ‘a babe’?” She is one herself, slim, svelte, saucy and sassy, the many children she has borne and the many scandals she has weathered notwithstanding. I was a little thrown for a moment, because in my naivete I never thought of being given that appellation. Then it made me wonder. Was being called a ‘a babe’ so bad? All it meant was that someone had a certain appreciation of my being but not the vocabulary enough to voice it with any tact or class. The lady herself called me ‘babe’ in various of our conversations. And friends of mine use it with some frequency, as do I myself, as a sort of affectionate nickname that is more or less generic. The only unfortunate connotation is to the main character of the eponymous film, Babe, which chronicles the life of a…ahem…piglet.
So, babe, tell me, what do you think of ‘better half’? Does that make you feel all woman, all good, all fabulous? Shall we say 'oink' to that?
Monday, July 31, 2006
A better half indeed
Friday, July 28, 2006
Pasta and the Pope – Part III
Rome was fabulous. Chilly, sunny and very, very Roman. The city never fails to amaze me with its passion for beauty and the sense of style it, and every one of its native inhabitants, displays oh-so-casually, on an everyday basis. The food is wonderful, eaten with total involvement and appreciation over many hours. The architecture is sublime, history revisited in every brick, arch and moulding. And the people are friendly – sometimes startlingly so – with big smiles, big hearts and, the men, a big, bold eye for beauty. They ogled me and my friend (stout teenagers that we were then) with as much interest as they surveyed my mother (far slimmer, more mature and totally gorgeous), all with a very amicable oeillade that couldn’t be objectionable if it tried!
A visit to the Vatican City was, in a strange way, odd. It was my second time there and seemed overly familiar. But it was also new, because I was seeing it with my friend, who had never been there before – a sort of a rediscovery, through another set of eyes, almost as if I was another person. We gawked in the main square outside the cathedral of St Peter, gaped at the massive and ornate main altar, gazed up at the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel that Michaelangelo had painted lying for months on his back. I was not as verbal about its beauty as I had been on our previous visit, but was as awed. And I wondered at a man who, all those years ago, had led such a turbulent life and worked so hard to get the recognition that he earned so much later, long after his bones would have been dust. At the Vatican Post Office, we waited in long lines to buy stamps to send picture postcards to each other and to various friends and relatives, telling everyone what a fabulous time we were having.
From there north-east to Ravenna was a hideous nightmare. Too young to drive, both my friend and I were thoroughly sick, leaving a trail of plastic bags all the way along the very long and winding road through the mountains. We got to the pretty little town quite green in the face and wanting nothing more than to die, in one piece, even though we knew it was not possible. But with the resilience of the typical teen, we were hungry soon after we were let out of the confines of the Golf, demanding food to fill the void in our insides. We walked the cobblestoned streets of the city with the wind blowing roses into our cheeks and our hair into tangled meshes. Remains of snowdrifts peeked from kerb corners and a young man on his Vespa grinned cheerfully at us as he putted past. We ducked into a small, warm chapel, left a prayer and a candle for the lord and proceeded onwards.
We arrived in Venice in the evening. Finding our hotel, very close to St Mark’s Square, was a bit of a challenge, but well worth the hassle. If you opened the imposing front door in the lobby, and opened the main door of the building next door, you could walk right through a carpeted, nicely warm passage from the hotel into a movie theatre! It’s The Aristocats, I squeaked, and we sat through the movie three times, once with my parents and twice on our own, chatting up the friendly ushers – fairly elderly, I should assure my father – who wanted to practice their garbled English, while I further massacred my scant store of Italian. When we finally went back to our room, we were seeing double after staring up at the screen for so long, and singing songs from the soundtrack, vowing to do this again the next night.
Very early the next morning, we strolled down to St Mark’s Square, determined to show off our photographic talents and take pictures of the cathedral at sunrise. The vast piazza was thigh deep in water, but we were obstinate. There was a strategically placed flagpole in the centre, which was on a raised plinth and that would make the best vantage point for pictures. Before we could be intelligent about it – it was winter, after all, January 1, actually, and very cold – we had rolled up our jeans and waded into the wet. It was cold. Before I had gone more than three steps, my feet had gone numb and I was seriously contemplating retreat to where my very sensible parents stood, warm and dry, holding our shoes and laughing at our silliness. But since my friend forged on, I couldn’t chicken out; later, I found she had had the same idea and the same reason for continuing with the great wade.
Finally we reached the plinth and stood there, triumphant, watching the tide slowly retreat out to the sea. Gradually, the stones of the huge square emerged from under the water, like a great grey monster’s back. The sun rose, sparking light off the gilding on the frescoes fronting the enormous church. And our cameras clicked, capturing the moment and making the freeze worthwhile.
A visit to the Vatican City was, in a strange way, odd. It was my second time there and seemed overly familiar. But it was also new, because I was seeing it with my friend, who had never been there before – a sort of a rediscovery, through another set of eyes, almost as if I was another person. We gawked in the main square outside the cathedral of St Peter, gaped at the massive and ornate main altar, gazed up at the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel that Michaelangelo had painted lying for months on his back. I was not as verbal about its beauty as I had been on our previous visit, but was as awed. And I wondered at a man who, all those years ago, had led such a turbulent life and worked so hard to get the recognition that he earned so much later, long after his bones would have been dust. At the Vatican Post Office, we waited in long lines to buy stamps to send picture postcards to each other and to various friends and relatives, telling everyone what a fabulous time we were having.
From there north-east to Ravenna was a hideous nightmare. Too young to drive, both my friend and I were thoroughly sick, leaving a trail of plastic bags all the way along the very long and winding road through the mountains. We got to the pretty little town quite green in the face and wanting nothing more than to die, in one piece, even though we knew it was not possible. But with the resilience of the typical teen, we were hungry soon after we were let out of the confines of the Golf, demanding food to fill the void in our insides. We walked the cobblestoned streets of the city with the wind blowing roses into our cheeks and our hair into tangled meshes. Remains of snowdrifts peeked from kerb corners and a young man on his Vespa grinned cheerfully at us as he putted past. We ducked into a small, warm chapel, left a prayer and a candle for the lord and proceeded onwards.
We arrived in Venice in the evening. Finding our hotel, very close to St Mark’s Square, was a bit of a challenge, but well worth the hassle. If you opened the imposing front door in the lobby, and opened the main door of the building next door, you could walk right through a carpeted, nicely warm passage from the hotel into a movie theatre! It’s The Aristocats, I squeaked, and we sat through the movie three times, once with my parents and twice on our own, chatting up the friendly ushers – fairly elderly, I should assure my father – who wanted to practice their garbled English, while I further massacred my scant store of Italian. When we finally went back to our room, we were seeing double after staring up at the screen for so long, and singing songs from the soundtrack, vowing to do this again the next night.
Very early the next morning, we strolled down to St Mark’s Square, determined to show off our photographic talents and take pictures of the cathedral at sunrise. The vast piazza was thigh deep in water, but we were obstinate. There was a strategically placed flagpole in the centre, which was on a raised plinth and that would make the best vantage point for pictures. Before we could be intelligent about it – it was winter, after all, January 1, actually, and very cold – we had rolled up our jeans and waded into the wet. It was cold. Before I had gone more than three steps, my feet had gone numb and I was seriously contemplating retreat to where my very sensible parents stood, warm and dry, holding our shoes and laughing at our silliness. But since my friend forged on, I couldn’t chicken out; later, I found she had had the same idea and the same reason for continuing with the great wade.
Finally we reached the plinth and stood there, triumphant, watching the tide slowly retreat out to the sea. Gradually, the stones of the huge square emerged from under the water, like a great grey monster’s back. The sun rose, sparking light off the gilding on the frescoes fronting the enormous church. And our cameras clicked, capturing the moment and making the freeze worthwhile.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Pasta and the Pope – Part II
Once in Milan, do as the escursionista do, we decided, and proceeded to eat a hearty supper of fresh crusty bread, fagioli soup and salad, fuelling up for the next day of sightseeing. Painfully stabbed several times in the soft palate by what could only have been nettles in my dish of greens, I soon retired to bed, trailed by the others up the endless staircase. My friend wanted to wash her hair, and did, in the tiny sink, shrieking for rescue as shampoo frothed into her eyes and down her front. Finally, all dried and still chatting tiredly, we slept.
The next morning was Christmas. We woke bright and early, heading out after a warm breakfast in search of some art and spiritual soothing. Leonardo should have been alive now, I told myself, as we stood in front of the Last Supper, his masterpiece painted on the wall of the refectory of the convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie. It was partially hidden by scaffolding and tarpaulin, somewhat protected from prying cameras and curious fingers. The work had gone through trials by fire, water, man and war, we read, finally being given a professional restoration and careful policing. As we looked on, the crowds started dissipating; it was almost time for Il Papa’s address, the caretaker of the chapel explained.
Doing a brisk trot through the piazza in a chill wind that cut through layers of wool and down, we explored further, reaching our destination of the Duomo. There, occasionally stamping our feet and clapping our gloved hands, huddling close for warmth in that freezing, high-ceilinged, stone building, we listened to the Pope’s service broadcast on Vatican Radio from all those miles away in Rome, speaking of peace and brotherhood to an audience of many million devout Catholics.
Warmed by the experience though chilled to our sacroiliacs – a cold that lasted until we got to the sun-baked ruins of Herculaneum - we piled into the car and headed south, like the birds, to Florence. It was warmer there, we found, sitting in the sunshine to feed the pigeons and watch people being people. Booked into a small hotel with rickety wooden floors and great atmosphere, we found a bonus – downstairs was an art shop, its windows enticing buyers in with colour and astonishingly life-like reproductions of familiar famous works. My friend and I went in, and came out soon after with identical posters, black and white, of crows picking at grain. Very graphic, very suggestive, very stark, very evocative. Mine still hangs in our house, brightening up a darkish corridor.
In Florence I managed to use my scant Italian to get revenge for my friend’s giggles over my horror at a plate ringed with squid tentacles. At dinner at a small and intimo restaurant, she ordered pizza, with lots of black olives – which were her favourite ‘vegetable’. Make it diavolo, I suggested and, with a little conspiratorial help from a charming young waiter, she was persuaded into it. The plate arrived, the pizza hot, gorgeously fragrant with cheese, oregano and, of course, olives, with a fresh egg just broken over the top and still quivering with rawness. She shuddered and glowered, I giggled and wiggled in my chair with delight at her plight. She hated raw eggs; I loved watching her deal with one. Finally, once the egg had thoroughly cooked with the heat of the pizza. I helped her eat it. We were still friends. And she wanted to wash her hair.
It had been a long few days, what with the snow, the cold and the drive cooped up in a not-too-big car. But we were starting to enjoy the blend of old and new, familiar and novel. Tomorrow we would head for Rome, our original Christmas destination. The Pope was waiting for us…
The next morning was Christmas. We woke bright and early, heading out after a warm breakfast in search of some art and spiritual soothing. Leonardo should have been alive now, I told myself, as we stood in front of the Last Supper, his masterpiece painted on the wall of the refectory of the convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie. It was partially hidden by scaffolding and tarpaulin, somewhat protected from prying cameras and curious fingers. The work had gone through trials by fire, water, man and war, we read, finally being given a professional restoration and careful policing. As we looked on, the crowds started dissipating; it was almost time for Il Papa’s address, the caretaker of the chapel explained.
Doing a brisk trot through the piazza in a chill wind that cut through layers of wool and down, we explored further, reaching our destination of the Duomo. There, occasionally stamping our feet and clapping our gloved hands, huddling close for warmth in that freezing, high-ceilinged, stone building, we listened to the Pope’s service broadcast on Vatican Radio from all those miles away in Rome, speaking of peace and brotherhood to an audience of many million devout Catholics.
Warmed by the experience though chilled to our sacroiliacs – a cold that lasted until we got to the sun-baked ruins of Herculaneum - we piled into the car and headed south, like the birds, to Florence. It was warmer there, we found, sitting in the sunshine to feed the pigeons and watch people being people. Booked into a small hotel with rickety wooden floors and great atmosphere, we found a bonus – downstairs was an art shop, its windows enticing buyers in with colour and astonishingly life-like reproductions of familiar famous works. My friend and I went in, and came out soon after with identical posters, black and white, of crows picking at grain. Very graphic, very suggestive, very stark, very evocative. Mine still hangs in our house, brightening up a darkish corridor.
In Florence I managed to use my scant Italian to get revenge for my friend’s giggles over my horror at a plate ringed with squid tentacles. At dinner at a small and intimo restaurant, she ordered pizza, with lots of black olives – which were her favourite ‘vegetable’. Make it diavolo, I suggested and, with a little conspiratorial help from a charming young waiter, she was persuaded into it. The plate arrived, the pizza hot, gorgeously fragrant with cheese, oregano and, of course, olives, with a fresh egg just broken over the top and still quivering with rawness. She shuddered and glowered, I giggled and wiggled in my chair with delight at her plight. She hated raw eggs; I loved watching her deal with one. Finally, once the egg had thoroughly cooked with the heat of the pizza. I helped her eat it. We were still friends. And she wanted to wash her hair.
It had been a long few days, what with the snow, the cold and the drive cooped up in a not-too-big car. But we were starting to enjoy the blend of old and new, familiar and novel. Tomorrow we would head for Rome, our original Christmas destination. The Pope was waiting for us…
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Pasta and the pope – Part I
It was a bright and sunny winter morning when we started out from Geneva, en route to a holiday in Italy. We aimed at attending the Pope's Christmas service in St Peter's cathedral in Rome. First stop, Milan. We should be there by lunchtime, my father said, packing us three women – my mother, my best friend and me – into the VW Golf, our bodies and heads nestled into warm acrylic blankets. It was high winter and freezing even through the car heating system, a portent of heavy snowfall later in the day. The road to the Mont Blanc tunnel was clean and clear, typically Swiss in its well-ploughed lanes, regulated traffic and well-behaved drivers. Through the mountain and out again, we were in Italy. The snow came down heavily, the roads packed down with ice, cars skidded on their snow tyres across the narrower, unpatrolled tarmac and no snowplough was in sight. Very Italian, we all laughed.
Reluctantly unwinding ourselves from our warm cocoons, my friend and I got out of the car to kick snow from the wheels, and found ourselves sliding over the glassy surface. Clinging to the door handles, stripping off our mittens to manage the small hooks, we managed to strap snow chains on to the tyres, hoping to prevent skidding any more than we needed to. The two of us got back into our nest of blankets and huddled together for defrosting, sticking our hands directly against the hot blast from the radiator vents. My father drove on, neatly navigating the slope onto a bridge. The car turned…and kept turning. We stopped a hair short of the concrete side rail, broadside on the road, all of us breathless and silent. Unlocking his hands from the steering wheel, to the orchestration of Mama's prayers and concerned questions, Papa slowly straightened the Golf and drove on.
It took us all morning to get to Aosta, ski capital of the area. It was packed out with people, cars, buses and ski shops, all barely visible in the windblown snow. We sat in slowly stewing silence, wanting to be fed and bored with the incarceration. Milan seemed a long way away, too far for lunch, at least. Finally pulling up at an auberge, we unkinked ourselves, stepping gingerly on to the ice and snow, holding on to the car, each other and the walls of the inn. Inside, a wall of warmth pulled at us, sending funny shivers into our shoes as we melted gently into the carpet underfoot. Shedding jackets and scarves, we found a table and sat down. Since it was already so late in the afternoon, there was little choice of food. When I found nothing that I would have liked was available, I threw an unreasonable tantrum, shooting myself in the foot by ordering a seafood risotto without thinking about it with my usual gustatory finickiness.
It arrived, neatly plated, steamingly hot and very fragrant. It was supremely tempting, with a wonderful air of fresh herbs, cheese and fish that were practically flapping, even in landlocked Aosta. As the waiter set the deep-bowled plate in front of me, I pushed my chair back and squeaked in alarm. The rice looked perfectly done, fabulously scented, deep pink shrimp, snow white fish, bright green peas and golden orange carrots winking at me from within in. The problem? Leering into my face with all the appeal of dead earthworms was an array of tentacles, neatly arranged around the plate in a pretty garnish effect. My parents, annoyed with my spoilt brattishness, watched with a certain adult serves-you-right air, while my friend leaned over and used her classes in animal studies to good effect by pointing out just where the suckers had opened their widest when the creature was dipped into boiling water – or whatever was done to it.
It was a long lunch. By the time we got to Milan, it was dinner time. All grouchiness had faded into exhaustion and we wanted nothing more than our beds. Which were four floors up in the pensione we were booked into, which had no elevator. Lugging our cases, trudging upwards, we found beds and collapsed….
(To be continued….)
Reluctantly unwinding ourselves from our warm cocoons, my friend and I got out of the car to kick snow from the wheels, and found ourselves sliding over the glassy surface. Clinging to the door handles, stripping off our mittens to manage the small hooks, we managed to strap snow chains on to the tyres, hoping to prevent skidding any more than we needed to. The two of us got back into our nest of blankets and huddled together for defrosting, sticking our hands directly against the hot blast from the radiator vents. My father drove on, neatly navigating the slope onto a bridge. The car turned…and kept turning. We stopped a hair short of the concrete side rail, broadside on the road, all of us breathless and silent. Unlocking his hands from the steering wheel, to the orchestration of Mama's prayers and concerned questions, Papa slowly straightened the Golf and drove on.
It took us all morning to get to Aosta, ski capital of the area. It was packed out with people, cars, buses and ski shops, all barely visible in the windblown snow. We sat in slowly stewing silence, wanting to be fed and bored with the incarceration. Milan seemed a long way away, too far for lunch, at least. Finally pulling up at an auberge, we unkinked ourselves, stepping gingerly on to the ice and snow, holding on to the car, each other and the walls of the inn. Inside, a wall of warmth pulled at us, sending funny shivers into our shoes as we melted gently into the carpet underfoot. Shedding jackets and scarves, we found a table and sat down. Since it was already so late in the afternoon, there was little choice of food. When I found nothing that I would have liked was available, I threw an unreasonable tantrum, shooting myself in the foot by ordering a seafood risotto without thinking about it with my usual gustatory finickiness.
It arrived, neatly plated, steamingly hot and very fragrant. It was supremely tempting, with a wonderful air of fresh herbs, cheese and fish that were practically flapping, even in landlocked Aosta. As the waiter set the deep-bowled plate in front of me, I pushed my chair back and squeaked in alarm. The rice looked perfectly done, fabulously scented, deep pink shrimp, snow white fish, bright green peas and golden orange carrots winking at me from within in. The problem? Leering into my face with all the appeal of dead earthworms was an array of tentacles, neatly arranged around the plate in a pretty garnish effect. My parents, annoyed with my spoilt brattishness, watched with a certain adult serves-you-right air, while my friend leaned over and used her classes in animal studies to good effect by pointing out just where the suckers had opened their widest when the creature was dipped into boiling water – or whatever was done to it.
It was a long lunch. By the time we got to Milan, it was dinner time. All grouchiness had faded into exhaustion and we wanted nothing more than our beds. Which were four floors up in the pensione we were booked into, which had no elevator. Lugging our cases, trudging upwards, we found beds and collapsed….
(To be continued….)
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Mag mania
Many years ago, my mother told me that I should try and acquire the elegance and fashion statement of models in Vogue. While I am nowhere near the body type of the average toothpick – which is the approximate shape of the models in fashion magazines – I did absorb a great deal about the style itself, learning that less is always good, but if you want more, make sure it is the kitchen-sink variety of more-ness, really wonderfully over-the-top. So you waver between fairly simple, minimalist and elegant and baroque, wild and most wonderful and, when your own native good sense kicks in, something in between that is a gentle but always stylish compromise with a personal flavour. Originality makes you a fashion icon, whereas slavish copying of what the gurus advise via magazine spreads would be you being a blindly copycat fashionista.
Scathing? Well, yes. I once did a brief stint as a ‘fashion person’ for a couple of Mumbai-based publications. There was very little originality in either, but a great deal of loyalty to brands and the route chalked out by the powers-that-were, dictated to by the international fore-leaders of the magazines or, in the case of one, any international fashion publication. The job had its moments, when I made a whole lot of new friends in the design business, from stick-skinny models to creators of divine clothing to photographers who could pull beauty out of blandness with one tine dip into their camera bags. It was, in a way, the best of times for me, but also the worst of times, dealing with cranky editors, temperamental make-up artistes, models who were clueless about reading a watch and photographers who took four hours adjusting one little light that eventually was not really needed.
But it all pays off. In India alone, the number of fashion magazines has swelled alarmingly, making most media watchers wonder whether there is space for all of them in the same niche. But more keep coming in, new ones are hatched locally and every decent dresser with some money has ambitions to get into ‘publishing’ goes all out to acquire pagemaking software, has a nice office and a glamorous launch and then hires staff who may or may not be competent to produce a glossy journal. Some make the grade and stay there, while others quietly fade out of the media spotlight and then gradually out of the genre, too. Since 1996 there has been a slowly increasing acceptance of these magazines and the values and fashion ideas that they espouse. And more people, perhaps with greater earning power and open-mindedness, look at the publications as bibles, following trends and succumbing to temptations with easy élan.
It started many years ago with the age-old Femina, from the Times of India group. Once staid and very housewifely, it is now far younger and more glamorous, showing off taut bellies, toned thighs and shapely backs with no bashfulness at all. While some of the clothes featured are tagged at prices far higher than the average family household budget, others are eminently within reach, available at local stores or easily assembled at home with a little help from Granny’s closet. Eve’s Weekly ran alongside, but faded some years later for reasons I was too new in the field to understand. Women’s Era plugged stodgily on, catering to a vast audience of middle-class women more interested in reading love stories and recipes than designer garments. And then came New Woman, fronted by uber-star Hema Malini; it came, soon took on a new avatar and managed to run the middle rail of upper-middle-class glamour without offending the conservatives. Verve was distinctly of a different class, looking to the rich and famous, advertising Burberry and Dianoor, and talking of parties attended by Indians in various parts of the globe, pictures and all.
The international brigade is a staunch presence in India today. Elle arrived with much fanfare in 1996-97, closely followed by Cosmopolitan and, very recently, by Marie Claire. With these came add-ons and more glamour, with Elle Décor, Good Housekeeping and, soon a few from the Conde Nast stable, it is reported. DNA’s Me, Outlook’s new style guide and HT’s Style (in broadsheet) are also part of that vast panoply of publication available today. What stays on until tomorrow remains to be seen. For now, the style conscious have a range of choices. Halleluyah!
Scathing? Well, yes. I once did a brief stint as a ‘fashion person’ for a couple of Mumbai-based publications. There was very little originality in either, but a great deal of loyalty to brands and the route chalked out by the powers-that-were, dictated to by the international fore-leaders of the magazines or, in the case of one, any international fashion publication. The job had its moments, when I made a whole lot of new friends in the design business, from stick-skinny models to creators of divine clothing to photographers who could pull beauty out of blandness with one tine dip into their camera bags. It was, in a way, the best of times for me, but also the worst of times, dealing with cranky editors, temperamental make-up artistes, models who were clueless about reading a watch and photographers who took four hours adjusting one little light that eventually was not really needed.
But it all pays off. In India alone, the number of fashion magazines has swelled alarmingly, making most media watchers wonder whether there is space for all of them in the same niche. But more keep coming in, new ones are hatched locally and every decent dresser with some money has ambitions to get into ‘publishing’ goes all out to acquire pagemaking software, has a nice office and a glamorous launch and then hires staff who may or may not be competent to produce a glossy journal. Some make the grade and stay there, while others quietly fade out of the media spotlight and then gradually out of the genre, too. Since 1996 there has been a slowly increasing acceptance of these magazines and the values and fashion ideas that they espouse. And more people, perhaps with greater earning power and open-mindedness, look at the publications as bibles, following trends and succumbing to temptations with easy élan.
It started many years ago with the age-old Femina, from the Times of India group. Once staid and very housewifely, it is now far younger and more glamorous, showing off taut bellies, toned thighs and shapely backs with no bashfulness at all. While some of the clothes featured are tagged at prices far higher than the average family household budget, others are eminently within reach, available at local stores or easily assembled at home with a little help from Granny’s closet. Eve’s Weekly ran alongside, but faded some years later for reasons I was too new in the field to understand. Women’s Era plugged stodgily on, catering to a vast audience of middle-class women more interested in reading love stories and recipes than designer garments. And then came New Woman, fronted by uber-star Hema Malini; it came, soon took on a new avatar and managed to run the middle rail of upper-middle-class glamour without offending the conservatives. Verve was distinctly of a different class, looking to the rich and famous, advertising Burberry and Dianoor, and talking of parties attended by Indians in various parts of the globe, pictures and all.
The international brigade is a staunch presence in India today. Elle arrived with much fanfare in 1996-97, closely followed by Cosmopolitan and, very recently, by Marie Claire. With these came add-ons and more glamour, with Elle Décor, Good Housekeeping and, soon a few from the Conde Nast stable, it is reported. DNA’s Me, Outlook’s new style guide and HT’s Style (in broadsheet) are also part of that vast panoply of publication available today. What stays on until tomorrow remains to be seen. For now, the style conscious have a range of choices. Halleluyah!
Monday, July 24, 2006
The fat fad
I was reading a totally fascinating book over the weekend called The Man Who Ate Everything, by Jeffrey Steingarten, who seems to be a man who eats, literally, everything. I have just finished the chapter on a fat substitute called Olestra, which Steingarten says is ‘a miracle’, manna from heaven, the most ideal way to stop eating regular fats and lower calorie count and fat intake without losing any of the taste. He also has a delightful opinion on all fad diets, low-calorie foods and food substitutes: WHY? Which would have made me stand up and cheer for the man, except that I was too busy reading on. The author is happy with being 30 pounds overweight and, though I don’t really agree with that one, each to his or her own, right?
Fat is an issue almost everyone I know has a problem with. Most people want to lose it, while there are a few of a group who actually need to gain it. Being of the ilk of the former, I envy those who belong to the latter, but in a sort of resignedly accepting way that lets me be at peace with myself and my adipose. Meanwhile, I read what comes my way about fat, weight control, exercise and more, knowing full well that the last will never be on my to-do list, the former is what makes a lot of food palatable and the middle (in more ways than one) is something I must battle with for the rest of my life. In this, I have come to one vital conclusion: It’s actually spelled F-A-T-E, not F-A-T.
To be honest, it is my fault. Hormones apart, which are what cause weight swings for me, my doctor says, keeping slim is not that difficult. It just needs work. And that work is hard, indeed, with constant monitoring and tweaking of routines and schedules to eat just that perfect amount and do just that many perfect sit-ups or walk just that many perfect miles on the treadmill. Which means that many calories expended, yes, but also that much sweat and exertion and, eventually soap spent on the whole process as you bathe more often. Of course, the easy way would be to cut the calorie intake down to required levels, and thus lose avoirdupois, but also leach the body of not just important vitamins and minerals and other good stuff, but also of any desire to lose weight. Consequently, you may become thinner, but you also become grouchier, deprived as you are of the simple pleasures of life.
And then consider exercise. I do not hate it, if I must be totally honest. Once I start a regimen, I can keep it going, add music to make it more palatable, slip into some comfy togs (preferably in red to up the energy level) and get with it. But when do I squeeze it into a day that is already packed full of stuff on my to-do list, the same one I talked of earlier? In between housework – which I am still new at, so take longer to do – and career – which mandates my presence and not just my bashing away at a keyboard – commuting and a little bit of sleep, I need to slide in some physical exertion of the programmed kind as well? I did have all intentions to do so a couple of months ago. I found myself some decent looking and comfortable exercise shoes, sorted out some sweats from my vast but motley collection of clothes and resolved to wake up brighter and earlier. Then the monsoon arrived, and dampened (literally) all my ambitions.
The experts always say that all is healthy and happy in moderation and, depending on your genetics, body structure and metabolism, you can manage to achieve a certain shape and stay that way. Fashion gurus tell us that your size changes with age – your feet get bigger, your waist is never again that handspan it once was and those curves you used to crave are now yours, with a little to spare, too. Which means that I do not need to starve my gustatory senses or overstrain my perma-tired muscles, but just do a little of both with a treat (like dark chocolate) thrown in to reward my virtue. Which makes me feel incredibly like someone’s pet puppy, but if it works, hey, do you think I should go for it?
Fat is an issue almost everyone I know has a problem with. Most people want to lose it, while there are a few of a group who actually need to gain it. Being of the ilk of the former, I envy those who belong to the latter, but in a sort of resignedly accepting way that lets me be at peace with myself and my adipose. Meanwhile, I read what comes my way about fat, weight control, exercise and more, knowing full well that the last will never be on my to-do list, the former is what makes a lot of food palatable and the middle (in more ways than one) is something I must battle with for the rest of my life. In this, I have come to one vital conclusion: It’s actually spelled F-A-T-E, not F-A-T.
To be honest, it is my fault. Hormones apart, which are what cause weight swings for me, my doctor says, keeping slim is not that difficult. It just needs work. And that work is hard, indeed, with constant monitoring and tweaking of routines and schedules to eat just that perfect amount and do just that many perfect sit-ups or walk just that many perfect miles on the treadmill. Which means that many calories expended, yes, but also that much sweat and exertion and, eventually soap spent on the whole process as you bathe more often. Of course, the easy way would be to cut the calorie intake down to required levels, and thus lose avoirdupois, but also leach the body of not just important vitamins and minerals and other good stuff, but also of any desire to lose weight. Consequently, you may become thinner, but you also become grouchier, deprived as you are of the simple pleasures of life.
And then consider exercise. I do not hate it, if I must be totally honest. Once I start a regimen, I can keep it going, add music to make it more palatable, slip into some comfy togs (preferably in red to up the energy level) and get with it. But when do I squeeze it into a day that is already packed full of stuff on my to-do list, the same one I talked of earlier? In between housework – which I am still new at, so take longer to do – and career – which mandates my presence and not just my bashing away at a keyboard – commuting and a little bit of sleep, I need to slide in some physical exertion of the programmed kind as well? I did have all intentions to do so a couple of months ago. I found myself some decent looking and comfortable exercise shoes, sorted out some sweats from my vast but motley collection of clothes and resolved to wake up brighter and earlier. Then the monsoon arrived, and dampened (literally) all my ambitions.
The experts always say that all is healthy and happy in moderation and, depending on your genetics, body structure and metabolism, you can manage to achieve a certain shape and stay that way. Fashion gurus tell us that your size changes with age – your feet get bigger, your waist is never again that handspan it once was and those curves you used to crave are now yours, with a little to spare, too. Which means that I do not need to starve my gustatory senses or overstrain my perma-tired muscles, but just do a little of both with a treat (like dark chocolate) thrown in to reward my virtue. Which makes me feel incredibly like someone’s pet puppy, but if it works, hey, do you think I should go for it?
Friday, July 21, 2006
Against the walls
Our house is in total chaos these days. For the last few weeks we have had various crews working on the walls, the woodwork and more, tracking in various kinds of debris that are now so ingrained into the floors that what used to be marble and smooth now has the surface texture of stucco. There is dust in every crack and cranny in the picture frames, cupboards, chairs and carpets and in my father’s throat. And there has been no particular method in the madness that began earlier this month…
It started with a wall that was badly stained and bubbled with wet. Two sets of so-called specialists had been in to fix the damage, to no avail. This time, after much discussion, we decided to call in some more, repairing the problem, fixing any new glitches before could get worse and forestalling future necessity. Now we are left wondering why, but glad that, for now, the worst is over. But is it?
A few months earlier, a ‘civil’ foreman came in to do an inspection. Very politely, with a wide smile showing off every tooth in his head, he had a chat with my father and then said that he would drop by that weekend to find out whether we wanted to start work. The weekend never arrived, neither did the man. Then, having been summoned for some other minor jobs, he did a re-inspection and re-promised to return. Finally, having understood that reliability was impossibility – in this case, at least – we found someone else who promised to do the job equally well. He actually did turn up when he said he would, albeit a few hours later that he said he would. Which is par for the course with these people, I am learning, and fast.
Having decided what needed to be done and at what price, the contractor made his date with our destiny and arrived a day earlier, vowing to be done and gone in a short time. The carpenter did his part of the job, dismantling our linen closet and leaving us staring at piles of sheets, towels and tablecloths all over the house. I will be there at 9:30am, the contractor averred. Two hours later, he arrived with his crew, assuring us that he would be finished and out by the end of the day. At 8pm, he was still bashing away at the plaster and brickwork, with no end anywhere in sight. All day long his men had been coming in and out of our home, tracking in dirt and dust, tracking out even more, leaving the door wide open after the first three times that they remembered to close it – after we had yelled at them about it, that is.
No, no, it is almost done, just another few hours, the contractor protested, when I questioned his work schedule. Two days later, late evening, the men – and the women who cleaned up after them – finally left, hopefully for good where this particular stint is concerned. They left heaps of cement dust and brick shards all over the house, even in rooms they didn’t trek through. They left piles of bags full of debris, unused cement and sand on the landing outside, carefully positioned to trip up the unwary user of the staircase. And they left our floor with the finish of rough-scraped stone.
A couple of days later, after many many phone calls, ranging from the very polite and friendly to the considerably annoyed, the carpenter and his men came to finish their work. We will be there at 9:30 am – the magic hour, I assume - they insisted, then arrived close to lunchtime. Just a couple of hours, they promised, as they bashed all heck out of the cupboard that they were repairing. Two days later, after numerous rings of the bells, entries and exits, they have just left, leaving us to start the cleaning process all over again.
Can I blame these workers for this? Not really. They did do their best to clean up after themselves, scrubbing the floors and walls to the best of the ability. But their sense of time has taught us a valuable lesson: If you have problems at home, let them be. Or else hire a housekeeper to manage the workers and retreat to a hotel to find some peace!
It started with a wall that was badly stained and bubbled with wet. Two sets of so-called specialists had been in to fix the damage, to no avail. This time, after much discussion, we decided to call in some more, repairing the problem, fixing any new glitches before could get worse and forestalling future necessity. Now we are left wondering why, but glad that, for now, the worst is over. But is it?
A few months earlier, a ‘civil’ foreman came in to do an inspection. Very politely, with a wide smile showing off every tooth in his head, he had a chat with my father and then said that he would drop by that weekend to find out whether we wanted to start work. The weekend never arrived, neither did the man. Then, having been summoned for some other minor jobs, he did a re-inspection and re-promised to return. Finally, having understood that reliability was impossibility – in this case, at least – we found someone else who promised to do the job equally well. He actually did turn up when he said he would, albeit a few hours later that he said he would. Which is par for the course with these people, I am learning, and fast.
Having decided what needed to be done and at what price, the contractor made his date with our destiny and arrived a day earlier, vowing to be done and gone in a short time. The carpenter did his part of the job, dismantling our linen closet and leaving us staring at piles of sheets, towels and tablecloths all over the house. I will be there at 9:30am, the contractor averred. Two hours later, he arrived with his crew, assuring us that he would be finished and out by the end of the day. At 8pm, he was still bashing away at the plaster and brickwork, with no end anywhere in sight. All day long his men had been coming in and out of our home, tracking in dirt and dust, tracking out even more, leaving the door wide open after the first three times that they remembered to close it – after we had yelled at them about it, that is.
No, no, it is almost done, just another few hours, the contractor protested, when I questioned his work schedule. Two days later, late evening, the men – and the women who cleaned up after them – finally left, hopefully for good where this particular stint is concerned. They left heaps of cement dust and brick shards all over the house, even in rooms they didn’t trek through. They left piles of bags full of debris, unused cement and sand on the landing outside, carefully positioned to trip up the unwary user of the staircase. And they left our floor with the finish of rough-scraped stone.
A couple of days later, after many many phone calls, ranging from the very polite and friendly to the considerably annoyed, the carpenter and his men came to finish their work. We will be there at 9:30 am – the magic hour, I assume - they insisted, then arrived close to lunchtime. Just a couple of hours, they promised, as they bashed all heck out of the cupboard that they were repairing. Two days later, after numerous rings of the bells, entries and exits, they have just left, leaving us to start the cleaning process all over again.
Can I blame these workers for this? Not really. They did do their best to clean up after themselves, scrubbing the floors and walls to the best of the ability. But their sense of time has taught us a valuable lesson: If you have problems at home, let them be. Or else hire a housekeeper to manage the workers and retreat to a hotel to find some peace!
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Forbidden fruit
It’s only human. What you should not even look at, you want, more than you normally would want it, if at all, when you have free access to it. Adam and Eve did it with the apple the serpent gave them, taking little bites (Do you think they knew what it was really all about? The papers tell me that an apple a day can keep your waistline down to enviable measures!), finally indulging in a little bit of sin that gave rise to the entire human race, or so the story goes. They were thrown out of the Garden of Eden for hobnobbing with the snake, but – especially judging by all the pictures I have ever seen of the scene – figured it was all worth it.
But sometimes what is forbidden is hardly fruity. Take various other kinds of sin, for instance, from eating too much chocolate to buying that astonishingly expensive pair of red suede stiletto heels that you know you should never ever have even looked at. Or flirting with your best friend’s fiancé at the engagement party, or trying on your sister’s favourite lipstick that you have been expressly forbidden to touch. Driving your father’s car for the evening without permission, or walking out of the library with a non-borrowable reference book. Sin comes in various shapes and sizes and intents, each classifiable as sin for different situations by different people. I got this interesting cross-section from various friends at work and beyond, who first demanded why I wanted to know and then came up with a range of ideas, all expressed with much enthusiasm. And that is exactly what sin needs: enthusiasm. You cannot sin without being intent on it, without being determined to enjoy it, without finding joy in it.
There are joys to be found everywhere, and it is always possible to transfer those joys into the realm of the slightly disallowed – as in allowed only under certain strictly controlled circumstances that may not exist at that particular moment in time when you feel like getting involved with them. Like eating an extra-large piece of mithai when you are on a diet. Or charging that fabulous outfit from an international brand on your credit card, the one that you promised you would not use again until you had cleared all your payment backlog. Or even going off to watch the latest movie release when you tell people at work that you are out on an assignment. In my book, if you indulge with verve, having fun with every pore of your being, knowing full well that you will pay for it later (literally and otherwise), but still going all out to do whatever it is you are not supposed to do, it is ok, allowed, permissible, however sinful.
There is ‘sin’, yes, most of it entirely enjoyable for the participant and frowned upon by society – which is what defines something as ‘sin’, if you think about the pragmatics of it all – but there is also ‘wrong’. Which is stronger than sin and often a lot less excusable and enjoyable for those wronged and those wronging. Like stealing whisky from your father’s bar when he is out and then driving off in his car when you can barely tell which end is up and so running over unfortunate pedestrians who have every right to be walking on the pavement you decide to wheel onto. Or stealing money from your mother’s purse to buy cocaine when you know she needs it to pay off the plumber or the maid or even the grocer. Or putting your sister up for auction with your college buddies for one night of whatever they have in mind. Again, real live suggestions from real live people.
Somehow what you should not do always seems more fun than what you are allowed to do, like Adam and eve reprised. If they (anyone, actually) say that you cannot drink alcohol, you want to do just that; if they forbid you to smoke, you will find ways to sneak a cigarette or any other weed you may want to inhale the fumes of; if you are banned from eating sugar, you will crave it; and if you are not old enough to watch movies labelled ‘A’, that is where you will single-mindedly head for. Is that being obstreperous, disobedient or antisocial? Not at all. It is just being human.
But sometimes what is forbidden is hardly fruity. Take various other kinds of sin, for instance, from eating too much chocolate to buying that astonishingly expensive pair of red suede stiletto heels that you know you should never ever have even looked at. Or flirting with your best friend’s fiancé at the engagement party, or trying on your sister’s favourite lipstick that you have been expressly forbidden to touch. Driving your father’s car for the evening without permission, or walking out of the library with a non-borrowable reference book. Sin comes in various shapes and sizes and intents, each classifiable as sin for different situations by different people. I got this interesting cross-section from various friends at work and beyond, who first demanded why I wanted to know and then came up with a range of ideas, all expressed with much enthusiasm. And that is exactly what sin needs: enthusiasm. You cannot sin without being intent on it, without being determined to enjoy it, without finding joy in it.
There are joys to be found everywhere, and it is always possible to transfer those joys into the realm of the slightly disallowed – as in allowed only under certain strictly controlled circumstances that may not exist at that particular moment in time when you feel like getting involved with them. Like eating an extra-large piece of mithai when you are on a diet. Or charging that fabulous outfit from an international brand on your credit card, the one that you promised you would not use again until you had cleared all your payment backlog. Or even going off to watch the latest movie release when you tell people at work that you are out on an assignment. In my book, if you indulge with verve, having fun with every pore of your being, knowing full well that you will pay for it later (literally and otherwise), but still going all out to do whatever it is you are not supposed to do, it is ok, allowed, permissible, however sinful.
There is ‘sin’, yes, most of it entirely enjoyable for the participant and frowned upon by society – which is what defines something as ‘sin’, if you think about the pragmatics of it all – but there is also ‘wrong’. Which is stronger than sin and often a lot less excusable and enjoyable for those wronged and those wronging. Like stealing whisky from your father’s bar when he is out and then driving off in his car when you can barely tell which end is up and so running over unfortunate pedestrians who have every right to be walking on the pavement you decide to wheel onto. Or stealing money from your mother’s purse to buy cocaine when you know she needs it to pay off the plumber or the maid or even the grocer. Or putting your sister up for auction with your college buddies for one night of whatever they have in mind. Again, real live suggestions from real live people.
Somehow what you should not do always seems more fun than what you are allowed to do, like Adam and eve reprised. If they (anyone, actually) say that you cannot drink alcohol, you want to do just that; if they forbid you to smoke, you will find ways to sneak a cigarette or any other weed you may want to inhale the fumes of; if you are banned from eating sugar, you will crave it; and if you are not old enough to watch movies labelled ‘A’, that is where you will single-mindedly head for. Is that being obstreperous, disobedient or antisocial? Not at all. It is just being human.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Sacred spaces
I rarely go to temples, churches, mosques, gurudwaras or other places of worship. The reasons for my avoidance are intensely personal and too complex to go into here and now. In spite of this, I have been to so many sacred spaces that my mind reels at the multi-theistic existence that I have led and at the multitude of blessings that I could have accumulated had I been thusly interested. For me, it was a matter of a family outing, pleasing Mama more than anything else. And perhaps somewhere, deep down, there has always been a small little kernel of something that makes me believe in a power that is greater than humanity. But I never understood it and I have never showed it. So while Ma prayed, I watched people, priests and monkeys (which almost any temple in India is home to), gaped at the sculpture and wondered idly when lunch would be.
When I was very young, my parents took me to the Sharada kovil in Sringeri, a shrine revered by many the world over. I was, according to family lore, so enamoured by the place that when I met my grandmother again, I told her that it was “a beautiful place, you should go there some time soon”. A little later in life, when I was at that stage of school when exams needed a little divine assistance, Mum and I made regular visits to Mumbai’s famous landmark – the Siddhivinayak mandir in Prabhadevi. It was a small shrine in which Lord Ganesha nestled, cushioned by mountains of flowers and offerings from the devoted. Today, it is topped by an impressive pale pink stepped highrise, which has put me so completely off that it has been years since I had a face-to-face chat with the elephant-headed god whose images our family seems to collect.
When on a holiday from college, my parents took me to the Pandharpur Vitthala temple in rural Maharashtra. It was a particularly holy time of the year and the small town and its environs was a teeming mass of madly praying humanity. Paying a little extra - as is the norm in any sacred place in this country, I am beginning to learn – we crowded right up to the idol and did our own puja, under command of the priest in charge, with very little clue about what exactly we did and why. Maybe Mum knew, maybe Papa had been paying some attention on their previous visit. I was filled with not a sense of holy reverence, but with great indignation that we could jump the queue so easily, passing all those who genuinely believed but did not have the wherewithal to get closer to Thee, my Lord, in a shorter time.
Perhaps my last visit to a temple was when I went to say hi to the reigning deity of this city, Mumba Devi. I had come back to live in Mumbai after a stint away and it somehow seemed the right thing to do. She was, after all, the goddess after whom my beloved city, warts and all, was named. She protected all those who lived and worked around Her, and gave freely of Her bounty of resources, in the air, on the land, from the sea. And there, too, I found myself feeling disgust rather than awe. I was not left to have my own conversation with the lady, but was hemmed in but security personnel (to protect Her, not the visitors), rapacious priests and beggars, clamouring for money, handouts, speed of worship and more. Neatly sidestepping a persistent pujari who insisted I take some kumkum from his thali and give him some baksheesh for the honour, I said my brief greeting to Mumba Devi and fled, as the clamour in the tiny, sun-heated courtyard yielded to the noises of traffic and cart-vendors alike on the narrow street outside.
Worship in India is all about avoiding outstretched hands, ready to beg for alms or money or pinch a nicely rounded bottom. In the crowd of people, animals (monkeys, cows, rats, birds and dogs) and stern-faced guards (especially after the terrorist violence that rocks our nation every now and then), prayer is difficult. They say God can always hear what his children say. But I have always wondered: Can He really? Over the volume of all that we are, we say and we do today?
When I was very young, my parents took me to the Sharada kovil in Sringeri, a shrine revered by many the world over. I was, according to family lore, so enamoured by the place that when I met my grandmother again, I told her that it was “a beautiful place, you should go there some time soon”. A little later in life, when I was at that stage of school when exams needed a little divine assistance, Mum and I made regular visits to Mumbai’s famous landmark – the Siddhivinayak mandir in Prabhadevi. It was a small shrine in which Lord Ganesha nestled, cushioned by mountains of flowers and offerings from the devoted. Today, it is topped by an impressive pale pink stepped highrise, which has put me so completely off that it has been years since I had a face-to-face chat with the elephant-headed god whose images our family seems to collect.
When on a holiday from college, my parents took me to the Pandharpur Vitthala temple in rural Maharashtra. It was a particularly holy time of the year and the small town and its environs was a teeming mass of madly praying humanity. Paying a little extra - as is the norm in any sacred place in this country, I am beginning to learn – we crowded right up to the idol and did our own puja, under command of the priest in charge, with very little clue about what exactly we did and why. Maybe Mum knew, maybe Papa had been paying some attention on their previous visit. I was filled with not a sense of holy reverence, but with great indignation that we could jump the queue so easily, passing all those who genuinely believed but did not have the wherewithal to get closer to Thee, my Lord, in a shorter time.
Perhaps my last visit to a temple was when I went to say hi to the reigning deity of this city, Mumba Devi. I had come back to live in Mumbai after a stint away and it somehow seemed the right thing to do. She was, after all, the goddess after whom my beloved city, warts and all, was named. She protected all those who lived and worked around Her, and gave freely of Her bounty of resources, in the air, on the land, from the sea. And there, too, I found myself feeling disgust rather than awe. I was not left to have my own conversation with the lady, but was hemmed in but security personnel (to protect Her, not the visitors), rapacious priests and beggars, clamouring for money, handouts, speed of worship and more. Neatly sidestepping a persistent pujari who insisted I take some kumkum from his thali and give him some baksheesh for the honour, I said my brief greeting to Mumba Devi and fled, as the clamour in the tiny, sun-heated courtyard yielded to the noises of traffic and cart-vendors alike on the narrow street outside.
Worship in India is all about avoiding outstretched hands, ready to beg for alms or money or pinch a nicely rounded bottom. In the crowd of people, animals (monkeys, cows, rats, birds and dogs) and stern-faced guards (especially after the terrorist violence that rocks our nation every now and then), prayer is difficult. They say God can always hear what his children say. But I have always wondered: Can He really? Over the volume of all that we are, we say and we do today?
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Animal crackers
My father has a lot of stories about his baby (me) doing memorable stuff at various stages of her long and varied life. One such is all about zoos and the animals they were home to. Maybe his favourite tale set in that environment is when we were at the zoo in Prague, then Czechoslovakia, and his little girl came tearing up on fat little legs to him and Mum and yelled “Przewalski’s Pferde, Przewalski’s Pferde!” in her piercing treble. I had read about these horses in one of my books and was showing off with a child’s innocent enthusiasm. And my parents looked on with much pride, as much as they were embarrassed by my display of rather limited knowledge in every zoo we ever went to.
It all began during a visit to Athens when I was nine years old. After a strange (at that time, when my idea of gourmet was a Wimpy burger) but sumptuous breakfast of spanakopita (filo pastry layered with spinach and cheese), olives, bread and yoghurt, my father had gone off to whatever business he was about, leaving Mama and me to our own devices. Which were, in essence, wandering through the city museum and then finding our way to a family rendezvous. En route, we women had ducked into a bookshop that sold English novels, to find something to read and a crossword for my mother to zip her way through. That is where I met Gerald Durrell, in print, I add hastily. The book was about one of his adventures in Africa, when he met the Fon of Bafut and collected all sorts of beasts that bit, barked and bugged back into the forest at the slightest opportunity. It made me a Durrell fan for life, instilling in me strong and yet unsatisfied desires to visit the famous zoo in Jersey and work with endangered species. And it gave birth to a family passion for zoos and their denizens.
From there on, trolling zoos was not too big a step. We walked through miles of ‘natural’ habitat in Berlin, tramped our way over endless paths in Prague and gaped at rare creatures in Frankfurt’s landscaped enclosures. Perhaps most interesting were visits to England’s Longleat and Windsor, game parks created out of rolling estate grounds not too far away from London. At Longleat, after entering through a series of high-security gates, we were at one with nature, literally. Giraffes craned their necks to peer into the windows of our car, while monkeys leaped on the roof and tried to pull off the windscreen wipers. Much to our collective alarm, a lion, mercifully not too adult, hopped on to the bonnet of the vehicle and started languidly to pry off the rubber framing the window glass…with his scarily sharp teeth. A gentle toot of the horn – actually forbidden by park rules – distracted him and sent him in search of a more satisfying lunch. At Windsor, a vivid yellow-splashed penguin and I discovered our feelings for each other – I chased him to the edge of his home pond, at which stage he chased me back up the slope and then stood square in front of me and peed copiously in a high arc across the grass. With archetypal pre-teen modestly, I was giggling in shock when my parents discovered and then ruthlessly separated us, aborting our liaison almost before it began.
Much later, in graduate school in New York, I visited the Bronx zoo. Typically American in its efficiency and over-the-top display of meticulous planning and expensive execution, it was a fabulous experience to wander through the vast grounds, peeking into the private lives of various animals. There I met a panoply of beasts I had only read about until then, from the fat and healthy tigers to the orange-haired orang-utans, the lethal rattlesnakes to the woffly-nosed tapirs. At Denver zoo, I fell madly in love with a gorgeous miniature snowy owl, arctic white and big-eyed; we stared passionately at each other until my friends pulled me, protesting wildly, away from the glass-fronted cage. And in London, the pygmy hippos and I yawned widely at each other, the okapis showed off their enviously slim legs striped in black and white and the golden lion tamarins glittered metallic sparks from the branches they clung to.
In contrast, the zoo in my own city of Mumbai was a shock. While some animals looked healthy and happy, others crowded into spaces obviously too small for them, peeked fearfully through heavy iron bars at the people making rude noises calling them and cowered when someone from the crowd threw chana at them. I was dragged out of there, squeaking objections, before I could start a fight with the visitors and the zoo-keepers, protesting the conditions the creatures had to live in and the way they were treated. Some day, I hope, someone will provide enough money, sense and conscience for these animals to live the way they deserve. Until then, they will remain…err…animals, just like those who are responsible for their welfare.
It all began during a visit to Athens when I was nine years old. After a strange (at that time, when my idea of gourmet was a Wimpy burger) but sumptuous breakfast of spanakopita (filo pastry layered with spinach and cheese), olives, bread and yoghurt, my father had gone off to whatever business he was about, leaving Mama and me to our own devices. Which were, in essence, wandering through the city museum and then finding our way to a family rendezvous. En route, we women had ducked into a bookshop that sold English novels, to find something to read and a crossword for my mother to zip her way through. That is where I met Gerald Durrell, in print, I add hastily. The book was about one of his adventures in Africa, when he met the Fon of Bafut and collected all sorts of beasts that bit, barked and bugged back into the forest at the slightest opportunity. It made me a Durrell fan for life, instilling in me strong and yet unsatisfied desires to visit the famous zoo in Jersey and work with endangered species. And it gave birth to a family passion for zoos and their denizens.
From there on, trolling zoos was not too big a step. We walked through miles of ‘natural’ habitat in Berlin, tramped our way over endless paths in Prague and gaped at rare creatures in Frankfurt’s landscaped enclosures. Perhaps most interesting were visits to England’s Longleat and Windsor, game parks created out of rolling estate grounds not too far away from London. At Longleat, after entering through a series of high-security gates, we were at one with nature, literally. Giraffes craned their necks to peer into the windows of our car, while monkeys leaped on the roof and tried to pull off the windscreen wipers. Much to our collective alarm, a lion, mercifully not too adult, hopped on to the bonnet of the vehicle and started languidly to pry off the rubber framing the window glass…with his scarily sharp teeth. A gentle toot of the horn – actually forbidden by park rules – distracted him and sent him in search of a more satisfying lunch. At Windsor, a vivid yellow-splashed penguin and I discovered our feelings for each other – I chased him to the edge of his home pond, at which stage he chased me back up the slope and then stood square in front of me and peed copiously in a high arc across the grass. With archetypal pre-teen modestly, I was giggling in shock when my parents discovered and then ruthlessly separated us, aborting our liaison almost before it began.
Much later, in graduate school in New York, I visited the Bronx zoo. Typically American in its efficiency and over-the-top display of meticulous planning and expensive execution, it was a fabulous experience to wander through the vast grounds, peeking into the private lives of various animals. There I met a panoply of beasts I had only read about until then, from the fat and healthy tigers to the orange-haired orang-utans, the lethal rattlesnakes to the woffly-nosed tapirs. At Denver zoo, I fell madly in love with a gorgeous miniature snowy owl, arctic white and big-eyed; we stared passionately at each other until my friends pulled me, protesting wildly, away from the glass-fronted cage. And in London, the pygmy hippos and I yawned widely at each other, the okapis showed off their enviously slim legs striped in black and white and the golden lion tamarins glittered metallic sparks from the branches they clung to.
In contrast, the zoo in my own city of Mumbai was a shock. While some animals looked healthy and happy, others crowded into spaces obviously too small for them, peeked fearfully through heavy iron bars at the people making rude noises calling them and cowered when someone from the crowd threw chana at them. I was dragged out of there, squeaking objections, before I could start a fight with the visitors and the zoo-keepers, protesting the conditions the creatures had to live in and the way they were treated. Some day, I hope, someone will provide enough money, sense and conscience for these animals to live the way they deserve. Until then, they will remain…err…animals, just like those who are responsible for their welfare.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Black Sabbath
Sunday is the weekend for me, wage slave that I am, working my way through the week in a blur of writing blogs (that no one responds to, grrrrrrr…..), interviewing people I have never spoken to before, trolling the Internet and phone contacts for new stories and watching the world wend its violent way to a state of greater chaos each hour. So even as Monday begins, I am looking forward to the day of rest, the end of the week, a time to stop and find out where I am and if I am still the me that started the week six days earlier. It never fails to surprise me that I still am, in the tiny moment I have to check on me. But almost before it begins, Sunday is over, with Monday looming largely into my face as I struggle to wake up and get going.
When I lived in Delhi, Sunday was a day of rest, too, with no driving. It started very simply – I drove to work all week, sometimes on Saturday as well, and if not, I would be driving around doing errands, buying groceries and vegetables, taking that cat to the vet, having the car serviced, etc, etc, etc. While I like driving, and am fairly good at it, it is exhausting to do it every day, especially in the mess that is Delhi traffic winding endlessly around Delhi’s famous circles. So I made a rule that my friends, surprisingly enough, actually complied with: no driving on Sundays. If people wanted me, they would have to come over to my house. Or, if they wanted me to go somewhere, they would have to collect me and then bring me back home. The rule gradually widened its scope – I decided that six days a week of fixing my hair and face and getting dressed up and putting on decent footwear was more than stretching my limits of endurance. So if I had to – and HAD was the operative word – be social, it would have to be at home only, allowing me to stay in my scruffy Sunday best, in old track pants and sweater or shorts and T-shirt. It saved me being polite and friendly and from putting on make-up!
Sundays thus became a day of change for me and for the cat. He got his slave at his beck and call all day, a nice warm body to snuggle up against during the winter and a willing handmaiden to let him in and out and in again in the simmering heat of the summer. He got samples of whatever I was cooking up in my tiny kitchen and could take a log nap sprawled on his back in my lap when I finally put my feet up in the afternoon. Most of all, he just had to squeak for me to drop whatever I was doing and run to see what it was that he wanted. As for me, I got my furry little friend to talk to all day, cuddle, play with and love, in between chores, cooking, cleaning, bathing and taking a well-deserved and much-treasured nap.
The morning would start the same way every Sunday – waking up at some unearthly hour to let aforementioned feline out into the garden, I would get back into bed to read the papers, drink hot green tea, do the crossword and stretch with the pleasure of not having to get up….except to let the little pest back into the house. Then, as he snoozed with his head on my pillow, having pushed me off it, I would potter about, getting his breakfast ready, cleaning out his catbox, sipping herbal tea, checking my email and, at nine am, calling my parents at home in Mumbai – that was a race that they won, more often than not. After chatting with me and the cat, with Mom’s good wishes and Papa’s fond teasing ringing over the wire, they would hang up, leaving me to wrestle the furry beastie into a nicely brushed mass of purrs.
The cooking followed. I would dig everything even remotely perishable out of the miniscule fridge, plan various menus and then start chopping, cleaning and steaming. My freezer packed to bursting, the refrigerator bulging ever so gently at the hinges, the cat would be hauled back in from under the car to eat lunch, watch me have a bath (which always seemed a little decadently dubious) and watch a bit of a movie with me before he clambered onto some part of my anatomy and we both fell blissfully asleep, his snores echoing in counterrhythm to mine. Tea-time and my landlady would invariably visit, asking why I never came to them to eat a meal and checking that the geyser had not blown up, the television worked and the sheets had been changed by the maid.
As the day wore on, boredom would start to niggle at the edges of my consciousness and I would wonder if Sunday would ever end. But, today, with the Sabbath packed to the last second with something or the other that needs to be done, I long for that day of peace and simplicity. When fun was a cat that cuddled and sleep was only closing your eyes.
When I lived in Delhi, Sunday was a day of rest, too, with no driving. It started very simply – I drove to work all week, sometimes on Saturday as well, and if not, I would be driving around doing errands, buying groceries and vegetables, taking that cat to the vet, having the car serviced, etc, etc, etc. While I like driving, and am fairly good at it, it is exhausting to do it every day, especially in the mess that is Delhi traffic winding endlessly around Delhi’s famous circles. So I made a rule that my friends, surprisingly enough, actually complied with: no driving on Sundays. If people wanted me, they would have to come over to my house. Or, if they wanted me to go somewhere, they would have to collect me and then bring me back home. The rule gradually widened its scope – I decided that six days a week of fixing my hair and face and getting dressed up and putting on decent footwear was more than stretching my limits of endurance. So if I had to – and HAD was the operative word – be social, it would have to be at home only, allowing me to stay in my scruffy Sunday best, in old track pants and sweater or shorts and T-shirt. It saved me being polite and friendly and from putting on make-up!
Sundays thus became a day of change for me and for the cat. He got his slave at his beck and call all day, a nice warm body to snuggle up against during the winter and a willing handmaiden to let him in and out and in again in the simmering heat of the summer. He got samples of whatever I was cooking up in my tiny kitchen and could take a log nap sprawled on his back in my lap when I finally put my feet up in the afternoon. Most of all, he just had to squeak for me to drop whatever I was doing and run to see what it was that he wanted. As for me, I got my furry little friend to talk to all day, cuddle, play with and love, in between chores, cooking, cleaning, bathing and taking a well-deserved and much-treasured nap.
The morning would start the same way every Sunday – waking up at some unearthly hour to let aforementioned feline out into the garden, I would get back into bed to read the papers, drink hot green tea, do the crossword and stretch with the pleasure of not having to get up….except to let the little pest back into the house. Then, as he snoozed with his head on my pillow, having pushed me off it, I would potter about, getting his breakfast ready, cleaning out his catbox, sipping herbal tea, checking my email and, at nine am, calling my parents at home in Mumbai – that was a race that they won, more often than not. After chatting with me and the cat, with Mom’s good wishes and Papa’s fond teasing ringing over the wire, they would hang up, leaving me to wrestle the furry beastie into a nicely brushed mass of purrs.
The cooking followed. I would dig everything even remotely perishable out of the miniscule fridge, plan various menus and then start chopping, cleaning and steaming. My freezer packed to bursting, the refrigerator bulging ever so gently at the hinges, the cat would be hauled back in from under the car to eat lunch, watch me have a bath (which always seemed a little decadently dubious) and watch a bit of a movie with me before he clambered onto some part of my anatomy and we both fell blissfully asleep, his snores echoing in counterrhythm to mine. Tea-time and my landlady would invariably visit, asking why I never came to them to eat a meal and checking that the geyser had not blown up, the television worked and the sheets had been changed by the maid.
As the day wore on, boredom would start to niggle at the edges of my consciousness and I would wonder if Sunday would ever end. But, today, with the Sabbath packed to the last second with something or the other that needs to be done, I long for that day of peace and simplicity. When fun was a cat that cuddled and sleep was only closing your eyes.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Friends for ever?
For many years of my life I was terribly unsettled. Whenever I started making real friends, which I do very rarely and never easily, we moved to another city for a while, where I made another set of friends and then, soon enough, had to leave them to move back home, where my old friends had grown up and away, just as I had. It was, for an only child with a non-conventional attitude and upbringing, not a happy situation to be in, in spite of the fabulous travel and learning opportunities. But in all that, I found people who mattered and with whom I formed bonds that hold, even today.
There is, for instance, a young woman from Zaire called Lelo Masamba. She was wonderfully maternal, comfortingly rounded and a fabulous colour – a beautiful, gleaming dark chocolate. She sang like a dream, had a totally infectious giggle, believed staunchly in her God and took me for what I was, writing letters and postcards to me wherever in the world I was at that moment in time. We had made friends when we were in school together in Geneva, Switzerland, and kept it up as long as I was in graduate school in the United States. Recently, stung by some force I do not yet understand, I looked for her on the website of the school we had shared. And I found that she was looking for me, too. It would be amazing to talk again, this time much faster than my snail mail. But how do I get in touch with her? Wherever you are, Lelo, where do I find you?
In college I met a girl called Karen. I first came across her in the women’s room in the dorm. I was in the toilet stall late one night when I heard voices….a voice, actually. Someone was out there at the sinks, clattering bottles, turning on taps and talking. To herself, I discovered when I peeked out, rather nervous (with fairly typical Indian prudery) of being caught in my nightie by the cleaning crew. Our eyes met in the mirror and I started giggling. At which point we became, I think, friends. To my amazement, she shared my brand of lunacy with no effort at all, often topping it with her paranoia and zany laughter. With this, she had a strong streak of caring and sharing, opening her heart and mind and family to me, starved as I was for home and its loving attention. A tarot reader once called us soul sisters and, for the most part, we are. She is still where I call home in the US, still inviting me in to invade her life, still demanding my presence at regular (and short) intervals. Some day, soon, I promise, I will be there, suitcase in hand, asking for a hug and some of your world famous enchiladas, Karen!
When I lived briefly in Delhi, I met some very interesting people, some of whom I prefer not to know now. One whom I would keep for ever in my life is Nina, someone I had never met before, even though our extended families had known each other long before we were born. Not too tall, nicely barrel-tummied and with a giggle that matches mine in madness, we bonded easily and quickly. For me, she is the sibling I never had, but at a nice distance that does not allow for boredom. We meet twice a year or so, now that I am back home in Mumbai, talk endlessly and, of course, giggle, much to the astonishment of our various friends and relations who cannot understand what there is to talk about and, more, to go into such hysterical laughter about. When we are together, we eat, we shop, we gossip and we try and figure out who we are. And when we are not, we still talk - on the phone when she is in India, with irregular emails when she is not - and share worries and fears, news and book reviews, and more giggles. I wait for her to come here, hopefully soon, so we can catch up with our lives, together and apart, bemoan the state of the shoe shops and disapprove of beige lipstick, skirts that cling unfortunately and weather that will not decide what it wants to be. Hurry back, Nina, I miss you!
Friends are rare finds, even rarer long-term keepsakes. For me, a friend tends to be for ever. Which is why I treasure them, always.
There is, for instance, a young woman from Zaire called Lelo Masamba. She was wonderfully maternal, comfortingly rounded and a fabulous colour – a beautiful, gleaming dark chocolate. She sang like a dream, had a totally infectious giggle, believed staunchly in her God and took me for what I was, writing letters and postcards to me wherever in the world I was at that moment in time. We had made friends when we were in school together in Geneva, Switzerland, and kept it up as long as I was in graduate school in the United States. Recently, stung by some force I do not yet understand, I looked for her on the website of the school we had shared. And I found that she was looking for me, too. It would be amazing to talk again, this time much faster than my snail mail. But how do I get in touch with her? Wherever you are, Lelo, where do I find you?
In college I met a girl called Karen. I first came across her in the women’s room in the dorm. I was in the toilet stall late one night when I heard voices….a voice, actually. Someone was out there at the sinks, clattering bottles, turning on taps and talking. To herself, I discovered when I peeked out, rather nervous (with fairly typical Indian prudery) of being caught in my nightie by the cleaning crew. Our eyes met in the mirror and I started giggling. At which point we became, I think, friends. To my amazement, she shared my brand of lunacy with no effort at all, often topping it with her paranoia and zany laughter. With this, she had a strong streak of caring and sharing, opening her heart and mind and family to me, starved as I was for home and its loving attention. A tarot reader once called us soul sisters and, for the most part, we are. She is still where I call home in the US, still inviting me in to invade her life, still demanding my presence at regular (and short) intervals. Some day, soon, I promise, I will be there, suitcase in hand, asking for a hug and some of your world famous enchiladas, Karen!
When I lived briefly in Delhi, I met some very interesting people, some of whom I prefer not to know now. One whom I would keep for ever in my life is Nina, someone I had never met before, even though our extended families had known each other long before we were born. Not too tall, nicely barrel-tummied and with a giggle that matches mine in madness, we bonded easily and quickly. For me, she is the sibling I never had, but at a nice distance that does not allow for boredom. We meet twice a year or so, now that I am back home in Mumbai, talk endlessly and, of course, giggle, much to the astonishment of our various friends and relations who cannot understand what there is to talk about and, more, to go into such hysterical laughter about. When we are together, we eat, we shop, we gossip and we try and figure out who we are. And when we are not, we still talk - on the phone when she is in India, with irregular emails when she is not - and share worries and fears, news and book reviews, and more giggles. I wait for her to come here, hopefully soon, so we can catch up with our lives, together and apart, bemoan the state of the shoe shops and disapprove of beige lipstick, skirts that cling unfortunately and weather that will not decide what it wants to be. Hurry back, Nina, I miss you!
Friends are rare finds, even rarer long-term keepsakes. For me, a friend tends to be for ever. Which is why I treasure them, always.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
A time to live
Mumbai is a city of fear and darkness these days, the indomitable Mumbaiyya spirit notwithstanding. We all say how proud we are to be part of this city and its ethos, but we still look furtively over our shoulders in crowds, check under the seats and on the overhead rack in trains and jump whenever we hear even the faintest ‘pop’. Can you blame us? We just came through what was perhaps the most horrific route to death and destruction and are expected to bounce back to normality almost instantly, because that is the Mumbaikar’s way. So with the knowledge that we need to be strong and resilient, and the comfort that these horrors are not ours to live through except vicariously, through television and publications and stories shared over the phone, we find pockets of sheer joy in the small everyday events of life.
Like today, for instance. A dog in this sprawling office complex has had a litter of four little puppies. A couple of days ago, I found them coiled together fast asleep on the front steps of our building. In a gentle tide of movement, one of them fell off the step and stayed asleep, even when I picked it up and put it back with its siblings. The four babies are small, sleepy-looking, undernourished, hardly the kind you would easily take home to foster, but with the charm and endearingly languishing eyes of any babies that completely crack your heart open and urge you to adopt them. The same day, an entire team from the paper I work with was downstairs cooing over the puppies. Yesterday, my driver and his peers played with them and tried to feed them. Today, I was down in the garden with a couple of friends, playing with the young ones, giggling at their antics, burbling (much to my recollective embarrassment) baby talk and behaving like proud and besotted aunts. Who knows what will happen to these puppies once they grow up a little. For now, they own us.
Yesterday, even as the television news stations beamed endless images of carnage, wailing relatives and horrific accounts of the bomb blasts, one entertainment channel showed clips of funny situations and the way people reacted to them. In one, a homeowner selling her property gave permission for the gag team to put up signs on her lawn touting the opening of a strip club and bar. The TV team waited for responses from the neighbourhood populace, knowing that they would be strident and, considering it was a set-up, hilarious. And it was. I watched, giggling, as a silver-haired granny came up and waggled her finger in the face of the main actor, determined to protect her environs. The gag stretched itself out to its inevitable conclusion, when everyone let go with hearty belly laughs.
This morning, driving through the strange but typically Mumbaiyya monsoon weather where sudden and violent rain follows hot on the heels of bright and blinding sunshine, I saw a group of youngsters on their way to school. Solemn in blanketing rainwear and additionally protected by large and colourful umbrellas, they crossed the street at the traffic lights and then walked along the pavement. The littlest of them all, who seemed to be a boy, judging from the shorts and mulish expression he wore, found himself at the edge of a puddle, obviously wide and deep. Without waiting too long, he jumped square into it, splashing his friends and causing them to push him away with an obvious disgust. Then the rain stopped as abruptly as it had started. My car inched forward and I was level with the little boy. He looked at me, I smiled, without even thinking why. He grinned, showing gaps in his teeth, his whole face lighting up with a wonderful radiance only the very young have. As we drove past, his friends had been attacked by the same exuberance, and they jumped in and out of the puddle with no inhibitions.
It is moments like these that tell you how lucky you are to be alive, to be healthy and to be active. It is during moments like these that you forget, at least for a little while, that there are bombs, death and grief. These are the moments you should live for and live through them with the greatest sense of joy you can ever feel. These, after all, are the moments that really matter.
Like today, for instance. A dog in this sprawling office complex has had a litter of four little puppies. A couple of days ago, I found them coiled together fast asleep on the front steps of our building. In a gentle tide of movement, one of them fell off the step and stayed asleep, even when I picked it up and put it back with its siblings. The four babies are small, sleepy-looking, undernourished, hardly the kind you would easily take home to foster, but with the charm and endearingly languishing eyes of any babies that completely crack your heart open and urge you to adopt them. The same day, an entire team from the paper I work with was downstairs cooing over the puppies. Yesterday, my driver and his peers played with them and tried to feed them. Today, I was down in the garden with a couple of friends, playing with the young ones, giggling at their antics, burbling (much to my recollective embarrassment) baby talk and behaving like proud and besotted aunts. Who knows what will happen to these puppies once they grow up a little. For now, they own us.
Yesterday, even as the television news stations beamed endless images of carnage, wailing relatives and horrific accounts of the bomb blasts, one entertainment channel showed clips of funny situations and the way people reacted to them. In one, a homeowner selling her property gave permission for the gag team to put up signs on her lawn touting the opening of a strip club and bar. The TV team waited for responses from the neighbourhood populace, knowing that they would be strident and, considering it was a set-up, hilarious. And it was. I watched, giggling, as a silver-haired granny came up and waggled her finger in the face of the main actor, determined to protect her environs. The gag stretched itself out to its inevitable conclusion, when everyone let go with hearty belly laughs.
This morning, driving through the strange but typically Mumbaiyya monsoon weather where sudden and violent rain follows hot on the heels of bright and blinding sunshine, I saw a group of youngsters on their way to school. Solemn in blanketing rainwear and additionally protected by large and colourful umbrellas, they crossed the street at the traffic lights and then walked along the pavement. The littlest of them all, who seemed to be a boy, judging from the shorts and mulish expression he wore, found himself at the edge of a puddle, obviously wide and deep. Without waiting too long, he jumped square into it, splashing his friends and causing them to push him away with an obvious disgust. Then the rain stopped as abruptly as it had started. My car inched forward and I was level with the little boy. He looked at me, I smiled, without even thinking why. He grinned, showing gaps in his teeth, his whole face lighting up with a wonderful radiance only the very young have. As we drove past, his friends had been attacked by the same exuberance, and they jumped in and out of the puddle with no inhibitions.
It is moments like these that tell you how lucky you are to be alive, to be healthy and to be active. It is during moments like these that you forget, at least for a little while, that there are bombs, death and grief. These are the moments you should live for and live through them with the greatest sense of joy you can ever feel. These, after all, are the moments that really matter.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Ba-da-boom Mumbai!
It is a city that never gives up. It is the city that deals with disaster by living with the spirit that typifies its people – indomitability. It is a city that cannot be beaten, no matter what it has to face. It is my city. It is Mumbai.
Yesterday, July 11, 2006, was a day that Mumbaikars pray they will never have to face again. We faced it once 13 years ago and managed to recover fabulously well. Yesterday was slightly different. A series of eight well timed and efficiently executed bombs went off on what is known as the ‘lifeline’ of the city, the commuter trains. The perpetrators chose well. They found routes that were heavily peopled, from main station to various destinations, along which they would probably never be noticed. They targeted trains on a route that will almost always be well travelled, packed to over capacity during rush hour, morning and evening. They selected sites that would be crowded, but not so crowded that they could not leave a little something in the compartments. And they opted for first class, where the people are said to be more elite, more protected, more careful. And, within about ten minutes, the bombs went off, detonated by radio timer, it is believed, causing death, grievous injury and terror. Ironically, people who jumped off the train they were on to escape the blast were killed by an oncoming locomotive.
There was instant chaos. The trains stopped. People were flung out, or managed to jump off. Others were not as lucky, trapped by debris and bodies, some torn into pieces by the explosions. The police arrived, just like they did in old Hindi movies, late. Meanwhile, there were lives to be saved, and local Mumbaikars swung into the kind of action they are so good at. They poured out of their homes and offices to (admittedly) gawk, but they also got down and dirty (literally), carrying bodies in bedsheets, salving the injured, giving passers by in traffic-locked buses and cars water and snacks and beginning the job of clearing the debris, aiding local municipal workers and firemen. And they used cameras and mobile phones to capture images full of pain and death, sending them in to various newspapers and television channels – whose staff had not yet made it to the various blast sites. These pictures went all over the world, alarming friends, family and India-watchers.
Which had the expected fallout. Friends from Delhi, Bangalore, Karachi, Dubai and the US called or emailed in to find out if we (my father and I) were ok. Being reassured, finally understanding that we were not at any risk, they asked again, just to make sure that we spoke truly. Then they wanted to know how far away we had been from the bombs and whether the blasts would affect our normal lives. Is it very bad, they demanded. One close buddy had even said that she was coming over to pack us into her suitcase and truck us over to Denver, where she lives, where no one blows up people or indulges in myriad acts of terrorism. Another said that her country’s president and people were as shocked by the carnage as we were, and that they swore that they were not in any way connected to the violence. And we exchanged news about who was doing what where, promising to visit each other as soon as our lives allowed.
Today life seems to be back to more or less normal. People are back at work after a night stuck on a train or on the roads. Attendance is almost at its average best, with everyone determined to show that they are unbeaten. Trains have started running, speeding through blood-stained stations and past shattered compartments that once held laughing, sleeping, singing commuters. And we of Mumbai show once again just how proud we are to be part of the great and wonderful city.
Yesterday, July 11, 2006, was a day that Mumbaikars pray they will never have to face again. We faced it once 13 years ago and managed to recover fabulously well. Yesterday was slightly different. A series of eight well timed and efficiently executed bombs went off on what is known as the ‘lifeline’ of the city, the commuter trains. The perpetrators chose well. They found routes that were heavily peopled, from main station to various destinations, along which they would probably never be noticed. They targeted trains on a route that will almost always be well travelled, packed to over capacity during rush hour, morning and evening. They selected sites that would be crowded, but not so crowded that they could not leave a little something in the compartments. And they opted for first class, where the people are said to be more elite, more protected, more careful. And, within about ten minutes, the bombs went off, detonated by radio timer, it is believed, causing death, grievous injury and terror. Ironically, people who jumped off the train they were on to escape the blast were killed by an oncoming locomotive.
There was instant chaos. The trains stopped. People were flung out, or managed to jump off. Others were not as lucky, trapped by debris and bodies, some torn into pieces by the explosions. The police arrived, just like they did in old Hindi movies, late. Meanwhile, there were lives to be saved, and local Mumbaikars swung into the kind of action they are so good at. They poured out of their homes and offices to (admittedly) gawk, but they also got down and dirty (literally), carrying bodies in bedsheets, salving the injured, giving passers by in traffic-locked buses and cars water and snacks and beginning the job of clearing the debris, aiding local municipal workers and firemen. And they used cameras and mobile phones to capture images full of pain and death, sending them in to various newspapers and television channels – whose staff had not yet made it to the various blast sites. These pictures went all over the world, alarming friends, family and India-watchers.
Which had the expected fallout. Friends from Delhi, Bangalore, Karachi, Dubai and the US called or emailed in to find out if we (my father and I) were ok. Being reassured, finally understanding that we were not at any risk, they asked again, just to make sure that we spoke truly. Then they wanted to know how far away we had been from the bombs and whether the blasts would affect our normal lives. Is it very bad, they demanded. One close buddy had even said that she was coming over to pack us into her suitcase and truck us over to Denver, where she lives, where no one blows up people or indulges in myriad acts of terrorism. Another said that her country’s president and people were as shocked by the carnage as we were, and that they swore that they were not in any way connected to the violence. And we exchanged news about who was doing what where, promising to visit each other as soon as our lives allowed.
Today life seems to be back to more or less normal. People are back at work after a night stuck on a train or on the roads. Attendance is almost at its average best, with everyone determined to show that they are unbeaten. Trains have started running, speeding through blood-stained stations and past shattered compartments that once held laughing, sleeping, singing commuters. And we of Mumbai show once again just how proud we are to be part of the great and wonderful city.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Teacher teacher…
My driver Sharief gave me a flower this morning. Why, I demanded. He explained to me that it was Teacher’s Day and, since I was determined that he learning English, he was wishing me happy. But I didn’t do anything, I protested, the flower should belong to his children, who were doing – or trying to – the teaching. No, he insisted, it was mine, since I had shown him how to start learning the language in a very simple and easy manner, without the stress of knowing alphabets, spelling and grammar. That, he said, was the way it was taught in school, and that was the way he had believed he would have to do it, an impossibility at his age, he stated.
In my version, all he had to do was to start becoming conscious of familiarity – of how the words he already knew were written, so that he could recognise them. Look at film posters, I suggested, at signboards, at car names, at food packets. He would know what was written on them, since he knew what the contents were, enough English and the alphabet and, from there on, he just had to do a little jump of consciousness to awareness of words and how they were made. To be thanked so profusely for something so simple was flattering, embarrassing, even idiotic, especially since I was talking off the top of my frizzy head, applying only a little of my own training as a teacher of English to those for whom English was not a native language.
In college I had to teach, and found it quite an interesting experience, a ‘learning experience’, in fact. On my first stint as a very new graduate student who had never done anything for herself, I had to tutor a group of people who were not only much larger than I was, but who also topped me in age by at least ten years on average. It was frightening when I walked into the classroom on the first day. Gradually, using my instinctive strategy of being my usual mad self and perfectly normal, natural and neurotic, I fast-talked my way through the course, making friends with my students and finding them becoming comfortable with me to the extent that most of them called me ‘honey’ and offered to help me with my homework. One elderly gentleman suggested he could be my babysitter; a football jock made overtures to be my bodyguard. Both were almost instantly rebuffed, with a smile, but stayed in touch long after I had left the state.
I myself have had a host of fabulous teachers, some better than others, and with a few rats thrown in to balance the mix. Perhaps my least favourite in school was the man who taught me Physics. It was a subject that I never could understand, leave alone master, even though my own father was a physicist. The teacher was long and large and lecherous, getting just that little bit too close and too intimate for comfort, but not enough for him to be thrown out of his position. He managed to teach me – and many others – very little Physics, but gave us a hatred of the subject that endures even today.
In contrast was my high school English teacher, a certain Mr Short, who was anything but. He was long and lean and lanky, all arms and legs, with a mop of curly hair, a neat beard and a smile that had us girls in blushing emotional chaos. He taught me to appreciate if not completely understand international literature of the ilk of Ibsen, Achebe and Beckett, left me wondering just what Godot waited for, why Pope was so funny and who the real villain was in Julius Caesar. With the supreme confidence of adolescence, I wrote a poem instead of a regular essay for one particular assignment and was gently and easily squashed by his response, also in perfectly rhyming verse that left me gasping, totally outclassed. Mr Short encouraged us all to be creative, predicting even that early that I would never be able to fit into a conventional mould. Perhaps he was right.
My fiction teacher in college pushed me further along the track of ‘difference’. She sat through readings of my decidedly eccentric writings, from a soap opera scenario-plus-real life story in disjointed prose to an old-style adventure, much of it set in pitch dark on Long Island. She indulged my madness, reading through reams of something I fondly imagined to be a murder mystery, carefully edited down a sci-fi/horror short that was actually printed some years later in a well-known magazine and talked me out of getting down and dirty with an ‘erotic thriller’ that was completely beyond my ken, with my rather limited knowledge of both parts that described the genre. She encouraged me even after I left her aegis, reading my work as it was published in various newspaper and magazines and applauding every new experiment with balanced critique attached. Soon she was a friend, Carolyn rather than Ms McGrath.
I had many teachers through school and college and university, many of whom were people whom I have fond memories of. There were some toads, whom I refused to kiss up to when they demanded it, but for the most part, they turned into princes (and princesses) without too much asking. Maybe if I had not had a pea in my mattress, I would have been a better student!
In my version, all he had to do was to start becoming conscious of familiarity – of how the words he already knew were written, so that he could recognise them. Look at film posters, I suggested, at signboards, at car names, at food packets. He would know what was written on them, since he knew what the contents were, enough English and the alphabet and, from there on, he just had to do a little jump of consciousness to awareness of words and how they were made. To be thanked so profusely for something so simple was flattering, embarrassing, even idiotic, especially since I was talking off the top of my frizzy head, applying only a little of my own training as a teacher of English to those for whom English was not a native language.
In college I had to teach, and found it quite an interesting experience, a ‘learning experience’, in fact. On my first stint as a very new graduate student who had never done anything for herself, I had to tutor a group of people who were not only much larger than I was, but who also topped me in age by at least ten years on average. It was frightening when I walked into the classroom on the first day. Gradually, using my instinctive strategy of being my usual mad self and perfectly normal, natural and neurotic, I fast-talked my way through the course, making friends with my students and finding them becoming comfortable with me to the extent that most of them called me ‘honey’ and offered to help me with my homework. One elderly gentleman suggested he could be my babysitter; a football jock made overtures to be my bodyguard. Both were almost instantly rebuffed, with a smile, but stayed in touch long after I had left the state.
I myself have had a host of fabulous teachers, some better than others, and with a few rats thrown in to balance the mix. Perhaps my least favourite in school was the man who taught me Physics. It was a subject that I never could understand, leave alone master, even though my own father was a physicist. The teacher was long and large and lecherous, getting just that little bit too close and too intimate for comfort, but not enough for him to be thrown out of his position. He managed to teach me – and many others – very little Physics, but gave us a hatred of the subject that endures even today.
In contrast was my high school English teacher, a certain Mr Short, who was anything but. He was long and lean and lanky, all arms and legs, with a mop of curly hair, a neat beard and a smile that had us girls in blushing emotional chaos. He taught me to appreciate if not completely understand international literature of the ilk of Ibsen, Achebe and Beckett, left me wondering just what Godot waited for, why Pope was so funny and who the real villain was in Julius Caesar. With the supreme confidence of adolescence, I wrote a poem instead of a regular essay for one particular assignment and was gently and easily squashed by his response, also in perfectly rhyming verse that left me gasping, totally outclassed. Mr Short encouraged us all to be creative, predicting even that early that I would never be able to fit into a conventional mould. Perhaps he was right.
My fiction teacher in college pushed me further along the track of ‘difference’. She sat through readings of my decidedly eccentric writings, from a soap opera scenario-plus-real life story in disjointed prose to an old-style adventure, much of it set in pitch dark on Long Island. She indulged my madness, reading through reams of something I fondly imagined to be a murder mystery, carefully edited down a sci-fi/horror short that was actually printed some years later in a well-known magazine and talked me out of getting down and dirty with an ‘erotic thriller’ that was completely beyond my ken, with my rather limited knowledge of both parts that described the genre. She encouraged me even after I left her aegis, reading my work as it was published in various newspaper and magazines and applauding every new experiment with balanced critique attached. Soon she was a friend, Carolyn rather than Ms McGrath.
I had many teachers through school and college and university, many of whom were people whom I have fond memories of. There were some toads, whom I refused to kiss up to when they demanded it, but for the most part, they turned into princes (and princesses) without too much asking. Maybe if I had not had a pea in my mattress, I would have been a better student!
Monday, July 10, 2006
Eat to work?
Lunch is a fascinating subject. My friends, who know me well now, make it a point to find out what I plan to eat, almost at the moment I walk into the office some hours earlier. Well, perhaps more accurately when they walk in some time after I do. And I have it all planned, too. After doing most of the cooking at home and playing all weekend with ingredients in my refrigerator and spices in my larder, for me, simplicity rules during the working day. So, as much as I would love to dive into cheese filled blinis with tomato coulis (it tastes amazingly like uttapa with tomato chutney, I assure you!) and smoked salmon with tiny capers and sliced pickled onions, eaten with a nice crème fraiche, I know that it is probably easier to chomp through a cheese sandwich with some sharp mustard slathering it for that gourmet touch. Or even a dish of dahi with a chip or two for company. Or some upma, redolent with jeera and ghee and colourfully dotted with peas and a carrot or three…
But that is all again lunch from home, stuff that I probably have made myself, to my own gustatory specifications. The alternatives, once I have commuted into mid-town, where my office is? Quite a few, really. My first choice when I initially found myself too busy and too nervous to explore an area that was previously unknown to me was to continue with my self-created diet. Then, having run out of ideas that are even remotely edible, and out of reach of the bakeries that bake the kind of bread that I mandate for sandwiches, I resorted to ordering up a lunch service. It was all about health food, organic, vegetarian, high fibre, slow salt, no chillies and, after a point, very boring. But all that chewing was great for my incipient double chin, which was starting to make me worry. A rather uncertain and hectic schedule involving more days out of the office than in it, brought that lunch routine to a tapering halt, and I had to think again, harder this time.
While I thought, I lived on odd combinations of leftovers from home, some that worked, some that made me feel like I was scavenging from a bad restaurant, or was eating a Bengali meal consisting of a vast range of tiny, totally unrelated courses. To break that habit, I occasionally ate in the office canteen, which dished up a cuisine that was even more mismatched and often truly inedible. Also a lot spicier than my rather wimpy system was used to, which meant that it burned like heck going in and did the same during its exit as well, indelicate as that may sound. So I ate many plates of half-cooked rice and watery yoghurt, given some semblance of taste with a little speck of mixed pickle or salad, a euphemism for a semi-macerated melange of carrots, cucumber, tomato and generous servings of onions. It may not have been terribly healthy, but it did change my fashion statement – I went around at least twice a week wearing an impromptu yashmak to shield whoever I was talking to from the fumes that even the strongest chewing gum could not hide.
And, then, of course, there was the order-out option. From sandwiches (which I make better) to salads (ditto), biryanis and parathas, pastas, pizzas and kebabs, the gamut of foods rich in calories, salt, spices and, I must admit, flavour, could be found, if you could convince the delivery man from the relevant restaurant that you did, indeed, exist at the address you were giving him. And the fallout – a whole lot of money spent and a whole lot of weight gained, with an occasional tummy bug thrown in just for fun. Having gone through every possible permutation of food I can find for lunches at work, I am now back to the healthiest, easiest and least bothersome of all routines – lunch packed at home, trucked in to work and eaten with familiar fondness if not great relish as I work on writing my way through the week.
There has to be another route I can take to fill my nicely rounded tummy with food that it likes. Any ideas?
But that is all again lunch from home, stuff that I probably have made myself, to my own gustatory specifications. The alternatives, once I have commuted into mid-town, where my office is? Quite a few, really. My first choice when I initially found myself too busy and too nervous to explore an area that was previously unknown to me was to continue with my self-created diet. Then, having run out of ideas that are even remotely edible, and out of reach of the bakeries that bake the kind of bread that I mandate for sandwiches, I resorted to ordering up a lunch service. It was all about health food, organic, vegetarian, high fibre, slow salt, no chillies and, after a point, very boring. But all that chewing was great for my incipient double chin, which was starting to make me worry. A rather uncertain and hectic schedule involving more days out of the office than in it, brought that lunch routine to a tapering halt, and I had to think again, harder this time.
While I thought, I lived on odd combinations of leftovers from home, some that worked, some that made me feel like I was scavenging from a bad restaurant, or was eating a Bengali meal consisting of a vast range of tiny, totally unrelated courses. To break that habit, I occasionally ate in the office canteen, which dished up a cuisine that was even more mismatched and often truly inedible. Also a lot spicier than my rather wimpy system was used to, which meant that it burned like heck going in and did the same during its exit as well, indelicate as that may sound. So I ate many plates of half-cooked rice and watery yoghurt, given some semblance of taste with a little speck of mixed pickle or salad, a euphemism for a semi-macerated melange of carrots, cucumber, tomato and generous servings of onions. It may not have been terribly healthy, but it did change my fashion statement – I went around at least twice a week wearing an impromptu yashmak to shield whoever I was talking to from the fumes that even the strongest chewing gum could not hide.
And, then, of course, there was the order-out option. From sandwiches (which I make better) to salads (ditto), biryanis and parathas, pastas, pizzas and kebabs, the gamut of foods rich in calories, salt, spices and, I must admit, flavour, could be found, if you could convince the delivery man from the relevant restaurant that you did, indeed, exist at the address you were giving him. And the fallout – a whole lot of money spent and a whole lot of weight gained, with an occasional tummy bug thrown in just for fun. Having gone through every possible permutation of food I can find for lunches at work, I am now back to the healthiest, easiest and least bothersome of all routines – lunch packed at home, trucked in to work and eaten with familiar fondness if not great relish as I work on writing my way through the week.
There has to be another route I can take to fill my nicely rounded tummy with food that it likes. Any ideas?
Friday, July 07, 2006
All fed up!
I am a true blue, die-hard, staunchly determined foodie. Which means that I like eating, do my share and more of it, and am on an eternal quest for something new, improved and yummier to eat. But at the same time, some little well-doctrinated, completely inculcated bug within me demands that I eat healthy, with wholesome ingredients made in a way that keeps almost anything I eat or cook low fat, low spice, high fibre, still appealing to tastebuds and eyes alike. It isn’t always easy, especially when the planner of all meals in my house is me, and sometimes my sense of permutation/combination wants a rest, perhaps even a well-deserved one. But at those times I go wild, eccentric, dishing up meals that only a fond parent can eat and still say nice things about. And they do, dutifully and lovingly, sometimes even to the point of making me deeply suspicious about their veracity.
What is more fun for me than eating is creating food. All my life I have watched cooking shows on TV in various languages, read cookbooks and food books, scoured the Internet for inspiration, talked to friends and relations alike to find out more about how to make what, when and why, and conjured up stuff that does, at some abstract level, make sense and, at a more concrete level, actually taste good. My father and mother have been willing – for the most part – participants (or should I call them ‘victims’?) in my culinary adventuring, only very rarely refusing to try something before the meal itself. I have cooked up more than my share of disasters, too, like the lamb kababs that stayed raw even after two hours of leatherising in the oven, idlis that obdurately remained sticky in the centre no matter how long they cooked, stuffed eggplant that was so salty that the whole lot had to be thrown away and scones that were more bitter than uncooked karela!
My culinary career is all about memories, most good. Perhaps the earliest is sitting with my father on the floor of our vast kitchen, slowly dripping oil into a blend of eggs, vinegar, salt and mustard to make mayonnaise that had, I squeaked in my excited treble, “Fish’s tails, Papa, fish’s tails!” I was, of course, teased mercilessly when the mayonnaise I made by myself curdled, on a few unfortunate occasions, but always praised on the times I proudly showed off bottles of perfectly emulsified sauce. With that as a base, I diligently chopped onions, gherkins and other veggies into excruciatingly tiny bits and mixed up batches of what I imagined to be Thousand Island dressing. I soon graduated to making more complicated food, like breads, cakes and cookies, first with parental supervision, later on my own, once I was trusted enough in the kitchen not to slice my fingers off or burn my hair or blow up the pressure cooker.
The last I could not possibly have done. I have always been terrified of pressure cookers – they make strange noises, they let off vast amounts of steam, they have bits and pieces I can never put back together once they are taken apart for washing and I have heard too many stories about them blowing their lids off to feel totally comfortable dealing with them. So when I finally gathered up enough nerve to use one to make dinner for my cat, it was all together an excessively traumatic process – I would load the contraption, check it about seven times to make sure it was all fitted together properly, and then watch it warily, Cat keeping me purring company, until it started hissing with the collecting steam. Then, when it finally let off that pent-up vapour through the appropriate aperture, Cat and I would flee the kitchen in one concerted rush, to return only when the smells got too tempting for him to resist and the pot had become silent enough for me to investigate.
And as I found myself getting braver with gadgets – pressure cooker being perhaps the greatest trial, even though microwave, spice mill and can opener were other hazards I needed to master – I got more adventurous with recipes. And that we can talk about after Sunday, the day I do all my cooking for the next week. Who knows, I may have come up with some new recipes by then!
What is more fun for me than eating is creating food. All my life I have watched cooking shows on TV in various languages, read cookbooks and food books, scoured the Internet for inspiration, talked to friends and relations alike to find out more about how to make what, when and why, and conjured up stuff that does, at some abstract level, make sense and, at a more concrete level, actually taste good. My father and mother have been willing – for the most part – participants (or should I call them ‘victims’?) in my culinary adventuring, only very rarely refusing to try something before the meal itself. I have cooked up more than my share of disasters, too, like the lamb kababs that stayed raw even after two hours of leatherising in the oven, idlis that obdurately remained sticky in the centre no matter how long they cooked, stuffed eggplant that was so salty that the whole lot had to be thrown away and scones that were more bitter than uncooked karela!
My culinary career is all about memories, most good. Perhaps the earliest is sitting with my father on the floor of our vast kitchen, slowly dripping oil into a blend of eggs, vinegar, salt and mustard to make mayonnaise that had, I squeaked in my excited treble, “Fish’s tails, Papa, fish’s tails!” I was, of course, teased mercilessly when the mayonnaise I made by myself curdled, on a few unfortunate occasions, but always praised on the times I proudly showed off bottles of perfectly emulsified sauce. With that as a base, I diligently chopped onions, gherkins and other veggies into excruciatingly tiny bits and mixed up batches of what I imagined to be Thousand Island dressing. I soon graduated to making more complicated food, like breads, cakes and cookies, first with parental supervision, later on my own, once I was trusted enough in the kitchen not to slice my fingers off or burn my hair or blow up the pressure cooker.
The last I could not possibly have done. I have always been terrified of pressure cookers – they make strange noises, they let off vast amounts of steam, they have bits and pieces I can never put back together once they are taken apart for washing and I have heard too many stories about them blowing their lids off to feel totally comfortable dealing with them. So when I finally gathered up enough nerve to use one to make dinner for my cat, it was all together an excessively traumatic process – I would load the contraption, check it about seven times to make sure it was all fitted together properly, and then watch it warily, Cat keeping me purring company, until it started hissing with the collecting steam. Then, when it finally let off that pent-up vapour through the appropriate aperture, Cat and I would flee the kitchen in one concerted rush, to return only when the smells got too tempting for him to resist and the pot had become silent enough for me to investigate.
And as I found myself getting braver with gadgets – pressure cooker being perhaps the greatest trial, even though microwave, spice mill and can opener were other hazards I needed to master – I got more adventurous with recipes. And that we can talk about after Sunday, the day I do all my cooking for the next week. Who knows, I may have come up with some new recipes by then!
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Brahmin blah-men
I often find myself arguing about Brahminism, for some strange reason. I had never thought about a Brahmin being any different from anyone else, until a few years ago. It all began when a friend of mine offered me a bite of the most delicious giant prawns sautéed in oyster sauce that made my tastebuds tingle and my greed synapses do a eager dance. Just as the loaded spoon was starting to think about making contact with my avidly open mouth, my friend pulled it back and demanded, “Are you a Brahmin?” Mercifully for his continued good health and general wholeness of mind, body and soul, I had a sense of humour in those days and responded snappily with “Yes!” before clamping down with lightning quickness on a spoon that may not have been shared with a non-Brahmin. The prawn was a bite of heaven. The question made me wonder…
The wondering escalated over the years, soon becoming a search into my own soul and that of other people I met and spoke to. As I grew up, physically and mentally, I explored new aspects of being Brahmin that I normally would never have thought of. And, for me, every definition worked, each providing insight into not just my own psyche, but human behaviour as well. I met people who claimed to be Brahmin but would never pass the existence test, while others who purported to belong to the lowest castes made it into Brahmin-hood with no effort at all.
Perhaps the easiest qualification to understand was food habits. For most, a Brahmin was a pure vegetarian, who eschewed meat completely and refused to enter a house that had seen infidel animal protein within its precincts. Unless, of course, they were Bengali or Kashmiri pundits. As a family, we eat beef, holy cow, especially since we follow the logic that if you can kill one animal for food, how does killing another make it more sinful? A Brahmin put his (or her) food through a series of purificatory rituals, ate certain foods only on certain days, and believed in the system of fasting. Which sounded good to me, especially since fasting is a way of detoxifying the digestive system and clearing it for the rest of the week. And then I watched various friends going through a fasting day. While they may not eat too much regular food during that period, some of them do fill up on fruit, crunchies and other munchies and more fried stuff than I would eat in a normal month! My then-habitual diet of an apple and a dish of yoghurt for lunch was fast enough and better, I decided.
Then came the rites and rituals. Temple visits were a no-no, mainly because I refused to accept the so-called ‘Brahmin’ mandate that women could not visit God at a certain time of the month, since then they were considered ‘unclean’. Temples also meant priests demanding money, jostling crowds in motley queues, small fights as people were given out-of-turn darshan and more of this sort of indiscipline. Rites at home meant more payments, demands, priests covetuously eyeing our house, its contents and my beautiful mother. Prayers meant learning by rote – something I have never been able to do; my brain does not process that way. And any pandigai, or festival, meant more housework than normal, from the cleaning to the cooking, all always when it was a hot and very humid time of year. Scrap that foray into Brahminism, then!
After much of this sort of to-ing and fro-ing, my family came up with its own version of Brahminism. Being Brahmin was not about religion or diet or even prayer. It was about a way of thought, an intellectualism, a constant eagerness to know more. And it was about a mental attitude that spoke of acceptance, of tolerance and of an open-mindedness that transcended more mundane and worldly standards of caste, class and culture. Brahmins, according to the shastras, believe in sarvejanāssukhinobhavatu, roughly translated as let all people be happy and prosperous. They also use as a working principle, vasudhaiva kulubaka - the whole world is one big family.
Which makes a whole lot more sense than sharing spoons, doesn’t it?
The wondering escalated over the years, soon becoming a search into my own soul and that of other people I met and spoke to. As I grew up, physically and mentally, I explored new aspects of being Brahmin that I normally would never have thought of. And, for me, every definition worked, each providing insight into not just my own psyche, but human behaviour as well. I met people who claimed to be Brahmin but would never pass the existence test, while others who purported to belong to the lowest castes made it into Brahmin-hood with no effort at all.
Perhaps the easiest qualification to understand was food habits. For most, a Brahmin was a pure vegetarian, who eschewed meat completely and refused to enter a house that had seen infidel animal protein within its precincts. Unless, of course, they were Bengali or Kashmiri pundits. As a family, we eat beef, holy cow, especially since we follow the logic that if you can kill one animal for food, how does killing another make it more sinful? A Brahmin put his (or her) food through a series of purificatory rituals, ate certain foods only on certain days, and believed in the system of fasting. Which sounded good to me, especially since fasting is a way of detoxifying the digestive system and clearing it for the rest of the week. And then I watched various friends going through a fasting day. While they may not eat too much regular food during that period, some of them do fill up on fruit, crunchies and other munchies and more fried stuff than I would eat in a normal month! My then-habitual diet of an apple and a dish of yoghurt for lunch was fast enough and better, I decided.
Then came the rites and rituals. Temple visits were a no-no, mainly because I refused to accept the so-called ‘Brahmin’ mandate that women could not visit God at a certain time of the month, since then they were considered ‘unclean’. Temples also meant priests demanding money, jostling crowds in motley queues, small fights as people were given out-of-turn darshan and more of this sort of indiscipline. Rites at home meant more payments, demands, priests covetuously eyeing our house, its contents and my beautiful mother. Prayers meant learning by rote – something I have never been able to do; my brain does not process that way. And any pandigai, or festival, meant more housework than normal, from the cleaning to the cooking, all always when it was a hot and very humid time of year. Scrap that foray into Brahminism, then!
After much of this sort of to-ing and fro-ing, my family came up with its own version of Brahminism. Being Brahmin was not about religion or diet or even prayer. It was about a way of thought, an intellectualism, a constant eagerness to know more. And it was about a mental attitude that spoke of acceptance, of tolerance and of an open-mindedness that transcended more mundane and worldly standards of caste, class and culture. Brahmins, according to the shastras, believe in sarvejanāssukhinobhavatu, roughly translated as let all people be happy and prosperous. They also use as a working principle, vasudhaiva kulubaka - the whole world is one big family.
Which makes a whole lot more sense than sharing spoons, doesn’t it?
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Strangers on a train
It has taken many years, but I was finally getting used to the rigours of commuting by train in this big bad burg. I had nicely set in place what my mother and I called a ‘disaster management system’, whereby I made one friend on the express I caught every morning - my evening schedule being variable. This was vital for those times when being by yourself and snootily aloof did not work, like when there was a rain day or a train problem or you needed to find out how to get somewhere you had never been before. And I actually liked the person I had chosen, both times – both women became friends rather than just convenient traveling companions. We bonded over recipes and comments about others in the compartment, developed a set of nicknames for various people and a sort of code to talk about what was happening around us. And we talk even now, when we are not commuting together, exchanging news about the rain, the flooding and the events of the week.
About ten days ago, I started driving in to work, chauffered by the trusty Sharief. I am now part of the great road commute, which begins at nine every morning for me and means a drive of about one hour to get to the office, less coming back. It is indeed wonderful to be able to sit back and relax (except that I can’t, since I have always driven myself around and cannot get used to sitting in the back seat and switching off from traffic swinging and honking outside), to wear nice clothes and the high heels (which skidding through crowded stations to the exit more or less prohibits) I revel in, to get where I am going without being limp, pouring with sweat and decidedly ruffled about the edges. It is as wonderful not to have to worry about finding a taxi with a driver who is halfway polite, not overly rash and doesn’t charge a fictional conversion from metre to true fare.
But I do miss my train rides. Apart from the company of my friend, whom I think of every time I eat some of the chocolate she makes so well, I miss the noise, the human (“yooman”, to be absolutely accurate) drama, the arguments, even the loud cellphone conversations. I miss all the people that I have seen for months, if not years – their fashion statements, their hair styles, their bags…even their attempts to make conversation with the very standoffish and stuck-up me. And there are the small dramas of their lives that they share – sweets distributed when a child does well in school or a promotion comes their way, mother-in-law horror stories, illness, new bosses at work, income tax cuts and traveling woes…they all become community tales as they are told and reacted to.
And there are the people themselves. The Sweaty Lady, for instance, who rushes into the train almost before it stops, and then organises everyone’s seating to make sure that she gets a seat that allows her to be cool and aired. She works in a bank and is full of advice about how to deal with the soiled and tattered banknotes that her friends hand her to exchange for them. There is the Elbow Woman, who once sat next to me and dug her very sharp elbow into my nicely soft side at well calculated intervals; the contact was so annoying that I actually moved to another seat to escape her touch! There are my (potential) In-Laws, very sweet, very handsome and very large women who once told me that they would like to speak to my family for my hand (and the rest of me, I presume) in marriage with a relative they had who was most eligible. And there is the Mean Lady, who made it a point, whenever she saw me, to say something nasty about me (and everyone else who had ever opposed her or not responded to her friendly advances, I am told) in Bengali - which I understood enough of. Oh, yes, I forgot the Lawyer Lady, who propounded her views to all and sundry, whether they were interested or not, in a loud and very piercing voice.
All this and more. I miss them, in an odd kind of way, almost like a tooth that was taken out because it was infected and painful, or a bruise that begs for prodding. They and the train provided many years of entertainment for me, apart from being so useful, taking me between home and work. So do I want to get back to it? For now, I think I will enjoy the comforts of traveling in my little four-wheeled chariot, thank you!
About ten days ago, I started driving in to work, chauffered by the trusty Sharief. I am now part of the great road commute, which begins at nine every morning for me and means a drive of about one hour to get to the office, less coming back. It is indeed wonderful to be able to sit back and relax (except that I can’t, since I have always driven myself around and cannot get used to sitting in the back seat and switching off from traffic swinging and honking outside), to wear nice clothes and the high heels (which skidding through crowded stations to the exit more or less prohibits) I revel in, to get where I am going without being limp, pouring with sweat and decidedly ruffled about the edges. It is as wonderful not to have to worry about finding a taxi with a driver who is halfway polite, not overly rash and doesn’t charge a fictional conversion from metre to true fare.
But I do miss my train rides. Apart from the company of my friend, whom I think of every time I eat some of the chocolate she makes so well, I miss the noise, the human (“yooman”, to be absolutely accurate) drama, the arguments, even the loud cellphone conversations. I miss all the people that I have seen for months, if not years – their fashion statements, their hair styles, their bags…even their attempts to make conversation with the very standoffish and stuck-up me. And there are the small dramas of their lives that they share – sweets distributed when a child does well in school or a promotion comes their way, mother-in-law horror stories, illness, new bosses at work, income tax cuts and traveling woes…they all become community tales as they are told and reacted to.
And there are the people themselves. The Sweaty Lady, for instance, who rushes into the train almost before it stops, and then organises everyone’s seating to make sure that she gets a seat that allows her to be cool and aired. She works in a bank and is full of advice about how to deal with the soiled and tattered banknotes that her friends hand her to exchange for them. There is the Elbow Woman, who once sat next to me and dug her very sharp elbow into my nicely soft side at well calculated intervals; the contact was so annoying that I actually moved to another seat to escape her touch! There are my (potential) In-Laws, very sweet, very handsome and very large women who once told me that they would like to speak to my family for my hand (and the rest of me, I presume) in marriage with a relative they had who was most eligible. And there is the Mean Lady, who made it a point, whenever she saw me, to say something nasty about me (and everyone else who had ever opposed her or not responded to her friendly advances, I am told) in Bengali - which I understood enough of. Oh, yes, I forgot the Lawyer Lady, who propounded her views to all and sundry, whether they were interested or not, in a loud and very piercing voice.
All this and more. I miss them, in an odd kind of way, almost like a tooth that was taken out because it was infected and painful, or a bruise that begs for prodding. They and the train provided many years of entertainment for me, apart from being so useful, taking me between home and work. So do I want to get back to it? For now, I think I will enjoy the comforts of traveling in my little four-wheeled chariot, thank you!
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Here comes the rain…not again!
Yes, well, it is that time of year and when you read of my adventures of the last two days, you will know and accept and understand why I am going on and on about them!
It rained and rained and rained (ad nauseum) all day yesterday, starting with some sporadic showers and building into a strong and persistent downpour that rattled the windows of the newspaper office that I call ‘home’ for much of the working day. So, harassed by my fond father and various well-meaning friends – mostly from Delhi, where it was hot, sunny and completely cloudless – I left for my real home early, hoping to beat the waterlogging by at least the proverbial whisker. But it was a scenario Canute would have understood. We left while it was still daylight, looming big black clouds notwithstanding, and gingerly nosed the car out of the main gate. Futility was a co-passenger; at the first junction where a choice had to be made, we found we didn’t have one – and had to go in the direction we had not chosen.
It deteriorated to farcical dimensions soon after. We got to the bottom of the bridge that we normally take to go home and found people, cars, dogs and soggy policemen wading around in three or four feet of very muddy, dirty water. “TURN AROUND!” I bellowed at my garrulous driver, Sharief, who had just restarted the story that he had stopped telling me on the way in to work. Startled at the confused traffic, conflicting reports from the passing populace and an amiable police-truck driver, apart from the astonishingly high volume of my normally dulcet voice, he zipped around, only to stall, nose first against the curb, sprawled across the narrow street. “You are stalled,” I told him with growing panic, and repeated it twice more before he shook himself out of his amazement and proceeded in his usual completely unflappable and super-competent manner.
Retracing our route for a bit, we took a diversion I had been on once before in a cab. It took us neatly and smoothly along towards home, lifting my spirits and cheering Sharief up enough for him to tell me a couple of silly jokes and start a new story about his past adventures. Then we bumped into some more rain and the party came to an abrupt and untimely stop. It was almost literally a wall of water pouring down upon our hapless little chariot, beating its relentless way over the hood, on the roof and against the windows. We inched halfway around a large circle, exchanging comments on rain and life in general and finally were diverted, along with a lot of other early-bird traffic, into a side street that led into territory that was, once upon a long ago time, familiar to me. More inching followed, and we slowly crept along, our progress hardly rakish, punctuated by plaintive whining music from my cellphone as friends, family and one-time train-cohorts called to check on our position.
That is where I saw Mumbai at its nicest. Policemen smiled and told me it was good that I had decided to head home early, and would I please take the left turn to get there faster. A municipal sweeper, bent and tired, smiled and waved his broom at me to show me where the water would be less deep. And the locals, out in force, soaking wet and cheerful, directed us through winding bylanes that were flooded knee-high and awash with leaves, broken tree limbs and broken rubber slippers.
Today was a rerun for Sharief, me and the car. This time, we got halfway into town, then turned tail and fled back home…or tried to. We got stuck in the same bylane, with the same fallen leaves and old garbage, but the water was higher and lapped alarmingly against the bottom of the car as we sloshed our way through. It took about three hours to get home. Tomorrow, we play chicken before we leave the house. Or else we get ourselves a big-wheel truck to commute in.
It rained and rained and rained (ad nauseum) all day yesterday, starting with some sporadic showers and building into a strong and persistent downpour that rattled the windows of the newspaper office that I call ‘home’ for much of the working day. So, harassed by my fond father and various well-meaning friends – mostly from Delhi, where it was hot, sunny and completely cloudless – I left for my real home early, hoping to beat the waterlogging by at least the proverbial whisker. But it was a scenario Canute would have understood. We left while it was still daylight, looming big black clouds notwithstanding, and gingerly nosed the car out of the main gate. Futility was a co-passenger; at the first junction where a choice had to be made, we found we didn’t have one – and had to go in the direction we had not chosen.
It deteriorated to farcical dimensions soon after. We got to the bottom of the bridge that we normally take to go home and found people, cars, dogs and soggy policemen wading around in three or four feet of very muddy, dirty water. “TURN AROUND!” I bellowed at my garrulous driver, Sharief, who had just restarted the story that he had stopped telling me on the way in to work. Startled at the confused traffic, conflicting reports from the passing populace and an amiable police-truck driver, apart from the astonishingly high volume of my normally dulcet voice, he zipped around, only to stall, nose first against the curb, sprawled across the narrow street. “You are stalled,” I told him with growing panic, and repeated it twice more before he shook himself out of his amazement and proceeded in his usual completely unflappable and super-competent manner.
Retracing our route for a bit, we took a diversion I had been on once before in a cab. It took us neatly and smoothly along towards home, lifting my spirits and cheering Sharief up enough for him to tell me a couple of silly jokes and start a new story about his past adventures. Then we bumped into some more rain and the party came to an abrupt and untimely stop. It was almost literally a wall of water pouring down upon our hapless little chariot, beating its relentless way over the hood, on the roof and against the windows. We inched halfway around a large circle, exchanging comments on rain and life in general and finally were diverted, along with a lot of other early-bird traffic, into a side street that led into territory that was, once upon a long ago time, familiar to me. More inching followed, and we slowly crept along, our progress hardly rakish, punctuated by plaintive whining music from my cellphone as friends, family and one-time train-cohorts called to check on our position.
That is where I saw Mumbai at its nicest. Policemen smiled and told me it was good that I had decided to head home early, and would I please take the left turn to get there faster. A municipal sweeper, bent and tired, smiled and waved his broom at me to show me where the water would be less deep. And the locals, out in force, soaking wet and cheerful, directed us through winding bylanes that were flooded knee-high and awash with leaves, broken tree limbs and broken rubber slippers.
Today was a rerun for Sharief, me and the car. This time, we got halfway into town, then turned tail and fled back home…or tried to. We got stuck in the same bylane, with the same fallen leaves and old garbage, but the water was higher and lapped alarmingly against the bottom of the car as we sloshed our way through. It took about three hours to get home. Tomorrow, we play chicken before we leave the house. Or else we get ourselves a big-wheel truck to commute in.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Rain dancing
It’s raining cats, dogs and a few cows and goats in Mumbai right now, and has been since Saturday some time. It is, after all, the monsoon and, during the monsoon, it does rain. But our wild and wonderful city never gets used to the downpour, reacting with startlement each season, when the first week of warm drenchings throws the roads, people and the vehicles they drive into complete discombobulation, digging into the asphalt to create lunarscapes with potholes and dirt, washing away streets, trees and lives and stalls trains, cars and work schedules. People wade through feet of water determined to get to work and then, once there, safe and dry and bolstered by cups of steaming hot cuttingi chai, they open hot-packed tiffins for that sustaining bite of lunch long before lunch is mandated, all so that they have the strength and the reduced weight during the long and sloshy trek back home.
It hasn’t taken much this year to alarm the Mumbaikar, usually such a stoic and dauntless survivor of all seasons. Of course, last monsoon’s deluge of July 26 did much to change that. So it was a pleasant surprise, though not completely surprising, to find the roads this morning dotted with policemen, each man neatly swathed in bright yellow waterproof slickers and pants, waving cars to the right, trucks to the left and pedestrians off the roads. It took not much longer than my usual span of time to get to work from home, but will probably take somewhat longer to get home again, even if I leave now, as my father and friends suggest.
For months now, the Bombay (it has not yet been changed to Mumbai, it seems, from the short form, which still reads BMC) Municipal Corporation has been digging, dredging and otherwise disturbing the normal state of our city’s various surfaces, reportedly to minimise problems when the downpour hit. It helped, of course, that the rain gods knew that the BMC has much work left to do; the rains came to our burb 25 days later than normal, leaving the taps dry and the inhabitants of the metropolis complaining long and loud about the heat and excessive humidity. Now that the rain in finally here, Mumbai’s denizens are complaining as long and loud about the non-stop rain, how it leaves washing undried, trains stranded and children at risk from flooded streets, open manholes and waterborne disease. All this, while they throw plastic bags out of their windows, steal manhole covers, and eat bhelpuri and chaat from the road-corner cart, made by a man who rinses the plates in the same water he spits into even as he scratches himself with the hand that he assembles the food with.
On that delightful note….the rainy season is a time of new life, when the seas are teeming with spawning fish, the plants are storing up for a fresh growing season and the average Mumbaikar replenishes a body starved for cool moisture. The rain brings with it disease, disaster and death, but also showers the earth with cleansing wetness, washing away acids from the atmosphere, dirt from smog-caked buildings and exhaustion from the skins of tired workers. The air is cool and scented with wet earth and coolth, spirits are higher than during the endless pre-monsoon time, when the humidity bogged down the mood and, in spite of the perils of living on the coast and being deluged without respite, we in Mumbai welcome every drop of heavenly moisture. Even when we have to catch trains that stop mid-way between two stations because of flooded tracks; even if washing doesn’t dry and mould becomes an intimate member of the family; even if cars cannot get past the nearest intersection and vegetables are more expensive than your diamond suite.
It lasts three months, on and off, this rain. And we love it.
It hasn’t taken much this year to alarm the Mumbaikar, usually such a stoic and dauntless survivor of all seasons. Of course, last monsoon’s deluge of July 26 did much to change that. So it was a pleasant surprise, though not completely surprising, to find the roads this morning dotted with policemen, each man neatly swathed in bright yellow waterproof slickers and pants, waving cars to the right, trucks to the left and pedestrians off the roads. It took not much longer than my usual span of time to get to work from home, but will probably take somewhat longer to get home again, even if I leave now, as my father and friends suggest.
For months now, the Bombay (it has not yet been changed to Mumbai, it seems, from the short form, which still reads BMC) Municipal Corporation has been digging, dredging and otherwise disturbing the normal state of our city’s various surfaces, reportedly to minimise problems when the downpour hit. It helped, of course, that the rain gods knew that the BMC has much work left to do; the rains came to our burb 25 days later than normal, leaving the taps dry and the inhabitants of the metropolis complaining long and loud about the heat and excessive humidity. Now that the rain in finally here, Mumbai’s denizens are complaining as long and loud about the non-stop rain, how it leaves washing undried, trains stranded and children at risk from flooded streets, open manholes and waterborne disease. All this, while they throw plastic bags out of their windows, steal manhole covers, and eat bhelpuri and chaat from the road-corner cart, made by a man who rinses the plates in the same water he spits into even as he scratches himself with the hand that he assembles the food with.
On that delightful note….the rainy season is a time of new life, when the seas are teeming with spawning fish, the plants are storing up for a fresh growing season and the average Mumbaikar replenishes a body starved for cool moisture. The rain brings with it disease, disaster and death, but also showers the earth with cleansing wetness, washing away acids from the atmosphere, dirt from smog-caked buildings and exhaustion from the skins of tired workers. The air is cool and scented with wet earth and coolth, spirits are higher than during the endless pre-monsoon time, when the humidity bogged down the mood and, in spite of the perils of living on the coast and being deluged without respite, we in Mumbai welcome every drop of heavenly moisture. Even when we have to catch trains that stop mid-way between two stations because of flooded tracks; even if washing doesn’t dry and mould becomes an intimate member of the family; even if cars cannot get past the nearest intersection and vegetables are more expensive than your diamond suite.
It lasts three months, on and off, this rain. And we love it.
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