The day I die on the street. ..

I have a lot of things to teach you now,
In case we ever meet;
Wait for me when twilight veils your life,
And on the day I die on the street....

There's no mistletoe to share a kiss,
No dew-kissed grass beneath my feet..
Wait for me when twilight veils your life,
And on the day I die on the street....

Our present is forever dear...I know,
But my forevers always shift,
Wait for me when twilight veils your life,
And on the day I die on the street....

The strange madness growing in me,
The dark corners which are never lit;
Wait for me when twilight veils your life,
And on the day I die on the street....

I believe life's lies, I err, I sin...
I pile up dreams-bit by bit. .
Remember to wait for me when twilight veils your life,
And on the day I die on the street....

An Evening in Old Delhi

When I think “Old Delhi”, the first image that comes to my mind is the scene from the movie Delhi 6 where Abhishek Bachchhan sits on the roof of a home with Masakali, the cute white pigeon. Over the years, innumerable trips to the place have created an image of the place in my mind – the aroma of the street food, the generation of tenants who still deposit Rs 13/- per month in their landlord’s bank accounts every month, the many ‘fertility’ clinics who promise babies to childless couples and vigour to those with a low libido, the posters of the films in a couple of inconspicuous cinema halls which will never be screened in any multiplex, the low-seated rickshaws (made famous by a petite Sonali Bendre in ‘Sarfarosh’), etc. The internet enlightens me that Old Delhi was founded as Shahjahanabad by Mughal emperor Shahjahan in 1639 and it remained the capital of the Mughals until the end of the Mughal dynasty. It is referred to as the walled city - the old city was surrounded by a wall enclosing about 1,500 acres , with 14 gates ; some of these gates are Delhi gate, Nigambodh gate, Kashmiri gate, Mori gate, Kabuli gate, Lahori gate, Ajmeri gate, Turkman gate. The walls have now largely disappeared, but most of the gates are still present.

Chandni Chowk was established in 1650 and was built along with the Red Fort. Chandni Chowk , originally meaning "moonlit square" , was built by Shah Jahan, and designed by his favourite daughter Jahan Ara, the market was once divided by canals to reflect moonlight.

This part of Delhi is unique in many ways. With its crowded roads, congested lanes and shouting hawkers, the place exudes a charm of its own. I attempt to highlight a few hallmarks of this area.

Auchinleck Sanik Aramghah is a huge brick-coloured structure in the premises of the Old Delhi Railway Station and is named after Field Marshal Sir Claude John Eyre Auchinleck who spent much of his military career in India. Located in the premises of the Old Delhi Railway Station, this rest house is huge, majestic and imposing. Two old signboards also grabbed my attention - Young Men’s Tennis Club and National Club. Situated just opposite the Old Delhi Railway Station, these two structures dot the map of Old Delhi. Someday I might just get to know a few more details about these places; even ‘Google’ could not help me much when I tried to know more.

Just opposite the Old Delhi Railway Station is the Delhi Public Library, located in the S.P. Mukherjee Marg. The library was established in 1951 as a pilot project sponsored by the UNESCO and the Government of India. The library project dates back to 1944, when Shri Ramkrishna Dalmia donated most of the amount required to construct a library building at the request of Sir Claude Auchinleck. The library was officially opened on 27 October 1951, by then Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru. The operations were formally transferred from UNESCO to the Indian Government in 1955. The library provides training facilities to student librarians and social education workers.

A famous street of Old Delhi is Khari Baoli, which is known for its wholesale grocery and Asia's largest wholesale spice market selling all kinds of spices, nuts, herbs and food products like rice and tea. Operating since the 17th century, the market came up around the Fatehpuri Masjid, which was built in 1650 by Fatehpuri Begum, one of Shah Jahan's wives. During Shah Jahan's reign it came to be known as ‘Khari Baoli’ (from Baoli, meaning step well - wells or ponds in which the water may be reached by descending a set of steps, and Khari or Khara, meaning ‘salty’). It was constructed along with a fortified gateway on its western end popularly known as Lahori Gate (named so because a road through it led to the city of Lahore, now in Pakistan). However, today there is no trace of either the well or the gateway here, which now lie buried under the main road of the market. One has to be in Khari Baoli to see the mountains of spices and food items that line the narrow lanes.

The Dariba Kalan (which literally means the ‘street of the incomparable pearl’), is a 17th-century street in Chandni Chowk and is the home to Asia's largest jewellery market. It derives its name from the Persian Dur-e be-baha, which translates as ‘unparalleled pearl’. Long chains of gold in thousands of designs bedazzle me, as I squint my eyes in the blinding sunlight to look into the wrinkled face of the septuagenarian shopkeeper, his shrewd but gentle eyes assessing me with decades of experience to find out whether I am really a genuine customer or just a curious passer-by.

Kinari bazaar, located next to the famous Paranthe wali Gali , is a market that specializes in traditional dresses for marriages - lehanga, dupatta, salwar-kameez, kurtas, sherwanis, turbans, etc. You just bring a photo of any dress you require, and they will get it ready for you, at a respectable price .The market has a great variety and collection of borders (and that explains the name ‘kinari’ meaning border) and embellishments can be found here at very low price. And I suddenly realized from where my mid-high-end boutique owner gets her impeccable collection of borders from!!

The Nai Sarak, meaning new street, is the linking road, which connects the main Chandni Chowk Road to Chawri Bazaar and has a very big wholesale and retail market of mainly school and college textbooks. The street is called so because it is comparatively a new and broad road made by British after the war of 1857. The market has also few wholesale shops of saris and musical instruments.

Old Delhi gives me a surreal feel. Every denizen there has a story to tell; the eighty years old shopkeeper in Bhagirath Place from where we bought the lights for our new home in Guwahati, narrated the tale of his childhood love Mehzabin, who recited Ghalib and later died of tuberculosis. The walls of the many old buildings (most of which now stand dilapidated and ignored) speak of the days when royalty graced them. Someday, when life permits, I wish to explore this place to my heart’s content. Like a teenager, I am infatuated with Old Delhi, and I do not mind if this infatuation blossoms into love.

“Far away there in the sunshine are my highest aspirations. I may not reach them, but I can look up and see their beauty, believe in them, and try to follow where they lead.”

What women want????

I was just wondering about a frequently speculated and discussed yet never really solved question: WHAT WOMEN WANT/THINK? After allowing my mind to think a bit about this (being a member of this wonderful species) and discussing with a few close friends (of the same sex), I arrived at a few conclusions which need not reflect individualistic traits of our sorority sisters. These are just generalizations without any intent to degrade feminism. And these points are addressed to our spouses/partners.

1. We like being liked, being admired. Yes, praises from any genuine admirer is most welcome. But please do not over do it. We have this knack of sieving out the pretentious words from the heartfelt ones!

2. We hate to discuss our weights and ages. We do not like being called ‘skinny’, ‘carom board’, ‘skeleton’, ‘bag of bones’, etc., and we abhor adjectives like ‘obese’, ‘overweight’, ‘heavy’, ‘BMW’, etc. If we are on the wrong side of 30, please spare us the ‘oh-she-is-approaching-menopause’ type of look (kind attention Dear Husbands. You all are not growing younger with age either)

3. We love to shed tears on the emotional scenes of Hindi films. And we are not ashamed to admit that we like soppy movies. So do not be nervous if you find us sobbing in the mid of a matinee show. We want you to understand our feelings.

4. We expect you to praise our culinary efforts. You will not have cardiac arrest if you do not make a face over that extra pinch of salt in the curry or the ‘too sweet’ desserts.

5. We love to gossip. Just watch how a few of our clan meet in leisure and dissect the entire lifetime of someone we do not like. It’s a natural trait and we want you to understand that. Also, I have seen many a husband ask questions to their wives later (after the female friends have left) what were they discussing about. At least do not pretend that you are not interested in what or who we are discussing about.

6. We love gifts. Have a heart to shower gifts on the smallest pretext or occasion. Stop being a miser, and open your purse, or better still, just swipe your card!

7. When we shop, be courteous enough to carry our shopping bags. Our fragile arms ache with the heavy weight of bags!

8. Do not praise your friends’ wives/girlfriends in front of us. We just hate that! We are least bothered about the Boss’s wife’s cleavage or the secretary’s lean waist.

9. Do not discuss work at home.

10. We love to go on long drives. So at least on weekends, plan out something on your own without asking us where to go. But please, spare us the mundane visits to some boring action movie or to meet up the friends of your ‘all-boys-club’.

11. Once a while, cook up a meal for us, and please do not mess up the whole kitchen in the endeavour.

Contentment

We humans always complain about just not having enough. We buy a home and crib about not having that extra bedroom. We go for a nice vacation and crave for that ‘foreign trip’ that our family friends went for. It is as if we are never satisfied. Agreed, there are exceptions. But most of us carry this trait of always wishing for more.

Suddenly ‘awakened’ about my exploding (there is no other way to describe the phenomenon) waistline and at last a bit touched by the sympathetic glances of well wishers who thought that I will be one day choked to death by my own weight, I decided to join the gym on 17th of June 2013. Two months down the line, I cannot say that I have miraculously trimmed down, but yes, I feel lighter. Anyways, tonight my kids asked me to bring home a KFC bucket for dinner. I decided to go there directly from the gym at about 9:45 p.m.

I took a rickshaw. The rickshaw puller was a strong man. And he was a smooth operator, taking turns and sailing through speed breakers with finesse. I was impressed. When I disembarked, I asked him how much the fare was. When I offered him a hundred rupee note and waited for him to tender me the change, I was struck by what I saw. The rickshaw puller had just one hand. Yes! His right hand was amputated from elbow downwards. With great skill, he took out the rupee notes from the breast pocket and held them with his stump, and counted the exact change with the left hand and gave the money to me; he said, “Do not mind me giving you the money with my left hand Madam.” I stood silent, and looked at his content and serene face. I saw a man, hardworking and determined, who overcame a huge blow to make a decent living.

I guess he is made up of the stuff of which real heroes are made of…He is an inspiration…..

Just felt like sharing this experience. And may be I will just think of the man for a minute when I will complain the next time about not having enough of anything.

Night

The smell of loneliness, as I savour the lonely night,

A whiff of cigarette fumes

Blurring the black sky..

The sparkling beer in those shaky hands

Quenching the thirst, or just wetting the neck??

The silly song of crickets to hear;

Shapeless black ghosts peeping

From behind the green curtains of the distant woods.

Did I see a flying dream?

Or was it a shooting star?

Released from the shackles of courtesy and rules

The desires and dreams unite….

A candid canvas of dancing moonlight,

Somewhere, deep in the black forest,

A wild flower blooms….

I do not want your suns and rains

Just weave me in the dream you sleep with at night 

Of golden fireflies and a silver gown....

The old man sitting on the mahogany rocking chair, breathing in deeply the musky air of the humid Kolkata evening, bore no resemblance to the Bapu Uncle I remembered. Yes, Bapu Uncle, who was the ultimate hero of my colourful childhood world, who killed unseen demons with his magical powers, now sits quiet and helpless in this concrete jungle of towering apartments. He is least bothered about his doting son and daughter-in-law, a rarest of the rare commodity in today’s mechanical and fiercely practical world. Rana Da, Uncle’s son, tells me that Uncle has Alzheimer’s disease, which accounts for his not remembering me. I will be lying if I say that I do not mind; Bapu Uncle, and not remembering me? This took a moment to sink in, and when it did, the vague pain somewhere on the left side of my chest became bearable.

Now, you must be wondering who this old Bapu Uncle really is? Well, you can assume that he was the only other interest in my life when my monomaniac mind was looking for answers to all the questions bubbling in my curious mind of childhood in books! Yes, though he was a good decade and a quarter older than my father, I never knew a person as enthusiastic and as lively as Bapu Uncle. He lived with his petite wife and three sons, all of whom were extremely intelligent and polite, in the rambling bunglow near my grandparents’ home. My biannual visits to my grandparents’ were made memorable by Bapu Uncle. He had the most accurate answer to every question and had the most interesting stories to tell. The fish in the pond in his backyard had a glorious past, the squirrels on the tall betel nut trees in his front yard had an aristocratic lineage, the crows crowding the tiled roof of his bunglow had provided protection to the family for generations….Oh, just like you and many others, I too have a childhood to remember, courtesy this old, quivering man who now sits with vacant eyes staring at nothing in this humid evening in Kolkata.

Uncle’s three sons were gems. All of them excelled in academics, and just like the most brilliant lot of our great country do, the first and the second sons soon migrated to the USA with their wives and children. The youngest one, Rana Da, who is a physicist, had a strong seed of patriotism sown somewhere deep within him; he settled in Kolkata, working for SN Bose National Centre for Basic Sciences, and marrying a local Bengali girl, much to Uncle’s annoyance for diluting the family’s ‘purity’ by marrying an ‘outsider’. But acceptance came easily to my Bapu Uncle, and soon things settled down for good.

Life was good till Rina Aunty was alive. The old couple lived in harmony, with small disagreements sometimes dotting their otherwise predictable life. A small suburb of a not-so-big town in Assam does not offer a myriad of choices, but Uncle and Aunty made the most of everything that came their way. Life was good. It was on a sweltering June afternoon that I went to meet them with my newly married husband about eight years back. You should have seen the excitement in Uncle’s dancing brown eyes that day!

Blame it all on me; I never bothered after that to meet the old couple. I had become selfish; after all, do not we all do when everything in life seems to move on smoothly? I have a basketful of excuses to offer – my husband’s busy schedule, my own job, the kids, the erratic maid, the unpunctual driver, etc. etc. But yes, I could not look into my own eyes in the mirror when I failed to pay Uncle a visit after Aunty’s sudden demise in her sleep. She left, just like that, and Uncle was taken to Kolkata by Rana Da.

It was a couple of months back that I had this sudden urge to see the bunglow that housed princes with golden horses and queens wearing gown sewn of moonlight threads. The need to visit the place was almost urgent, as if I had this last chance to see something which may come to an end very soon. But alas, the bunglow now stood alone, forgotten. The evening breeze no longer carried the music of some distant flute, the fish had abandoned the pond, the squirrels had found newer homes. There was no Bapu Uncle. I missed his twinkling eyes, his ready smile.

Much to my husband’s astonishment, I almost begged for a trip to Kolkata. My wish was granted easily. And here I stand, looking at the man, my Bapu Uncle. They say he does not recognize me. But do you know what I feel? The life that throbs along through any and all of my moments: this is it! It may be one of those fleeting, vague moments that we all cherish till our last breath. This old man, and his vacant eyes….That old man, and his dancing eyes. Gingerly, I take a few steps to sit on the floor near Uncle’s mahogany chair. I take his hands in my own. How his hands have wrinkled! They say he does not speak at all nowadays. My ears ache for a story, for the familiar laughter. I look into his unseeing eyes, and I see him looking down at me. He suddenly grins, a toothless smile playing on his leathery lips. He brings up his right hand and brushes away a wisp of unruly hair from my forehead and whispers, “Care for an adventure, my child? Then come tonight, and we will chase the fireflies and make a lantern for you.”

Life, like faith, surprised me again. I felt like the queen, wearing the silver gown made of moonlight threads……………….

A Chinkie speaks out

We are not whining souls; believe it, because it comes from someone who has been a part of Delhi for nearly a decade and has cherished the major part of her stay in this vivacious city.

Apologies if I sound a bit of a ‘regionalist’ at the moment, but I find myself asking a question which I have either suppressed or just chosen to ignore on many occasions – where do we (the Chinkies) stand?

May be my reaction is a retaliation to the news currently making the headlines on national television – namely, the merciless lynching of Nido Taniam in hip and happening Lajpat Nagar market.

The incident was triggered by Nido reacting to some of the crowd who allegedly mocked his appearance; the young college student from Arunachal Pradesh was killed by a group that took the law into their own hands, apparently encouraged by the heady logic of mob rule and vigilante justice holding sway in the current political scenario and in our nation's capital.

It is not very easy to describe what I want to say. But I am going to give a sincere try.

I may be taunted for my hairstyle, I may be laughed at for my flat nose, I may be labelled a “yellow sea anemone” for the colour of my skin, I may be forced to face discrimination day in and day out for the genetic and inherent traits over which I have no control, but that does not give anyone the right to kill me!

It is a shame that our feelings are seldom respected. A sharp-featured girl in hot pants is trendy and stylish, but a girl from the north-east in the same attire risks being labelled a street walker.

Many of the people may be in denial about the racism that the people of the northeast face. A young couple from Madhya Pradesh may be making out in a shady corner of the Buddha Garden, but the blame will undeniably fall on the neighbourhood “chinky” girl who ‘encourages’ the neighborhood girls to take unthinkable ‘bold’ steps.

Mainland India’s attitude towards the peripheral societies of the north-east is laced with discrimination. Being called a Chinese or a Nepali hurts you know, though it shouldn't. And it hurts bad.

Let me share a few incidents from my own experience that I feel deserve to be heard.

“Do you drink the milk of rhinos?” This question was hurled at me not by some innocent five-year-old but by a senior physician at one of our nation's most prestigious medical institutions! “Do you eat humans?” This from an engineer from Chandigarh! And, as if being labeled a cannibal wasn't enough, we are also lumped into two other unworthy categories – a prostitute if you are a woman and a drug dealer if you are male.

Mine is not an attempt to exaggerate and escalate an issue which perhaps does not exist in the eyes of the majority. While another prominent person with his roots in the north-east, Arnab Goswami (mercifully for him, sharper featured!) angrily protest such incidents in ‘Times Now’ on television, a few so-called enlightened souls are trying to convince us all that Nido Taniam's murder was not a racist incident!

Until a few days ago, I was regretting my decision to resign from my job at the All India Institute of Medical Sciences in New Delhi.

But now, as I look at my two children and notice their not-so-sharp features, I applaud myself for deciding to move back to the safety of the hills.

Eating out in Old Delhi

In 1872, when Chandni Chowk had started settling under the new governance of the British,  a young man in early twenties called Gaya Prasad, left his home in Tehsil Bah in Agra and came to Delhi in search of greener pastures. He set up shop in a lane at the entrance to Kinari Bazaar and where he began selling hot and sizzling paranthas. The popularity of Gaya's paranthas grew so quickly that he had to rope in his brothers and cousins to help him out in the business. 

By 1911, the narrow street in this area -the Chota Dariba - became known as Gali Paranthe Wali or Paranthe wali Gali (literally "the bylane of fried bread"). Gradually, a score shops,  all belonging to the extended families of Gaya Prasad filled the street which even today is noted for its row of parantha shops.

Only three shops remain today remain of the 20 parantha shops that belonged to various branches of the family - P.T Kanhaiyalal Durgaprasad Dixit (estd 1875), P.T Dayanand Shivcharan (estd 1882), and  P.T. Baburam Devidayal Paranthewale (estd 1886). The food is old fashioned, strictly vegetarian, and the cooked dishes do not include onion or garlic.

Jalebi, a sweet made by deep-frying wheat flour batter in pretzel or circular shapes and soaked in sugar syrup, is another speciality of Old Delhi. I learned a mouth watering way to savour Jalebi here. The jalebs are soaked in hot, creamy milk – and then you fish out the jalebis from the milk and devour; sip away the sweetened milk too. You will never stop with just one bowl of doodh jalebi.

Daulat ki chaat – this magical name is not for the tangy, spicy everyday ‘chaat’ that food chains like Haldiram serves. As Mayank Austin Soofi describes it, ‘this dish is an abstraction, and is more an idea than a dessert; a white froth, pop a spoonful into the mouth and it disappears. The lingering sweetness is as fleeting as an early-morning dream. Much romance is attached to the making of this fluff.’ One legend is that the milk is whisked under a full moon sky and the morning dew sets the resulting froth. I like to think of this dish as a handful of cloud, it is there, but still not there……

Kheer Benazir is a sweet dish served in Karim’s, the iconic restaurant opposite Jama Masjid. Served in small earthen pots and rich in dry fruits, many other eateries also serve this delicacy in Old Delhi, including the Al-Jawahar whose biryani is undoubtedly even better that Karim’s.

Over the years, innumerable trips to Old Delhi have created an image of the place in my mind and the aroma of street food takes me back again and again.

The Idiot Box and the not-so-idiot memories....

These days the television (TV) has me glued to its alluring screen for all sort of reasons. Sunanda Pushkar’s sudden death, Kejriwal’s dharna, Narendra Modi’s speech, a few all time favourite movies, the oft-repeated episodes of CID, Arnab Goswami’s heated debates – I have lost count of the interesting programmes that entice me to click on the black rectangle at odd hours. The word television is derived from the ancient Greek word tèle meaning "far", and Latin word "visio", meaning "sight". When Philo Farnsworth made the world’s first working television system in 1927, little had he imagined that the idiot box will come to occupy such a supreme position in our lives someday. This four-cornered monster has almost displaced the age-old newspaper as the most important source of news and entertainment.

My first rendezvous with the TV was in 1985, when my father brought a brown carton of substantial size with the name “ONIDA” written boldly in black on it. Unpacking it revealed a wonder that remained an integral part of our lives till its unceremonious demise more than a decade later in the hands of a sly TV mechanic who went by the name “Sunil Deb”.

I remember the first day of its installation. The white mustard seeds on the screen almost disappointed us, but a miracle in the form of the “fish-bone” antennae held up high on the roof-top painted smiles as big as the “Maharaja Mac” burger on our lips. And the fact that it was a coloured TV added more to our happiness. Suddenly life was all about Humlog (Barki, Majhli, Chutki, etc.), Rajni, Khandaan, etc. I remember the voices of Ved Prakash (with spectacles), Minu (read the English news), Sunit Tandon (bearded), Sarla Maheshwari (had a mole on her lower cheek), Salma Sultan (rose on her hair), Rini Simon (smart with short hair), Kaveri Mukherjee (beautiful eyes), Neethi Ravindran (smart), Komal GB Singh (beautiful), etc. sharing the news of the entire world with us during our meal-times. And how can I forget the snail-like white commas which came with the trademark background music to form the infamous logo of “Doordarshan” on the TV screen?

One of my most cherished memories of TV serials is that of the Ramayana. We sat glued to the screen like an obsessed lover clinging to his girlfriend! I remember my mother and the neighbourhood ladies discussing supposed incidents of thefts in many a households while the family members sat attentively watching the Ramayana (though today I have serious reservations about such incidents really occurring). He-man, Street Hawk (Night-Rider), Vikram-Betaal, Stone Boy, Antariksh, Air Hostess, Mahabharata, Rangoli, Chitrahaar – these became unavoidable words of our daily lingo. And yes, the suave Roshan Seth in “Bharat Ek Khoj”, who was initially imposed on me like an unsolicited bridegroom, went on to become a personal favourite in due course of time.

It is the television to which I owe my fascination for sports like cricket and tennis (football comes a distant third), and my undying love for the Palmolive shampoo (endorsed by a well-dressed Kapil Dev smiling maniacally on the TV screen) till the company stopped production of the fascinating blue liquid. And how can I forget the “Rasna” girl? She is responsible for the endless glasses of the orange nectar that I insisted on having each evening till the shopkeeper of the neighbourhood general store shut shop to elope with the teenage daughter of the local barber.

I also owe my cherished affair with Hindi movies to our ONIDA TV (which also had a remote). My earliest memories of Hindi movies go back to sporadic, hazy flashes of watching ‘Tarzan’ and ‘Ram Teri Ganga Maili’ in the small cinema hall of the little town named Goalpara where we lived (and in retrospect, I seriously wonder about the intentions of my parents who exposed me and my younger brother to such ‘matured’ celluloid masterpieces; I was barely seven and I cannot help but salute my ahead-of-the-times parents who were either too courageous or were really ignorant to have exposed me and my four year old brother to the antics of Kimi Katkar-Hemant Birje and the escapades of Rajiv Kapoor-Mandakini!). Jokes apart, I got acquainted with both regional as well as Hindi films, courtesy – television.

After more than twelve years of dedicated service, our ONIDA (neighbour’s envy) became sick. It was afflicted with a strange disease where green became blue and red became green. The bloodied villains of movies looked like moss-covered aliens and the trees were perennially bathed in indigo drizzle. A destroyer who went by the name of Sunil Deb came disguised as a TV mechanic and put the last nail on the coffin of our old friend.

I watch a TV with an LCD (or is it LED?) screen now. The enlightened souls may call it a promotion, but I miss my ONIDA. I miss Usha Albuquerque telling me about the weather forecast of the four metros, I miss a lean Vinod Dua articulating with the familiar twinkle, I miss the enthusiastic voice of Narottam Puri relaying sports news at 4 p.m, I miss the elegant pearl strings which adorned the shapely neck of Gitanjali Aiyer, I also miss the trademark hair-bun of Avinash Kaur Sarin, the booming voice of Tejeshwar Singh, the lovely face of Shobhna Jagdish, the crazy Cadbury girl in the violet frock who danced her way to the cricket field…Yes, I unabashedly admit that I miss a less sophisticated Prannoy Roy, the bespectacled K.K. Raina, the eagerly awaited Sunday evening movies, the heart-touching stories of Hello Zindagi, the cute Master Manjunath of Malgudi, the enthusiasm with which I sat through the entire telecast of the Republic Day parade till the very end, and ironically, I also miss being a part of the untiring wait through the entire duration of a sad-looking “rukawat ke liye khed hain” because there was just one channel and the concept of “channel surfing” was still in its embryonic stage.

Was Arthur Golden thinking the way I do when he said, “Sometimes, I think the things I remember are more real than the things I see.”

The uncommon man

I remember an often quoted adage “Never underestimate the power of the common man” (begging excuses from R.K. Laxman for dragging his famous cartoon character into the limelight!)

You see, it’s not really possible to fool the ’common man’ - and I can narrate two recent incidents to reinforce my point.

It was a day of commotion and confusion in the perennially bustling household of Ratneswar Sharma in the village of Ratnapur  (drawing inspiration from the many successful directors of the Hindi film industry, I would like to emphasize that the names of the characters and the places have been changed to hide the real identities of the people concerned).  The epicentre of this important discussion in the Sharma household was that the national highway that ran in front of their courtyard was to be broadened by the National Highway Authority of India (NHAI), and Ratneswar, like many of his fortunate neighbours, would be soon asked to hand over a portion of his land to the NHAI, in lieu for a compensation, of course!

On that particular day, Ratneswar sat with his wife, two sons and his only daughter to calculate the amount of money that had to be claimed. Eyeing his awestruck audience with an air of superiority, Ratneswar remarked,

“Well, along with the measured portion of land for which we will be given three lakhs rupees, we stand to lose two coconut tree saplings which I planted with my own hands a month ago, and also the twenty three year-old precious mango tree which has not borne a single fruit to date. We cannot give up the hope that one fine day the mango tree might bear fruits. As far as the coconut saplings are concerned, we will claim ninety thousand rupees per sapling, considering the fact that in a few years time they would have grown up to become big trees and would have borne coconuts, the price of which is twenty rupees apiece in today’s market. My dear family members, given the opportunity to survive, these two saplings would have given me returns exceeding the amount which I am claiming, but I, being a considerate citizen of the country, want to contribute to the  development of infrastructure. Hence, I have mitigated my claims.”

Sharma’s sons eyed their father with renewed respect, while his toothless wife beamed at her septuagenarian husband; only his daughter, a school teacher, looked a bit sceptical. Encouraged by the response of his attentive audience, Ratneswar continued,

“Nowadays, technology has aided even eighty year-old women to bear children. So why should we give up on our mango tree which is in its twenties? Hence, I plan to claim one lakh fifty thousand rupees only for that tree. This will include the price of the wood too, and also the possibility of the tree being included in the Guinness Book of World Records as the oldest mango tree that remained fruitless. You see, my dear children, we must keep all the possibilities in mind.”

Well, unfortunately, a week later, I was informed by his daughter  that the NHAI had diverted the route of the new highway, and therefore, Ratneswar Sharma did not have to give up an inch of his precious land!

The other incident concerns a particular young relative of mine, who prided himself as the best driver around, until the following sequel of events occurred. One fine, sunny day, he was driving along at 110 kph. The mid-day road was barren, sans a few lazy goats and a handful of lethargic cows that were intelligent enough to steer clear of the main road. Suddenly, a black rooster appeared out of nowehere and was hit by the speeding vehicle. My relative braked to a screeching halt and then all hell broke out. About a dozen villagers surrounded him. The oldest (and the wisest) remarked,

“You killed the rooster. And with him died the possibility of hundreds of eggs. Now you must pay thirty thousand rupees to its owner”.

The ‘owner’ stood silently in a corner, looking forlornly at the dead bird.

“Eggs?" said the 'best driver'. "I never heard of a rooster laying eggs! At most, I will pay two hundred rupees for that dead soul”.

The Wise Man replied, “My dear boy, can you imagine the number of hens this virile rooster might have impregnated had you not cut short his life? Pay up; otherwise we will have to resort to stronger means”.

After some negotiation, the 'best driver' paid ten thousand rupees to the owner.

People say that from that day onwards, the 'best driver' invested in a harmless bicycle for short distance trips and hired another driver to take him to faraway destinations.

As they say, “Never underestimate the power of the common man”.

Jugaad (quick fix or innovative solution)

JUGAAD - A new word made a great impact on me when I moved to Delhi a decade ago from my laid back hometown. I was impressed by the way the denizens of the national capital managed things. They rarely said they could not (do something), for there were always ways to make things happen. Later on I realized that this was what Jugaad was all about - anything that solves an everyday problem in an inspired, ingenious manner.

Jugaad is basically an innovative solution to any problem - the mantra of new age management  in any industry - catering, automobiles or even the booming beauty business. Jugaad is  ‘in’  as these examples show:

The food at the average Indian weddings is always an elaborate affair and great care is taken to ensure that sufficient food is available for all invitees. But on rare occasions, the number of guests exceeds the hosts' estimate and the food runs out. It happened in December at Chattarpur, at a wedding held at a sprawling, isolated farmhouse; there were almost 75 bays for various foods. But at about 11 p.m., the food platters began to dwindle. Guests were still pouring in.

Mr. Fahad, an imposing Pathan and a family friend of the hosts, guessed that the food was in short supply and took matters into his hands. In came the redi-wallahs (food hawkers in mobile stalls), quietly through the back gate and in minutes, the trans-continental cuisine was replaced by the desi (and much tastier) version! The guests were happy, and the jugaroo-man was appropriately awarded too...

The beauty and fashion industry make creative use of everyday objects in their designs.  Flowers replace exquisite jewellery, look better and cost much less. Dry coconut shells are used to make everything from buttons, and bangles to clothing and sophisticated coiffure. Are you mesmerized by the kohl-lined eyes of a beauty?  That may actually be a layer of mustard oil burned in metal to produce the rich dark colour of kohl.  And tight-fitting costumes are sewn at the seams after they are worn, and many a times held in place by safety-pins!

But it's the automobile industry that holds a monopoly over jugaad technology. Jugaad is synonymous with the low cost vehicle. Jugaads cost around fifty thousand rupees and are powered by diesel engines originally intended to power agricultural irrigation pumps. The improvised vehicles have now become a popular means to transport  for everything from lumber to steel rods to schoolchildren. In the crowded streets of Old Delhi, you will be greeted by these makeshift cousins of the auto-rickshaws. They go by various names – SAARTHI, CHETAK, MAYURI!

Do not be surprised if you see Bajaj Super with a long trailer carrying cabbages arranged in a neat heap, or a pick-up van with a n outsize chicken carrying cage. But the most endearing ones are the nameless (and shapeless) jugaad vehicles that carry 6-8 buffaloes  stashed together like playing cards in an unbelievably tiny space - it makes me wonder if they possess compressible tummies!

Someone has rightly said that intelligence is trying an alternative path when the conventional one is not working. And so, Jai Ho Jugaad!!

 Peter Gould: Jugarad (Hindi: जुगाड़) is a Punjabi term widely used in India and by people of Indian origin around the world. Jugaad (also sometimes jugard) is a term applied to a creative or innovative idea providing a quick, alternative way of solving or fixing a problem. Jugaad literally means an improvised arrangement or work-around, which has to be used because of lack of resources."

The Religious Broker

In most Hindu places of pilgrimage, it's impossible to avoid the community we call Panda (possibly an abbreviated form of Pandit - a learned man) also referred to as “hereditary pilgrimage priests”. This description seems apt. Indeed, Pandas are religious contractors. Without their help and knowledge, many a religious ritual will remain incomplete.

But I had a harrowing experience with one such “pilgrimage priest”.  I won't name the temple - this could have happened anywhere in India - but I am writing this because the incident occurred in my hometown. My erstwhile (and deeply religious) boss was intent on visiting a famous temple of Guwahati. I was more than enthusiastic to show her around. Our tour started to sour when a pot-bellied man clad in a red robe and reeking of cigarette smoke approached us and offered his help to enter the premises. I declined politely. But the man persisted. In the meantime, his Galaxy Note-3 rang (the ringtone was  “Kamli Kamli”*, one of my favourites). He spent a hurried moment explaining to his listener that he preferred “English” over the “local” and that he would join the party only if the “imported” one was served.

I doubt he was referring to a religious artifact!

Anyway, he then declared,

“Please do not enter without a substantial dakshina. And since you do not know Sanskrit, I must tell you that your prayers will remain unheard by the Goddess. You let me accompany you and help you offer your prayers. We can bargain my dakshina later.”

We shook him off with great difficulty. I am not sure whether the Goddess heard us or not, but we prayed in the language of faith and respect.

Pandas are known to perform life-cycle ceremonies for their clients, i.e. worshippers or devotees. Yet, without meaning to seem overly optimistic, I do feel that individuals who intentionally misuse their religious authority are far outweighed by genuinely religious people whose sincerity helps maintain the original ideals of the Pandas. Like a silhouette under a lamp, these opposites exist beside one another, and their proximity sharpens the contrast between them. I wonder if any devotees who encounter Mammon worshippers during their spiritual quests return from these pilgrimages with an embittered consciousness?

In a Bengali novel, I read about the role of Pandas from a bygone era. Aside from arranging their clients’ daily and ritual needs, the pandas did whatever necessary to ensure that the pilgrims’ journey was problem-free - they offered financial help (in the form of loans) if required, cared for the sick, and provided assistance for a reasonable price. In an era when travel and communications were less developed, they were part of an essential support network that is still retained at some pilgrimage sites. But it's a system being eroded by social change as sacred sites evolve into economic hubs; the current panda-pilgrim relationship seems much weaker than the ideal - presuming that it ever existed in an ideal form - and several emerging trends, some triggered by incidents similar to mine, have worked to weaken it even more.

Many pilgrims have ambivalent feelings toward pandas, despite their status as brahmins and their hereditary connection to pilgrims. One bone of contention are the fees that pandas charge - these are always open to negotiation and only creates an adversarial relationship between pandas and the pilgrims. Pandas are clearly motivated to solicit the largest possible gift (based on their often accurate assessment of a client’s means and status), whereas clients have clear incentives to offer less than the “current” rate. Even though the final amount is always reached by consensus, or what the pandas call “whatever one can give with a happy heart”, it becomes a transaction marred by competing interests. Frequently, a devotee is left reeling from rampant consumerism rather than a feeling of fulfilment after offering prayers.

A panda is supposed to facilitate our communion with God by acting as a guide to various rituals and performing rites with us and on our behalf. But this rationale is fading away.  As with any other profession, the Pandasystem  seems to be adapting to the demands of the present day - change I may take with a pinch of salt today, because tomorrow I might be indebted to a panda for performing some wish-fulfilling ritual for me.

* a popular song from the Bollywood movie Dhoom 3

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Celluloid Silhouettes

The term may irk Amitabh Bachchhan, but Bollywood is the name.  “Indian Hindi Film Industry“ sounds alien, though it may be more appropriate. But the plan today is not to discuss the appellation which is a poor cousin of America’s Hollywood. What I intend to write about is something which remains evergreen in Bollywood, inspite of being time tested, re-enacted and metamorphosized.

1. ‘Ma’ – The pristine, sacrificing ‘Ma’ of Bollywood is the epitome of goodness, simplicity and truth. The omnipresent ‘Ma’ clad in spotless white saree (even if she works in a construction site) is a fixture in Hindi movies. I feel that Nirupa Roy, who assayed the role of ‘Ma’ hundreds of time over with perennially running eyes, is the most popular Bollywood ‘Ma’. She has her image postered as the mother of Amitabh Bachchhan (in Deewar, Amar Akbar Anthony, Mard, etc.) and I wonder if even Teji Bachchhan can change that. ‘Ma’ served all the food to her kids, and smiled with tears running down her cheeks when she realized that there is no food left for her. If Durga Khote represented the aged, senile mother who recognised her son even when he is reborn, then Lalita Pawar was the one of the most sought after yet dreaded over-possessive mother who could never accept her son falling in love with any other woman. Among the versatile ‘Ma’s, the names of Zohra Sehgal, Dina Pathak and Kiron Kherr are worth-mentioning. In the later years, Nirupa Roy was very successfully replaced by an equally teary-eyed Rakhee and an equally, if not more, mushy Reema Lagoo.

2. ‘Ramu Kaka’ – The ‘Ramu Kaka’ is not only a valet. He is our unshakeable link to the values like honesty, faithfulness and servitude. If the parents died in a road accident or are not around for other reasons, then he would feed the child like a mother, and would offer his back for the kid to ride upon like a father would. Where ‘Ramu Kaka’‘s native place is, who are the members of his family, are questions that remain unanswered to this day. ‘Ramu Kaka’ blended into the background, with a steel glass on his old hands and a red cleaning cloth on his shoulders. He is a member of the extended family, and if he is hurt, then everyone in the family is hurt. As the typical Bollywood family gravitated from huge, happy, noisy joint families to slick, nuclear ones, the ‘Ramu Kaka’s began to become scarce. But nevertheless, this self exile from happy coexistence to self-sufficient islands of solitude has not exactly served to erase the image of ‘Ramu Kaka’ from our minds.

3.‘Doctor Sahab’ – Think, what would the epic ‘Anand’ be without the serious-minded Dr. Bhaskar (played by a lean, mean Amitabh Bachchhan)? But Dr. Bhaskar was an aberrant rather than the stereotype. The ‘Doctor Sahab’ of our films was invariably bespectacled, with a stethoscope hung around his neck and a brown briefcase clutched to his hands. He touched the radial pulse and made the diagnosis. With his predictable monotonous voice, he could rattle out the degree of temperature in a febrile patient without having to use a thermometer, could give ‘injections’ in a nano-second, operate without gloves in a dimly lit operation theatre and whenever he came out of the OT, he invariably said either of the two things - ‘मरीज़ को दवा की नही दुआ की ज़रूरत है’ or ‘मुबारक हो! बेटा हुआ है’. ‘Doctor Sahab’ did not demand any visiting fee, usually drove a Premier Padmini of nondescript colour, always wore a brown blazer and was never in a hurry. Cut to the present and you see state-of-the-art hospitals in movies like the ‘3 Idiots’ (also a movie where engineers aid in the process of labour!). Our  ‘Doctor Sahab’ was a simple, multitalented guy with the acumen to take care of  anything from ‘brain tumour’ to ‘खट्टा खाने का मन कर रहा हैं’.

4. ‘Lalaji‘ – Well, Bollywood ‘Lalaji’ were lecherous, loud, dhoti-clad money lenders who did not have an iota of humanity in them. They lent money and mortgaged the land of the poor families, demanded exorbitant interest rates and at times made the poor women pawn their jewelleries (including the pious Mangalsutra). At times, if not often, they took ‘’’advantage’ of young widows (which is usually referred to as ‘हैवानियत की हद पार’). These category of money-lenders had the red juice of paan (betel leaves) drooling at the angles of their mouths, had stained black teeth, always wore a topi  (Indian hat) and had an honest Munimji (clerk) at his payroll.

5. ‘Wafaadar Kutta’ – I know, I know. I must apologise to the dog-lovers for calling a dog a dog. For they are supposed to be better than humans. Coming to the point, there are quite a few Hindi flicks where the dog has made significant contribution to the storyline. What would ‘Hum Aapke Hain Kaun’ be without Tuffy? Tuffy could umpire a cricket match (Dickie Bird, move over!) in addition to carrying out various other errands. In ‘Teri Meherbaniya’, Jackie Shroff’s dog Brownie avenges his master’s death. In recent times, ‘Chillar Party’, an award-winning film, had a storyline which was woven around the dog Bhidu. ‘Wafaadar Kutta’ is not a mute, brute, salivating canine; rather, he is a confidante, a true friend.

So, as I unwillingly come to the end (as many other characters from the background cry for attention), I find myself missing these stereotypes from the current crop of suave, sophisticated movies. I see the glam-moms now and long for the ‘Ma’ who died for the want of the ‘bottle’ of medicine with cost a mere ten rupees. I watch the efficient safari-suit clad assistant who makes the hero’s life easy and find myself pinning for ‘Ramu kaka’ who took care of the hero as a child (उंगली पकड़ के चलना सिखाया). Alas! There is no ‘Lalaji’ to lend money; the multinational banks with techno-savvy CEOs have taken over. ‘Doctor Sahab’ has vanished too. And as for the ‘Wafaadar kutta’, well, there is still some hope. Ask Akshay Kumar who has worked with dogs for his upcoming film ‘Entertainment’.

The games we played

Long before multimillion endorsements made millionaires out of cricketers and soccer players reached demi-god status, many a now-forgotten game kept children engaged in activities which were better than watching cartoons and squabbling over video games. I can bet that even my own children have never heard of these games.

But maybe someday they will have some time to read about them if I scribble a few lines - before I forget too! I say this, because like dinosaurs, these games have also either vanished, or are on the verge of extinction.

I'll begin with “seven stones”. It was a game played with seven relatively flat-shaped stones, piled one top of the other, and the “stone-tower” was encircled with chalk. How this colonial name was coined in the remote villages of Assam baffles me; maybe it was one of the few legacies that the British left behind! Whatever its history might have been, our lazy afternoons were occupied by fervent (and mostly unsuccessful) attempts to dislodge the “stone-tower” from a distance with the help of a ball. Two teams, each consisting of at least two players, formed an attack team and a defense team.  The attack team were allowed three attempts to knock down the stone-tower; if they failed, then the defense and attack team changed places and continued to play. As soon as the ball knocked over the pile of stones, the defenders tried to get the opposition ‘out’ by hitting the players below the knee with the ball . The aim of the attacking team was to rearrange the pile of stones and trace the circle three times with their fingers before the defense ousted their team. Though it was the boys' domain, I managed to remain “not-out” by quarrelling or crying, as the situation demanded.

A girl besotted with Barbie may not be familiar with the game 'kutkut', but it used to be very popular among girls at my school. 'Kutkut' may seem simple, but those who played it knew it was not an easy game to master. A box with eight squares was chalked out. Any number of players could take part in the game. Each player had to toss a pebble into the first square and push it through to the last square in the box using one foot, while hopping on the other. The player was out if the pebble touched any line of the box, or if their raised foot dropped to the ground. The player also had to hold his/her breath and say 'kutkut' while pushing the pebble. The player could rest after reaching the last square and take a breath. Then, it was back to the first square to repeat your journey. I tried explaining the game to my nine year old niece, but she gave me an exasperated look and, without batting an eyelid, continued playing on her mother’s iPhone!

Dolls have been popular with little girls since time immemorial, but I can still see the shock on the face of my four year old neighbour when I told her that I used to play with rag doll; they were made from discarded scraps of cloth and thread, with crudely drawn faces. We did not have plastic or rubber dolls, but our  rag-dolls were by no means inferior. Often, we made a whole family of dolls  with the help of grownups in the family.  

Another favourite game among the girls was “paach guti”,  which we played with five small pebbles. Two players played against each other. The first player had to throw five pebbles lightly on the floor. Then she had to toss a pebble in the air, pick up one pebble from the ground and catch the air-borne pebble before it hit the ground. If the pebble touched the ground, then the player was ‘out’. The game had five (or was it six?) rounds – ‘ek guti’, ‘dui guti’, ‘tini guti’, ‘saari guti’, ‘dolong’, etc.

‘Kori khel’  is another game that is disappearing. Google search may lead you to a Pakistani village by the same name (yes, Pakistan has a city called Kori Khel!), but the back of my hands are marked by numerous scratches from schoolmates who loved playing this exciting game all through my high school days. We used four small sea shells; any number of players could participate. The rule was to hit one ‘kori’ with another, with each hit carrying one point. If all four koris fell  open side up, then it was a four-point-each-kori round, and the rush to grab the ‘kori’ led to casualties!

Our childhoods were devoid of remote-controlled cars, but thanks to Nestle, each packet of Maggi noodles was welcomed with a wide smile because it came with a small toy car. And, if your parents were feeling generous, a few lucky ones amongst even got a ‘Hot-Wheels’ car!

Yes, I know a Beyblade top spins like a skilled ballerina nowadays. But I know that my wooden tops and the ones made from litchi seeds and match-sticks were almost as fast in their spin and their speed…