The 'then' life

Though Not as old as the rustic red walls of the Lal Quila, I am now old enough to recall the times when I had a lot of friends in my life despite the absence of cell phones, social media and emails. That was a time when we looked forward to the annual Book Fair, and when five hundred rupees was a princely sum to buy a load of books. The were no eBooks, and the paper ones that we had were prized possessions. Information had to be dug out from the piles of old newspapers at home, or from the books and journals in the maze of bookshelves in public libraries. Knowledge and information were not a click away; and photocopies of notes and books were gratefully accepted and used. Libraries were cool places to be back then. We knew how to write using a pen and paper and took pride in our neat handwriting and fountain pens. We used to write letters to our cousins and friends. And pen friends added spice to our simple everyday life. Playboy and Debonair magazines were kept hidden by brothers and uncles under mattresses or in piles of ‘normal’ books. Then, the internet landed in cyber cafes, and information on sex could be accessed without the exercise of buying magazines and shady books and the task of hiding it from the female relatives could be avoided. And here we are today, every human being has a phone. So now every move we make, every breath we take is under scrutiny and every place we visit is exotic in our edited photos, including the shop of the neighbourhood butcher who cares nothing about maintaining hygiene. In the absence of ‘influencers’, the studious boy-next-door or the polite-cousin were our idols (or rather, our parents wanted us to be like them). No matter how ‘down’ we felt or how much ‘solitude’ or ‘space’ we craved for, it was mandatory to greet the guests who dropped uninvited (naturally) at our homes in the evenings or Sunday mornings. And deviation to this would end up with some robust verbal summon and/or a nice slap or two. Lunches were spontaneous, joyous affairs with the much-awaited chicken curry reserved for Sundays. There was no unlimited access to chips, pizza, carbonated drinks, or fat-laden burgers. The television, which had just one channel till we were well into out teens (when DD Metro brought glamour to our living rooms), was out of bounds for the kids for the entire week; this necessitated that we actually got ourselves busy with outdoor/indoor games or engage in hobbies like painting, singing, etc. News was more neutral then, and the audience was open to discussion and debate (not one sided!). Sunsets were enjoyed through the open windows, or over a cup of tea (milk for the kids!) on the verandah, and not on Instagram pages. And yes, good communication skills were mandatory, and so was responding to everyone with courtesy and a smile. The neighbourhood shopkeeper was familiar as we had to take umpteen trips to buy household and school items. Now, we inhabit our own echo chambers constantly reinforcing our own biases, don’t we? Visits to friends and relatives were unannounced, and cooking for guests was not a taxing and unwanted errand. There were no takeaways or ‘home-delivery’ facilities, and kids looked forward to play with the children who visited – remaining incommunicado poring over mobile phones was unimaginable. White luci (not atta-puri) and crunchy potato fry (not frozen French Fries) was ambrosia and milk tea with sugar was the common beverage. There were problems in relationships and friendships, back then too. But issues would be solved with discussion, cajoling, reprimanding, and understanding. Now we judge our friend’s/partner’s mood from little messages, some which may just be emojis. Privacy did exist, but its need was far from pathological – the elders opined and suggested, and the younger ones did lend patient hearing. Individual needs and desires were a part of the system, and not the entire story. And there was some joy, some inquisitiveness (not unhealthy interest) in fishing our phone numbers from dog-eared directories and relying on our inbuilt grey calls to find out landline numbers and birthdays of people. There were no digital prompts and ‘contact list’ on phones. Yes, birthdays were celebrated with friends and families over simple, home cooked food, with actual physical energy pouring out of every pore in our bodies; even the cakes, though not always perfect, were baked with love by our family members. Like the rapidly vanishing ‘scooters and Assam-type homes, some aspects of our lives are gone forever. And with us will vanish these wonderful memories and reminisces of the life we led and lived. And no, we cannot bring back those days, and to be frank, we may even choose not to go back to those cumbersome (somewhat) era. But then, if we do not keep digital footprints of our times, then who will?

Brand Reminisces

The recent demise of Rasna creator Areez Pirojshaw Khambatta somehow opened the door to the memories of the value of “brands” during our childhood years (read “the 80s and the early 90s”). 

Back then, there were fewer choices, more honesty and some more faith in commercial entities than the hovering clouds of distrust we see now. I sat with a piece well-buttered toast and a steaming cup of black coffee today morning. And suddenly, I realized that the butter tasted different! Ah, I remembered, it’s not the usual brand which I have been buying – my local go-to-grocer Talukdar replaced it with some new brand. When I was smitten with the good looks of Andre Agassi and the cool demeanour of Stephen Edberg, there was no cooking butter, unsalted butter, fermented butter, white butter, non-dairy butter, low fat non-dairy butter-like spreads and blah blah. There was but one and only one choice – salted, pale yellow Amul butter - take it or leave it! Jam was Kissan, noodles was Maggi. Homemade soft drinks included Rasna, Trinka, Tang and Glucon-D. At our home, Rasna was the official welcome drink for the kids.

Tomato Ketchup was Kissan too – it didn’t have any pumpkin paste. Kachuachaap Machhar Agarbatti was the only mosquito repellent for years and most locks were Harrisons (हरिसोंन ताला) and all steel almirahs were Godrej. School shoes were invariably from Bata, and sports shoes were Action. Bata shoes (black) had to be used for one complete academic year; small wears and tears were mended deftly by the local cobbler (मोची). Saree was Vimal, Only Vimal…Suit could be nothing other than Raymonds. And bedsheets meant Bombay Dyeing. 

Luxury on road was undoubtedly Ambassador. Manufactured by Hindustan Motors since 1958, the Ambassador was the first and only Indian car to be in production for more than 50 years. This unique car was a symbol of Indian pride as it was preferred by the aristocrats, the Indian army and the top government officials. As the years passed, the spacious Ambassador started becoming a part of many middle class families. Over time, people started opting for the smaller, sleek looking cars that could fit in with their busy city life. Slowly the sales declined and in 2014 the production of the Ambassador ceased forever. Premier Padmini, the name that unfolds a flurry of nostalgic memories from the good old days, is alive and kicking in Mumbai. For me, the word “Fiat” brings back memories of the boy I fell in love with in school, because his father owned a Fiat. I still remember it's registration number. As compared to the Ambassador, the car looked more modern in appearance, was more fuel-efficient and was easy to drive. However, Premier Padmini was only available in petrol version and so was limited to the upper middle class. With the arrival of cheaper and more fuel-efficient cars from Maruti Suzuki in late 1980s, it was twilight time for the Fiat. 

Apart from brands of pens like Pilot, most of us ended up using Wing Sung – gold capped, Chinese ink pens with little squeezees inside for the ink, and Hero, the greyish white-bodied pens which were (and still are) my personal favourite. Chelpark was the de facto choice for ink, and some boring ones used Sulekha ink too (I was a fan of the former). Just Camlin or Natraj pencils ruled the world of writing paraphernalia, and I loved the fancy white Natraj erasers that superseded the rough, gray ones that blackened my notebook pages. 

Romance found expression in the dog-eared pages of Mills and Boons. Sex education was sought after in the pages of old issues of Debonair. Soaps included Lifebuoy, Liril and Cinthol among others; the budding damsels opted for the brand Lux. I loved the aroma of Liril - from Karen Lunel in the 70s to Preity Zinta in the 90s - the damsel in the waterfall. Do I really need to elaborate anymore?

Masochism was eponymous with a dash of Old Spice. And condom would mean Nirodh – the ultra-thin and the flavoured types were yet to flood the market, and the senses… Lalitaji’s pearls of wisdom on which washing powder made your whites look whiter was hard to miss on the sparsely-allowed-to-watch television. So, our mothers stuck to Surf. Nirma came later into our lives. Ranipal was one of the cloth whitening agents (like Ujala) that I have seen my mother using during my childhood.  Wristwatch meant HMT - now, this is profound because my late father wore one. I have kept his watch till date. By the middle of the 1990s with its market share eroding, the watch business had turned loss maker for HMT. Time ran out on HMT watches in 2016 when the government shut down the last plant. 

As I age, I get a feeling that I am becoming more and more nostalgic about the simple life, limited number of options and opportunities that were present, good food, clean environment, closer interactions with people, no social media friendships and liaisons,  and less of noise and emissions that electronic-mechanical machines cause.  Or maybe I just wish to travel back in time and relive, realign and rearrange a few incidents and moments of the days of my life gone by….

স্মৃতিৰ ছায়াঁ

স্নিগ্ধ জোনাকৰ বৰষাত, তিতা নয়নৰ পৰৰসত কঁপি উঠা দুটি কায়া... আবেগৰ ঢৌৱে উটুৱাই নিলে, আৰু বননিত পৰি ৰ'ল মাথোঁ স্মৃতিৰ ছায়াঁ।।

HERE YESTERDAY, GONE TODAY..

My BFF, who's an avid gardener, ensures that the dependable Alexa manages the timings of switching on and switching off the beautiful garden lights of her chic garden. The smartphone alarm wakes up my kids every morning on time. The sleek bluetooth speaker blares out sombre numbers in the cosy evenings to set the mood for an intimate dinner when my newly-wed niece plans a surprise dinner for her husband. So our homes are probably filled with items that would have seemed incredibly futuristic a decade back. From robot mops which are giving the Shanta bais a run for their money to fans that can be turned on with our phone, the humble abode today  is bristling with technological wonders. While our preoccupation with ourselves might make it impossible for us to be consciously aware of the feverish pace of change today, it is  easy to look back on dozens of things that are now completely obsolete thanks to the march of scientific and technological progress. Remember the time when the Oxford English Dictionary was a staple in every household? The voluminous book was the ultimate solution to each word whose meaning needed to be found out. Not any more though; Google is our database of meaning now. The paper dictionary with dog-eared pages now lie in the forgotten corners of decaying bookshelves.  Video Home System, VHS, was the ultimate source of home entertainment when this forty something yours truly was in her teens. VCRs and VCPs enabled time-shifting, or recording a show to watch later, or watching a movie stealthily when the  parents  were away. Video rental stores raked in the moolah, especially by renting out 'bluefilms' to eager teenagers who had no access to forbidden knowledge,  barring an odd Debonair or Fantasy magazine, stealthily read in unfathomable hideouts. The VHS died a slow death, struggling for a decade or so to survive the onslaught of newer innovations. Netflix's maiden streaming plan in 2007 hammered the final nail to the coffin of  analog movie tapes in 2007. Funai, the last company on the blue planet making VCRs, stopped production in 2016, putting the end to an era where people gathered together in the living rooms of the fortunate VHS owners to enjoy a matinee show. Any commuter in any location in the world is more likely than not to have a pair of earbuds or headphones on as they walk, exercise, work or ride to their destination. Amazing yet true is the fact that personal portable music didn't exist, at least not in any mainstream fashion, when my generation was learning to walk - not until the Sony Walkman came along in 1979. The Walkman  sold 220 million units over the course of three decades. Finally, in 2010, Sony retired the classic cassette tape Walkman line, although mine still sits proud in the middle shelf of the showcase in the library.  There was a time when no Delhi road was free from the Blueline buses. And in those buses, the shrill-voiced vendors used every marketing tactic to sell maps of the national capital. The paper maps helped all, especially tourists and newbie Delhites, to reach their destinations. Tourists' paraphernalia in any place under the  sun was incomplete without a detailed  map of the area they were visiting. Predictably, GPS navigation has severely constrained road map sales, and the fact is that they are simply not essential anymore. Road maps started to lose their value over time, and eventually, cars started being designed with built-in GPS, and today, even that innovation is redundant, thanks to smartphones with GPS and map apps. The clickety-clack of the typewriter added gravity to the act of documentation. When my father was a young man ( he would have been in his mid 70s' now, had he been alive), the typewriter was a status symbol of professional achievement. It was among the few products that a service-class youngster aspired to buy someday, besides a scooter and a television set. In the early 2000s, across offices, computers began replacing electronic typewriters - which had replaced the traditional variants. In 2011, the world's last remaining manual typewriter manufacturer closed for good in Mumbai, and it marked the demise of an office and literary symbol. The arrival of word processors, followed closely behind by personal computers, put an end to the era of the typewriter. Today it has largely been relegated to the position of an ornament, doorstop, or collectible. There was a time, not so long ago, when  people had to stop if they wanted to make calls on the go. This was before  phones were pocket-sized supercomputers. The places where  they stopped to make those calls were called PCOs, and it didn't mean polycystic ovary. PCO, or public call office, had people cramming outside them as they waited for their turn. There also used to be one ‘lucky’ caller inside a tiny cabin, almost always lost in a deep conversation, with just a glass door separating his world from the rest. With mobile phones came the end of PCOs. Most of the PCO booths transformed into a small time shops selling mobile phones and prepaid data cards. The once thriving PCO is extremely nostalgic for people in my generation for sure. These material things will never reappear. Some days, I wish I could go back in life, not to change things but just to feel a few things twice.  "For sailors who love the wind, memory is a good port of departure."