Smartness or insensitivity?

Aapko Hindi aati hai? Family ke saath hoon. Samaan kho gaya hai. Bacche bhookey hein. Kuch help kar deejiye na?

It was the summer of 2003 in Chennai. The indefatigable sun seemed to be belting down rays, drying out every drop of moisture on land. This summer seemed to have extended its stay for a while now. Nobody could resist a sip of anything cool that could trickle slowly down to the tummy creating an experience that was long lost since the day the summer set in.

The summer had finally taken its toll, I was ill. The heat had sapped all I had, leaving me with a body I had to replenish over and over again. The soaring body temperature wasn’t helping me either. My dad asked me to move to his friend’s place for the night after a visit to the doctor.

The distance I had to cover was around 4.5 kilometres, and the green in my wallet gave me a reason to walk the distance. As I slowly trudged on, halting and breathing for some respite, someone approached me.

There was a man, in his mid thirties with a baby in his hand, his wife stood a couple of feet behind with another toddler bundled in her arms. ‘Aapko Hindi aati hai? Family ke saath hoon. Samaan kho gaya hai. Bacche bhookey hein. Kuch help kar deejiye na?’ he said. His eyes looked tired, his wife’s eyes looked expectant of some help. The sun had been bad, but hadn’t been that bad to dry the moisture of humanity. It had to be a mix of ill health, blurred thinking and emotional overtones of being alone that I almost emptied my wallet, hoping he could buy some food and a ticket for his journey back home. As I walked after patting his back, urging him to take care, I felt better – much better. Something good seemed to be flooding my system, I wasn’t trudging any longer. The steps were confident; the narcotic of goodness had stung me.

When I reached my destination and narrated the incident, I looked around and realized all of them smiled with a sense of familiarity to what had happened. There seemed to be a group that did this emotional drama for a living. It took me long to recover. Long.

Dec 2013

On my way back home I stop to pick a few things on my way home from work. I get stopped by a person saying "Aapko Hindi aati hai? Family ke saath hoon. Samaan kho gaya hai. Bacche bhookey hein. Kuch help kar deejiye na?"

I see through him and walk-away. I wasn’t feeling great. What if he was indeed in trouble? What if his kids were indeed hungry? Had the sun managed to burn the last drop of moisture in me – I ponder.

Miss you Raja - Hope you don't misunderstand me...

Dear Raja,

Hope you are fine, but I also hope you are missing me! I so badly wanted to meet you. I failed to understand the notes we had exchanged last time. You sounded way too aggressive, not what my ‘madre’ wants me to act like. In fact my ‘madre’ has asked me not to act at all.

There are so many issues here, I so wish I could openly meet and talk to you about it. I am so hurt by the way people around are treating me. Earlier this week, a road side romeo rubbished me and ‘madre’ didn’t utter a word! I seriously pray that someday she will realize my value and respect me. Earlier, she would script things I had to say in front of others, but of late she doesn’t even give me scripts! Not that I get a free hand on what to say, it just means – I should shut up. It’s been months since I have heard my voice. My inner self seems to have gone on a retreat leaving me alone to fight this battle.

The other day, I went to a restaurant and ordered a ‘Palak Paneer’ and the waiter served me ‘Kaali Dal’; I asked my driver to take me to ‘Raniganj’ but he took me to ‘Hasratganj’! In short, nobody takes me seriously. In fact my voter ID comes with a 3d hologram of a smiley on it.

You please don’t misunderstand me just because I didn’t meet you. They all ganged up against me Raja. Madre, aunt Lalitha, uncle Karu all of them stood against our meeting. I seriously don’t know why. What harm could that have caused?

Could we atleast skype tonight? I will be wearing my blue... turban.

Love... Babe

Faithfully her's,

Manmu

(P.S: Your biggest take away from this blog is the word ‘madre’ which means mom in ITALIAN. The Raja here the Srilankan President Rajapaksa)

How I met your – market!

‘What a dog’s life am I leading’, I asked myself. Muttering curses under my breath, I stopped, and suddenly fell in love with the same ‘dog’s life’ I was cursing. Wondering why?

There he was, teaching my first lesson of the day. Curled up, snoozing away in the midst of screaming vendors, trying to attract buyers; buyers trying to strike a golden deal, and packets swinging everywhere. Nothing bothered him. He slept where he could, however he could, whenever he could. Dog’s life, this?

It was after a few years that I entered the farmers’ market, rayuthu bazaar, as they are locally known. Cramped would be an understatement. There wasn’t room to extend ones elbow unless one wanted to earn the choicest of expletives, but this dog had managed to snooze off, right in the middle of the pathway. Not a twitch was registered while people walked past, trying to avoid it. I couldn’t stop but think of a scene common at all the entrances of the ‘supermarkets’ - a fake namsate by a ‘military-dressed’ security guard, who frisks you to stop you from bombing it.  And anybody who stood at the entrance would be asked to move aside (read: shooed away), but here I saw a dog all cozy and asleep, undisturbed! From nowhere a word popped up in my mind - co-existence?

As I walked around, I noticed a huge difference in the way the folks here handled the stock. The one lone okra that rolled out of the bag was picked up and put back in place. (And the one onion that rolled out, vanished into someone’s pocket, even before the farmer could think of retrieving it – price rise!). I took long strides trying to check the whole area before I could pick some veggies. As I walked past a plush green mound of beans, I stopped, picked one and casually said, “Waah, now that looks like a great stock!” The reaction that followed made me realize how much I had missed in the past few years by staying away from this place. The farmer’s eyes brightened, his chest swelled and he flashed a smile. I so badly wanted my mom to react that same way every time she came to a ‘parent teacher meet’ when I was in school! A customary ‘thank you’ is for the western educated (maybe), but here, the reaction beamed a ‘thank you’ via a satellite you need to have a tuning to.

At the supermarket, I would have no qualms in registering with the salesmen that the stock is bad, but here, I wouldn’t dare do that. As a child, I remember the day when someone made fun of my rabbit tooth and ‘got it’ from my dad. Since then, the only people who make fun of my teeth are me... and my Dad.

Now, it was time for me to buy some okra (is this its new name? In school I was taught it was lady’s finger! Some bra-burner seems to have got his/her way through) or let me refer to it as ‘venadakkai’ (pride!). I chose to buy it from an old lady who sat next to her huge bagful of stock, arranging it with an ‘alignment’ that could put the formatting lines of a PowerPoint to shame. As I approached her, she looked up through her spectacles which looked repaired and re-repaired a dozen times. She picked the good tender ones into the weighing board, not letting me mess with the ‘alignment’, which the little OCD within me appreciated. The total came to Rs 25 and the learning began.

I gave her thirty rupees to which she responded with a ‘tchich’ and said no change. My response was, “give me back ten and I will give you a five before I leave the market”. Her reaction was an eye opener - her neck went slightly back as she frowned and pouted. I could see her quickly assess the damage possible, if I don’t come back with the ‘five’. She muttered a few more words to express her displeasure but by then I was lost. Her genuine concern about me not giving her the ‘five’ in a way helped me value money more than I have ever done. ‘No money is easy money’ – is what she had taught me. I gave her the ten and said I would collect the ‘five’ before I head out of the market. I dashed out of the market with a learning for which a ‘five’ was way too little.

On my way back, I had to pick up a packet of oil, for which I stopped at the ‘supermarket’ where I was handed a trademark supermarket 99-rupee bill. I gave a hundred rupee note and in return got a packet of oil and a ‘toffee’. I stood there and muttered a few words to express my displeasure finally saying ‘I need my rupee!’

As I slid the rupee into my pocket, I smiled and thanked my teacher. I had already recovered 20% of my tuition fee and the profits weren’t far away.

The Unsung Deities

A month before the D-Day when the Mahalaya song echoes not just through the speakers but through every soul that connects to it, people start posting pictures of muddy idols, artists putting together seemingly inconspicuous artifacts or just getting a rough draft of the ‘design’. With every passing year what intrigues me more is "what does the artist look at the idol as?" For him is the idol an extension of the divine herself, or is it his own artistic expression which has nothing much to do with the mythology and superstitions, or is it just a job he has taken up for survival?

Before I go further let me understand the word ‘brilliance’. Brilliance happens where there is an undying interest, an unfathomable search to learn more, and an indelible label of being an unrelenting student of whichever discipline that interests the individual. And to retain the tenant by the name ‘brilliance’ one has to pledge nothing less than a lifetime of dedication and respect.

If you have been lucky to witness the ‘celebration of art’ as I put it, I am sure you are no stranger to the brilliance I am talking about here. Every nook and corner of the make shift structure that suddenly sprouts out during the festive season demands in a profound yet subtle manner a piece of your attention.

Earlier there used to be flickering lights unaware of the bigger story it was actually conveying. Sometimes it conveyed the whole life of the goddess or depicted a social issue in a very palatable manner. With the lights outside the work of art was mainly limited to the insides of the ‘pandal’. But as time went by and people soon realized stories are best told by people who know them first hand. And very soon there was an upsurge of artistic storytelling sometimes even spilling over the streets!

Now let me draw a few analogies and see what could be drawn as a conclusion from the same. Lets picture a newly wedded couple, doing all they can to set their dream house, an entrepreneur who is running pillar to post to see his dream venture spiral into the next orbit, and an artist who is giving life to an idol which has to look worth the title of ‘God’. I believe none of the three have the luxury of being lackadaisical towards the task in hand. None of them have the net ready to save them as a trapeze artist has. None of them could have a comprehensive response to the ‘what if it goes wrong’ phrase.

When I tried to study each situation I noticed a stark learning that emerged as a winner.

The newly wedded couple couldn’t readily accept the fact that the T.V had to go back to the showroom thanks to a failed EMI. The entrepreneur couldn’t acknowledge the fact when reality clearly pointed that he had his money on the wrong idea. But the artist who visualized year round to create the ‘God’ for millions never complained when she was taken away from him first to the dais of the ‘pandal’ which was off-limits to him and then taken to the ghats of the Ganga where all he could do was stand witness to the act of letting her go with the unceasing tide lapping every-bit of his baby which others saw as ‘Ma’.

The artist’s ability to disengage is something that hit me like a bolt. The lack of emotions during the drift surely cant be seen as indifference.

The brilliance of the artist comes with the fact that he could give his best and beyond to create the ‘God’ for the world and still disengage the moment he realized it was time to let her go. The response to the most insatiable urge- ‘I want happiness’ lies in the ability to disengage. We might pray for happiness when we stand in front of the ‘God’ but in reality, the answer to our prayers gets demonstrated maybe in a dilapidated shed where the ‘artist’ creates a something for us to... worship.

What went wrong

He was tired, his head hurting, his feet cramping, his heart pumping like never before, but  he decided to settle down and do what he always did - People Watch.

The kid was happy to be selected in the big league. He was all of 11 but had got a chance to play for the under 18 level of the game. He started to believe, he belonged to the bigger stage. In his mind he had seen images of him doing well with vivid details that only reality could challenge. 

The day finally arrived, his father quietly walked with him to the stadium. His turn arrived, he went and recieved a body blow that shattered him between his ears. Asked to head home right away, he limped holding his fathers hand for support, he cringed with pain unaware of what awaited him.

Once he reached home, came the bigger shock, his father ordered for the bag of medicines he had purchased the previous night. As asked for, came the big bag of everything, from a basic bandage to hot and cold packs, from pain killers to  sports sprays, from ointments to stress managing drugs. It is at this point when he felt a pain shattering him just beneath the chest.

The tired man by the sidelines smiled to himself... thinking

Why did the fathers action hurt more than the real pain...?

Was the father wrong by demonstrating his confidence in his son's failiure...?

Or was it the boy's mistake to BELIEVE he belonged to the big league just because he got a chance...?

With questions answared and otherwise, he headed back to where he came from..... the peaceful fool's paradise.

Bachelor Party

The heading force-feeds images of booze flowing, incessant banter, loud chortles and some serious strutting. But very different to all of it, I had a bachelor party yesterday.

Having moved into a new apartment with a barren kitchen, the chef in me wriggled uneasliy night after night. My taste buds were tired complaining about the extra salt, the extra spice, the extra chilli and/or the extra oil. But the complaints accumilated over time and pushed me to - set my own kitchen. Little did I know that it could well be a bachelor's nightmare. First I buy a 2 burner stove just to see, I picked one without the stand. And when I go to exchange it, I get looks from people around yelling 'dersion' through their eyes. One lady even asked me... "how could you even pick this one up?", all I could do in response was, appreciate the dirt on my shoes.

Then comes the issue every Indian fights for atleast once in his/her life - GAS CYLINDER. I think the number of people who have died out of disspointment for not getting one could easily overweigh the ones who died in a gas cylinder blast...! But sanity prevailed in my case, and instead of waiting for a regular connection (that would make anybody proud) I decide to go for the small commercial cylinders and in the process also realize, they have custom made 'small' regulators too. Hope you have guessed by now, that I purchased a regular sized regulator, which had to be 'exchanged'. And when I went to the shop to do that, 'somebody' said 'something' like..."how could you even pick this one up?" and the dirt continued to fascinate me.

This excercise, has helped and taught me loads about 'Holistic Thinking'. Then comes the connecting tube which would help the cylinder bring the burner to life. Thanks to the gross ads and the T.V serials, this tube has gained a lot of importance. You could  drive a bike without brakes, scuba dive without oxygen, sky-dive without parachutes, sing in public without a helmet BUT the gas tube is something we want to be ABSOLUTELY sure about. And yes I bought one, infact the best one. (no exchanges have been reported as yet)

Then comes the 'Utensils' part...! Walk into any shop selling utensils and you naturally relate to a baby in a topless bar. Non-stick, Aluminium, Copper bottom (!), Ceramic, Steel, Stainless Steel, Teflon coated, Induction compatible...!@#$%^&..! Thumb rule - choose something that comes in sets and in a box - it saves you the excercise of reasoning 'why were they packed together'. And yes I picked a set - Non Stick with no beef coating hence protecting myself from the wrath of holy gods. (Yes I asked the guy selling it..!)

Now with the HOW being answered, I started to think of 'WHAT', as in what to cook? Walked across to the shop and bought a packet of oil (vegetable, refined, mustard, groundnut and a zillion others to choose from), salt, mustard seeds, 1 capsicum, 1 potato, 1 tomato and 2 (yey!!) chillies and the shopkeeper knew what to ask... "how could you even pick this up?" and gave the vegetables for free. Yes there are times when a 'free' makes you..... ummmmmm... happy?All set, I turn the cylinder on, turn the stove on and play rambo with the 'click' igniter. click click click....click click click... it gave up on me! With the gas already smelling like it is going to consume me for not paying dowry..!(it comes to your mind) I turned the gas off and bring my match box (from the prayer room... I know what this could lead to) and lo, the blue flame looks beautiful, so beautiful that I stare at it appreciating.

Then came the 'Non-stick' kadhai, (without the sticker) adjusting its curvy bum over the flame. The oil, mustard seeds, veggies, salt and MAGGI...! At the end, I played some nice music as I ate the concoction with a smile. Yes a 'bachelor' party it was indeed...

Harshy ka Dabba

Yesterday I did something maybe I shouldn’t have done... stood observing kids as they came out from school after a long day heading towards their sweet little homes. I had a long task-list in mind, but those moments I spent observing them helped me go far away from everything. The energy in their eyes, their innocence so unaware of the gaping hole in their pants, their humble minds that knew nothing while running towards their mom who was waiting outside, wiping the sweat off her forehead after what could already be a long day.

I am sure their day started in sparkling white clothes which was now a shade better than black. I froze there registering the reaction on the face of the mom, her mouth open and a hand almost clasping her head as she saw her world rolling out of its tiny classroom dirty and dishelved like a miner. But who cares about the clothes when the world knows how to run towards their mom, arms wide open and a smile that could put the phrase ‘ear to ear’ to shame. 

There was chaos, but there seems to be a pattern so sure about everything. The bags were flung towards the mom who wanted to wipe the face as it wanted to look towards the other friend with a sense of victory for his mother reached there before his friend’s. The indelible sense of achievement writ all over their faces which clearly read – ‘survived another day of school’.

One kid runs out and heads towards the idol touching its feet before caressing the trunk of it, which to me combined respect and playfulness in a subtle yet so profound manner. Two other beautiful girls walked with their hands flung over each-others shoulder talking about ‘what a day it had been’ and as they walked, one girl tripped but the other fell...! The mythical definition of friendship just enacted itself in front of me as I stood there taking mental notes of all the familiar things which looked painfully stale in my memories.

Wish I could have held on to the age when... the flowers near the idols were indeed blessed, a promise meant a world if not more, a waiting mom was worth rushing as if ones life was at stake, a homework not done fed more guilt than anything, a teachers hug stayed in memories forever, a new pencil gave all pride till it had to be sharpened for the first time, Google didn’t have all the answers but mom and dad had, bumping into your school mate in a social gathering made you feel as if you knew more than half the world, a promised visit to the park when kept meant more than a world tour, a colour wrapper placed to be peeping from dad’s pocket brought more smile than a deal worth a million, when friends would listen even when they understood nothing in the gibberish one blurted while crying... hmmm. Even during times when people ask me to ‘grow up’, I wish I could just stay there, right there, where it was ‘the’ day that I lived for.