Sarkar Raaj

A guest blog-post by Amartya Gautam

The Srinivas family, over the past few months has been hit by the shrapnel from the explosions of creative writing. The attack came from unexpected quarters as one of their own discovered the writer within, and thus through the ensuing blogs, reasserted her position as the supreme commander of the Srinivas forces, inspiring from all in her vicinity, the familiar feelings of awe, fear and respect all at once.

Battered and bruised, the victims approached the bravest soldier amidst them. And thus, I write this on behalf of all the unsuspecting victims, my fate as a martyr decided even as I typed the first few words.

(I must make my case as a brave youth, you see, for I am informed by reliable sources that the next post will seriously jeopardize my reputation as the same!)

The aging matriarch (this description alone carries death penalty), is often mistaken as a docile creature – my friends, for example, dismiss my accounts of our fierce battles. They insist that Suchi AUNTY is always smiling, extremely sweet and friendly. Little do they know that our clashes matched that of bhima and hidimba( she being hidimba, of course), except more intense perhaps. The skies and the earth have trembled (the rest of the family and neighbours too), as we fought tooth and nail, giving no quarter. Even my father’s harried attempts at being a peace emissary were of no avail. You think I exaggerate? Take another case, of her trying to teach Ananya maths. The mere mention of it sends the rest of us into fits of laughter, while the two of them exchange painful smiles, their eyes conveying to each other the burden of the tragedy only they must share. Typically, the maths lesson starts with utmost sincerity on both sides. The guru and shishya, ready to embark on their voyage of knowledge. Ten minutes into it, one hears a reprimand or two from the adjacent room, in a mildly exasperated voice. Ten minutes later, one can hear several more of these at a distinctly higher volume, accompanied with cranky protests from another voice. At this point, if there is no intervention by some peace loving being, all hell breaks loose and one is forced to consider that the apocalypse has perhaps, after all, arrived in 2012. The remainder of the family, while sensibly not engaging with this formidable force in battles of such epic proportions, are wary of poking the eye of the sleeping dragon.

Mrs. Suchismita Srinivas (Suchismita Sarkar, before marriage), is much like Hippogriffs – you’re in big trouble if you mess with them, but if they like you, they can be really nice too. The trick is to dodge the occasional moments of wrath, and has been so far mastered only by one person, and he is married to her.

There is one thing that we all agree on, though:

In our household, there is Sarkar Raaj.

Kids Shids tey Chicken Khurana

At the very beginning, let me salute every fond Mama or Papa who has gladly suffered their kids’ birthday parties year after year - armed with a grin and a jar of Tiger Balm.

For me, it has been the same old story for the past 19 years... I have gotten all gung ho about celebrating the b'day of one or the other of my kids. But as D-day/B-day came near, my gung-ho-ness levels had fallen rapidly... and by the time the day had got over, I had been left wishing that I was elsewhere - maybe some serene place where wild dogs were tearing me apart, or a slobbering monster was boiling me in hot oil...

Because whenever I think ‘Kid’s Birthday Party’, a nightmarish slideshow flashes through my head: I am surrounded by about 253 open mouths – all yelling chaotically choreographed yells of ‘Auntie more cake’, ‘Auntie juice’, ‘Auntie toilet’ or some such thing. There are kids crawling out of the woodwork and tumbling out of every cupboard. And the noise!! 2-3 hours of non-stop, incredible decibel levels of NOISE! When the attack finally subsides, I am left with confetti strewn all around, unsightly coke and food stains on the sofa, maybe a few broken chairs or curtain rods... and of course, a bunch of recycled gifts.

3 years ago, I almost swore off kids’ parties of any type – after being under siege for more than 24 hours, by my daughter and her two friends who had come to spend a day at our place. Back then, I had come home from work to find that the three 9-year olds had massacred half of my wardrobe and cosmetics, left 3 huge depressions on my bed after having used it as a trampoline (WITH my high heeled shoes on, from the look of it), and used my best perfumes as air fresheners – spraying them indiscriminately all over the house.

So last week, when Ananya asked for a birthday party, I thought I would be smarter this time around, and take her out with a handful of her friends. Minimise collateral damage and all that, you know.

It was one of the MOST feather brained ideas I could have come up with. When I had asked her if she wanted to go for a movie with a few friends, the number I had in mind was 3, or maybe 4 kids. Gross miscalculation – I had neither factored in the pester power of siblings nor Ananya’s generosity when it came to handing out invitations.

Saturday, 10^th November arrived. And so did the kids – all 10 of them. No last minute no-shows (as I had half hoped)!

After they had stuffed themselves with home made namkeen and murukku (courtesy, my ma-in-law), loads of gooey chocolate cake and coke, we left for the multiplex to catch a movie. We had barely reached our seats, when a couple of kids piped up, ‘Auntie, Coke aur Popcorn?’ Of course! After all, it was all of 20 minutes since they had eaten! Rama (one of the parents who had accompanied me) and I shushed them, saying, ‘Later.’ But we knew we could not stall for too long.

And I learnt an important lesson in life... the hard way. Never, EVER take a gang of kids to watch a movie with a leitmotif of food... and farts. Luv Shuv tey Chicken Khurana is an enjoyable movie... but NOT if you are watching it with nearly a dozen kids seated in the row behind you. Everybody knows that kids turn into cola-and-popcorn-processing machines even while watching a regular movie - imagine what would happen in a movie where there is constant banter about food! And the less said about kids' affinity for fart jokes, the better.

Still, it was a novel experience! I don’t think I will ever again watch a movie where every fifth line spoken by an actor is punctuated by a dismembered voice muttering, ‘Auntie, khana kab aayega?’ behind me. And when I was not experiencing some spectral being breathing down my neck (quite literally), I was running outside to fetch water, or food, or haranguing the assistant at the food stall outside to hurry up with the food and save my life!

Finally the movie ended. And it was time for – what else, more food. This time around it was burger meals at a fast food joint. When the kids were ordering, I was certain we were ordering too much. 40 minutes later, looking at the cleaned up plates, I wondered if we had ordered too little...

Anyway, the party finally ended after dropping the kids back home. Ananya left to continue her party – at a friend’s place. Just as I was about to  change into my night clothes and fall upon the bed, my son asked which movie we had been to. “Luv Shuv tey Chicken Khurana,” said I. “Chicken! I miss chicken...,” said the lad, “Can we go out and get some... now?”

It was 10.15 pm.

But it was no point trying to... err... chicken out. There was to be no escape from food (and yes, chicken) for me that day!

45 minutes later, we were at a neighbourhood pub. As Amartya devoured chicken seekhs with gusto, I sat sipping on some warm cognac, my brain in a ‘time out’ state.

It was peacetime - after a one-day frenzied war. I felt content. The kids had enjoyed themselves to the hilt. (And though I simply hate to admit it in public, I kind of had a good time too!) My daughter, of course, was thrilled to bits with the party. 

And that, I guess, is why we Mamas and Papas of the world do it... over and over again, every year. Sure, it’s a lot of effort... but ultimately, that’s chicken feed when it's your child’s happiness at stake...

That Day of the Year

September 5.

It’s that day of the year again... when I most acutely miss being a teacher, miss spending a largish chunk of my day surrounded by kids of all shapes, sizes and temperaments.

They can be absobloominlutely maddening at times. You enter the class, with 95% of your mind on how to teach them that tough Algebra concept, and 5%  still worrying about that clogged drain you left back at home - to a welcome of 40 kids going chikipikichikipikichikipikichikipikichikipiki..MA’AMLOOKWHATHEISDOING..chikipikichikipiki...ma’ampranavisbeatingme...MA’AAAAAaaaam... kaboooom...THUDDDDDD!!!

And a great source of inadvertent humour at other times. How can I forget that notebook from one of my students, with a cancelled out problem, and a note written alongside in a neat little hand - “Q5 done on backside.” Well, for a moment, just for a moment, I did contemplate retorting with, “Err.. whose? And how the hell do you expect me to check it?” on his notebook... but then, better sense prevailed.

But on the whole, life is SO much more fun with them than without... One gets really attached to them, too. I think I howled more than the kids did when I left my first school, The Naval Public School at Chanakyapuri, New Delhi. And among all the touching, adoring messages of, “We love you ma’am”, “Please come back soon” and “We’ll miss you tons” - there was this strange epistle from a sixth grader - “Ek glass mein whisky, ek glass mein beer, oh my dear, happy new year!” :D

It’s no point trying to figure that one out – because there is nothing to be figured out. A child says whatever she or he is impressed with, to impress the teacher. And that honesty, that naivety, that unquestioning belief and affection, is what is so endearing about them.

It’s nearly 12 years since I stopped teaching. And now, when I don’t have my students around, I realise what I am missing. Being with them, around them, made me feel alive, young, fresh... their vivacity is contagious. I miss so much from my teaching days – the animated discussions in class, the adulation, the hand drawn cards on Diwali, New Year and Teacher’s Day... yes, I even miss the constant chikipikichikipikichikipiki chatter!

So this Teacher’s Day, I am going to turn things on their head, and make it a thanksgiving for all those I have taught over the years. Toh hey, all you kids (now grown up dudes and gals) out there - you really mean a lot to me and have given me trainloads of happiness. Thank you, and bless you all...

India 'International'

HELLLLLP!!!!!

We, the Indian Middle Class, are at the receiving end of an 'International' conspiracy! The infamous ‘Foreign Hand’ has diversified beyond politics now! I am speaking of the 'International' Schools that are springing up at an alarming rate all over the countryside.

Until 15 years ago or so, the magic mantra in education was 'Convent Schools'. Back then, everybody wanted the 'Convent' school tag. Every Sharmaji, Ghosh babu and Singh saab would proudly announce, "Our son goes to a Convent, you know!" And while this might conjure up the image of an adolescent boy running amuck amongst a flock of nuns, in reality it would probably mean the boy attended a school run by missionaries. It was equally likely, however, that the kid went to some place called 'St. Vivekananda Convent Public School'. Or maybe even, 'DAV Public Convent School'. DAV-Public-Convent!! What kind of lethal cocktail is that, you might think... but yeh India hai yaar, the land of Matar Paneer Pizza and International Vaishnav cuisine. Yahan sab kuch possible hai! Apart from catching Don, that is.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, what 'Convent' schools were to the Indian middle class at one time, 'International' schools are today.

Now, everybody wants to jump on to the 'International' bandwagon. No longer is ‘International’ a bastion of the rich and famous. Go to any middle-class neighbourhood in a metro. Go to Warangal, Chhindwara or Jhumri Telaiya. Chances are, there is at least one 'International' school there.

However, 'International' schools today are no more ‘International’ than the 'Convent schools' of yore were places ‘inhabited and run by nuns’. Based on my observations, I would say there are essentially 3 types of International Schools:

1. The La-Di-Da International School (Or, as they increasingly seem to prefer calling themselves now – the La-Di-Da ‘World’ School). These are the schools where the rich and famous RNIs (Resident Non Indians) send their children. These schools follow an International(IB or IGCSE) curriculum. But more importantly, the principal (male or female) has the liberty to come to school wearing shorts, and the first mandatory lesson for every student is 'How to Walk with your Nose in the Air.' They also learn other essential life skills, like - 'How to tell in half a sip whether the water that you have been served is really Evian or not'...

2. At the opposite end of the spectrum, there are the 'International Public Schools' - the modern day avatars of the ‘ST. Vivekananda DAV Convent Public Schools'. Schools with a 'flavour of the month' approach to education (and accordingly, tag 'Convent', 'Public' or 'International' on to the school's name) - to beckon to the largest possible number of gullible middle class parents.

3. And finally, there are the middle of the road ‘BlueToes International Schools’ of the world – who believe that adopting an outlandish name will catapult them into the class of La-Di-Da International schools. Here, the teachers themselves try to master how to walk with their noses in the air, before they impart this important skill to the students.

We are one of those hapless parents who have inadvertently landed up in the grip of the Foreign Hand. Trying to choose the 'best education' for our daughter, Ananya, we enrolled her in an International school that was set up in our neighbourhood. Two years down the line, we are rubbing our heads and trying to figure out exactly what kind of blunt weapon we've coshed ourselves with...

The 'Foreign' Hand(s)

The school, though new, belonged to a school chain of some repute, and we were given to understand that the school will:

• follow the highly esteemed Cambridge (CIE) Curriculum
• engage highly experienced teachers
• introduce a huge number of co-curricular activities
• embrace a truly ‘International’ spirit

We soon found out exactly how true each of these were...

• 'following' the highly esteemed Cambridge Curriculum – So it is done... by the teachers, at least. In other words, the teachers are 'following' the syllabus so zealously, they have forgotten all about the kids... leaving them far, far behind...
• engaging 'highly experienced' teachers – True again. For example, the Physics teacher might be an accomplished cook, and the Music teacher might have vast experience in gardening. But previous experience in what they have to teach the kids - bah, that is so, so passe!
• introducing a number of co-curricular activities – Ekdum true. A whole shedload of them, actually. Here’s a list:
  --Football coaching started. 2 full sets of football kit bought. 2 matches played. Football coaching stopped.
  --Keyboard lessons started. Huge, expensive keyboard bought. Lugged to school once every week for 3 weeks. Keyboard classes abandoned.
  --Skating lessons started. Most expensive skates in the market bought (upon teacher’s insistence) along with full skating kit. A grand total of 3 classes over 2 weeks. Skating lessons stopped.
  And that is just the beginning of the list...
  Well, they said they would introduce many activities, they introduced many activities. Who had said anything about continuity or quality, anyway?
• embracing a truly ‘International’ spirit - Sure! True 'international spirit' was amply demonstrated when the school made a dress code for the teachers - 'AVOID Indian wear'. It's also nurtured in many other small ways - like the music lessons, where the kids engage in the deeply artistic activity of downloading the latest Justin Bieber songs (and their lyrics) from Youtube. And this, under instructions from the music teacher, mind you! But recently, they truly outdid themselves in this 'International spirit' thing with a real brainwave - they made it compulsory for the kids to buy a blazer! Way to go!

Last week, I saw Ananya leave for school - yoga mat tucked under one arm, umbrella hanging from the other, 30 Kg school bag mounted on her shoulder - and of course, blazer firmly in place over her clothes. In the Mumbai rains. With the sweltering heat.

Time to look out for a new school, I guess.

For the Love of Bike(s)!

Have you seen a white elephant?  No...? Well, if you want to, just trot down to my place, because I have a couple of them right here in my garage.

The men of the house look after them, wash them reverently, and occasionally take them out for ceremonial outings. They are expensive to maintain – very expensive. And they eat a lot. But its fun to ride on them. Especially if one happens to live next to the Palm Beach Road - Navi Mumbai's answer to Julio Avenue. Whizzing on Palm Beach Road late in the evening, cool wind hitting your face and blowing your hair back - 'This is life', you feel!

Yes, I am talking about bikes... bikes that belong to the ‘boyz’ in my house – the spouse and the son. Try as I might, I don't think I'll ever understand what it is about men and motorcycles... that thing that reduces men to slobbering jelly-like beings who think with their adrenal glands when in the presence of a Harley-Davidson (or even lesser specimens).

And they catch it rather early on in life. My son caught it when he was just 4 years old. At that time, if someone said, “I am going to take away your Dad’s car” - he would just give a dismissive shrug, and say, ‘Theek hai’ in the most nonchalant tone. But if someone dared to say, “I am going to take away your Dad’s bike” - all hell would break loose. One could almost see strobe lights flashing in his nose, eyes and ears like a robot suddenly gone bonkers, and he would launch himself upon the culprit with a yell meant to curdle the blood and pickle the flesh...

But back to the story of our white ellies. One fine day last year, our son sat Sudarshan and me down, and informed us in a low, melancholy voice that life was not really worth living – unless, of course, he had a new bike. That elicited an immediate response from both of us – only, Sud finished saying “Of course!!” much sooner than I could complete uttering “What absolute rot! NO way!!”

The ‘Of course’ won, of course. And the first white elephant came home less than a month later. It was a rather snazzy Yamaha, and we all got invited for free rides, and enjoyed them to the hilt. For exactly two months, that is...

Then, passion took a backseat to convenience. “Tchah, bikes are not really the thing for Mumbai roads... what with the rains and potholes and all!” declared the teenager, like an enlightened Buddha. And since then, white elly#1 has cooled its heels (or whatever it is that unused bikes cool) in our garage, except for its occasional visits to the service station.

But the real shock was last week, when suddenly I found the elephants were reproducing! One fine day, I found 2 bikes in the garage instead of one! I rubbed my eyes and tried to recall what I'd drunk the previous night, but the double vision would not go away. It WAS another bike. And this time it was the older boy who had gone and done it. Sudarshan had indulged himself with a 500 CC Enfield –  covert operation 'Desert Storm' was well on its way!

A bit about our history with bikes here...

The very first bike Sud got was a Jawa. A friend just told him to take it off him, for free... and Sudarshan soon realised why. It would run rather well, whenever it could start - which was about once in 23 blue moons... And it had this annoying habit of stopping at the most inconvenient of places. Imagine, being on the pillion of a bike that stops right in the middle of the busy Raja Garden crossing – with scores of angry Punj commuters spouting gaalis and doing a war dance around you. And once, we almost caused riot police to be called in, when the Jawa stopped (and just wouldn't start again) in an Old Delhi by-lane where it was difficult to find even an inch of road space that was not occupied by a foot, butt, or wheel...

But still, both of us loved the inscrutable old bike - its eccentricity kind of matched our own... and reminiscing about our days of courtship is never quite complete without a few fond memories of our rides on the Jawa!

That was 27 years ago. After that there has been a series of them – begged, borrowed and bought. But the Jawa was special.  As was the Honda – the first bike we actually bought, and the one on which I learnt to ride. (That is a story too – but I’ll save that for another day.)

In recent years, I had thought the yen Sud had for bikes had waned over time... till the Yamaha and the Desert Storm came home in quick succession. Sighhhh... I must say (even at the cost of sounding sexist) - if we girls want our peace with our shopping expeditions, I guess we've got to allow the boys their dalliances with their Enfield or Harley-Davidson!

So now, here I am... stuck with the two gargoyles in the garage. And with every passing day, jokes like - “How do you fit four white elephants in the garage?” “Two on top of the car and two below...” seem less of a joke and more like a scary future possibility...

Streak of Madness

I have a confession to make. I have been suffering from chronic Temporaryinsanitis for a few years now.

If you are a woman past 35, or have ever googled 'perimenopause', the chances are that you are familiar with this condition. It starts with sudden low, weepy, self-questioning phases that come over us from time to time, when we set up a Spanish Inquisition in our own head to give the self a thorough grilling...  'Where is my life going?' 'Does anybody really love me?' 'Will my friends stand by me in bad times?' 'Is there life after menopause?' and so on and on...

There are only a few known remediations that are found to ameliorate the condition - an intensive shopping session,  a makeover, and an eating-drinking binge are top three in my list. Sometimes, a good howling session works too, though not as well as the others!

So, as I was saying, last week I was struck by a bout of the disease. The preferred remedy I usually adopt is shopping. But having truckloads of clothes and bags from previous episodes of Temporaryinsanitis in my cupboard, and a mindload of guilt to match, I decided to change the line of treatment this time.

The remedial measure I opted for was a makeover. I went and got my hair streaked. After a 3-hour long session at the parlour (my hair put up a spirited resistance to the invasion by alien forces), I looked at the mirror. And my heart sank... it was clearly a disaster. But the Disaster-Management team at the parlour got into action - they gathered around, put on their best beaming faces at me, and informed me that it was looking wonderful, and I was sure to get many compliments.

I had my doubts, for obvious reasons. I reached home and tried to slink in unnoticed, but my daughter and ma-in-law spotted me at once... and gasped. 'Bilkul bekaar!' was my daughter's verdict. Worse was to follow. My teenaged son (who we think fell into a cauldron of caustic soda when he was a baby) gave me ONE stony stare, and said, "Why exactly have you smeared your hair with shit?"

Subtle!

That was not the end either. He inspected me a bit more and quipped, 'You look like a Wannabe Socialite." Unfortunately, this hit the nail right on the head (quite literally)... the shade I had selected from the shade card was supposed to say 'Funky, and yet Elegant' - a kind of grey-blonde. But on my hair, it turned out a sort of orangish gold. Most DEFINITELY 'Wannabe Socialite'! 

Since then I have been bestowed with other epithets - 'Punju Aunty' being one of the more polite ones I can bring myself to share in public. My ma-in-law, being the genteel lady that she is, desisted from making caustic comments. She only contented herself by making remarks like, "Tch tch, you look just terrible!' - roughly every 20 minutes or so.

Sudarshan was the only exception.  "You look pretty. You really do!" he said. But that is just 28 years of conditioning. Why, now he even believes what he is saying to me... sometimes, at least! ;)

And now you understand why I call the condition Temporaryinsanitis. The so-called 'remedy' too is in reality a part of the disease! Just think. All that shopping, bingeing and makeovers business is supposed to make you feel good,  and fortify you to answer those tough existential questions. But what do they actually do? I mean, come on! The answer to 'Where is my life going?' is probably 'Down the drain!' - if you insist on wasting hard-earned money on useless articles of clothing or footwear. And let's face it - if you really are a middle-aged hag whom nobody loves, being a middle-aged hag with orange streaked hair is SURELY not going to change things!

And yet, I know the next time 'the feeling' creeps up on me again, I'll again go and buy myself a huge red crocodile embossed bag, or stuff my face with half a dozen gooey chocolate doughnuts, or try a new facial that would probably cause a reaction and make my face look like it was attacked by an army of exceptionally hungry mosquitoes with poisoned probosces...

For such is life, dearie, being a peri-menopausal woman. An elderly Homeopathic practitioner I used to visit had once remarked, "You see, it is very easy to treat men. But women are different. They have HORMONES!" 

So we do... and on goes life. And as if the havoc wruck by overzealous hormones wasn't enough, there's the stress of the urban lifestyle and the pressures of an increasingly consumeristic society to boot. Temporaryinsanitis is here to stay.

And I don't see a vaccine anywhere on the horizon...

Autofocussed

I have always held the belief that by and large, auto-rickshaw walas across India are goons, thugs, louts, bullies and a few other unmentionable things which I can't bring myself to utter in public. But every time I make a trip to Bangalore or thereabouts, this conviction  of mine takes a really strong beating..

My friends in Bangalore constantly warn me about the auto-walas there... about their tendency to overcharge newbies in town, refusing to go by the meter, or taking a circuitous route. But my experiences so far have been 100% good. I was in Madanapalle and Bangalore recently, and I think it is time I spoke up for the undaunted and the chivalrous amongst this much-maligned species - the 'pigeons among the cats', so to speak!

The Good...

My first good-samaritan auto-wala story is set in Madanapalle. I had just landed up at the Madanapalle bus stop, travelling alone. It was my first visit there. As I walked along towards the stand where autos were lined up, struggling slightly with my heavy bags, an old auto-rickshaw wala suddenly rushed towards me out of the line of autos, saying, "Where Akka? Rishi valley? Come come, I take you." I was slightly on my guard at this sudden charge, but he looked too old and meek for me to feel threatened in any way. So  I climbed in. On the long winding road to Rishi Valley, he lamented about how the younger lot of autowallas were always out make a fast buck by cheating newcomers...  thereby explaining his jack-in-the-box kind of reaction to my arrival. 

The old man's chivalry did not end there. I had to leave my bags at the RV guest house and then go to the office. And I did not know the way. So he offered to wait while I put my bags in the room, and then drop me at the office. So far so good, but there was one complication. The person with the keys to the guest house was msssing and no one had the faintest notion where he was. Someone went off to look for him. Not wanting to hold back the sweet old auto-wala, I thanked him, paid him and told him to go. But he would not budge. He had made a committment to see me off at the RV office, and he was not leaving without doing so! So we waited. 5 min went by... 10 min... 20 min... finally, after 40 minutes the caretaker came with the keys. The old man helped me deposit my bags, and then depositted me at the office before going on his way, with the air of one who has just seen his granddaughter off safely!

And oh yes, he simply refused to take any extra money for the extra bit or the long wait.

Since then, I have come across other auto-walas around the RV campus who take you to your destination free of cost if the distance is short, and they happen to be going your way... hard to believe for us city folk, but true!

The Bad and the Ugly...

Contrast this with the hoods one has to deal with in Navi Mumbai, on a day-in day-out basis. In Mumbai they have the 'hafta'-collecting bhais, and in Navi Mumbai we have the auto-rickshaw walas... both of these are highly evolved species of extortionists. The Navi-Mumbai auto-bhais overcharge as a matter of right. You should just see the indignant look they give you if you question the inflated fare they quote! And they are super quick to sense the exact degree of desperation while picking up a fare. Sometimes I feel they have a secret 'Overcharge Rate Chart'!

Honestly, the way the auto-bhais here wield absolute power, I think it is high time Navi Mumbai was declared an autocracy!

And I do not even want to start upon the antics of the Delhi auto-wala... that supremely regal being, who continues his search for treasure - deep inside his nose with his index finger, oblivious of your presence - even as you try to coax him to take you to your destination! And you are not sure which is worse, him refusing to ply you, or agreeing to do so and handing you your change with his treasure-laden fingers...

And the Good, Again...

Meanwhile, my ode to the Bangalore auto-walas is not over yet! The old man in Madanapalle was the second good samaritan auto-wala who came to my rescue that day. The story started at the Bangalore bus stop. Someone had booked me an online ticket from Bangalore to Madanapalle on an APSRTC bus. So, there I was at an unfamiliar bus stop, running helter skelter, trying to find which terminal I was to get the bus from. The fact that I could read neither Telugu nor Kannada, didn't help. I had just walked 2 or 3 times from one end of the vast station to the other, misguided by various people, including (as I found out later) those at the info booth. I was standing at a platform at one end of the station, where the person at the info booth had asked me to wait for the Tirupathi bus. On inquiring from the other people waiting there, I gathered  that the Tirupathi bus would not go to Madanapalle.

At this time, seeing me all hot and flustered, one of the auto-walas from the nearby auto stand came up to me and said, "You go Madanapalle, madam? Bus not here." I have been brought up in Delhi - where if a lone woman traveller responds  to a strange man who comes up to her, it is equivalent to inviting him politely to molest her. So, my initial reaction was to give him a wide berth. But the man's tone had some conviction which made me believe him. "Then where", I asked. "I not know. You ask in counter." It was now 7.10 a.m, and my bus was supposed to leave at 7.15. Mentally preparing myself to scuttle my trip, I started picking up my bags and bracing for the run to the info booth once again. And then the auto-wala said, "You wait madam, I ask." And before I could say anything - up went the veshti to knee-level with a snap, and out sprinted the man to the info booth at top speed. In a minute, he was back, saying, "You go Kadapa bus. It is in opposite side." I ran and caught the bus just as it was pulling out of the station.

The man did not ask for any money. And there was no time for me to even thank him properly. But this piece of writing is a thank-you note to all those auto-walas who help us keep the faith, through such acts that defy the ignominy that follows their lot...

Touch Me Not

The world is divided into two kinds of people - those who love touchscreen phones and those who don't.

Naturally, having been a hopeless technophobe since as long back as I can remember, I belong to the second category. And life is really tough for people like us now, because 'Touch' phones just wont leave us alone...

Well, if you hate Touch phones so, just don't go near one, people would say.  I can only say that that's easier said than done. And I'll tell you why.

About two years ago, Sud gifted me a Micromax touch phone - promising the latest technology at mouth watering prices. Well, I don't know about watering, but I certainly remember foaming at the mouth, trying to use the touchscreen to text or make calls. The experience was a bit like trying to apply mascara with a rolling pin...  

NO more touch screen phones for me, I decided. 

And I switched back to my old phone - a Nokia Expressmusic, which allowed me to do ALL I ever wanted from a phone - to make/receive calls, send text msgs, and listen to music during my travel.  

Cut to the present - about two months ago. The Expressmusic is going to pieces (literally), and it is becoming increasingly difficult to call or sms by pressing the dirty grey exposed bits that I still valiantly keep calling a 'keypad'. I need to buy a new phone. Urgently.

So I go to the store and ask for a simple, regular, non-touch phone. Non-touch, I stress. The shop assistant looks at me with confusion - as if trying to determine whether I am an alien or just stark, raving mad. I'll never know what he decides - because mumbling something incoherent, he just vamooses from the scene. A hunt for him proves futile, and with a resigned air we start looking around on our own at the displayed models of 'Non-touch' phones. Well, when I say 'start looking around' it is a rather ambitious statement, because the search ends almost as soon as it starts. Simple, Non-touch, Un-smart phones have gone out of fashion, and out of the window of all major stores.

I feel utterly devastated... would I have to go for a touch phone after all?  I go back to the store after a week, mentally prepared to say 'yes' to Touch. This time, the shop assistant is more forthcoming. He waxes eloquent about the latest models of 'Smart' touchscreen phones, oblivious to the fact that each new 'App' which he explains only makes me cringe more. At one point of time, I think of asking him sarcastically if there is a phone with an app that would scratch my back when it feels all itchy in the morning... but then think better of it. He doesn't look bright enough to appreciate sarcasm - he would probably trot off to ask his superior if there is any model coming out with that feature...

Anyway, the quality of 'touch' on this one seems better than the Micromax. And the assistant assures me that I'll get used to it in no time. I am still unsure.

But then Sud talks me into it.... just as he always manages to do - starting exactly 24.5 years ago. :-|

And that is how I became the not-really-proud-but-definitely-apprehensive owner of a Touch phone for the second time over. It was a Nokia Lumia 710. It looked good and was not exorbitantly priced. And it had all the net based smart apps. I was starting to think I would enjoy this phone after all.

I was wrong. If a simple 'unsmart' touch phone is a diwali patakha, a 'smart' touch phone is a nuclear bomb - and one that could be detonated with one light, even accidental, 'touch'...

The first problem with the phone is its smart-ass autosuggest mechanism. Initially, you might be rather pleased that the phone is throwing up this long list of suggested alternate words to choose from while you are texting. But, you quickly realize, it is not so much 'smart' as 'too clever by half'. You realize that the phone surreptitiously slips in its own preferred word, even if you have not selected it. I still go red-faced thinking of the many times I have just barely escaped signing off a text as 'Sucks' instead of 'Suchi'!

And it's not just me. Give a thought to the predicament of this young couple we know - they fight, the girl goes off in a huff, and the fight carries on over sms. Some furious texting ensues. The girl is breathing fire when she gets a text calling her a 'libidinous cheap'... but then, when she is called a 'smart potassium', she realizes that it is not her hubby, but his 'smart' touchphone that is doing all the talking! :D

In this particular case the matter ended well, as the girl sees the funny side of it and dissolves into laughter at the inadvertently changed words. But it's not always so...

And oh yes. If smart phones are really so smart, why the hell can't they tell the difference between a person's fingers and ears/cheeks? In the middle of a raging argument with my Mom, or a tete-a-ete with a friend, or a rare call with Sud when he is somewhere down in the boondocks, I press my ear a wee bit to the oh-so-sensitive screen to hear better - and lo! I inadvertently press 'hold'... or 'mute'... or even 'end call'! The last, when it happens, plays absolute havoc with relationships - both sides end up aggrieved, thinking the other hung up in a huff!

It is said that the third world war is going to be over water. I disagree - I am absolutely certain it is going to be caused by touch phones.. Just imagine, some small but powerful developing nation announces its plans to build up a nuclear arsenal. The US Prez hears this, and texts the Secretary of State, "Call them NOW! Talk them out...!" And what might happen if he uses his 'smart' touchscreen phone to send the text? The Secretary of State gets this message, "Bomb them NOW! Take them out...!"

But there is good news too. My son, who has made losing and destroying phones into a fine art, has had to choose a new phone twice in the last 2 months. No no, that by itself is not the good news... the good news is that both times, he has decided on a simple, regular, non-touch phone. Which proves, without any doubt, that touch-o-phobia is not an age related disorder. So, touche, ye unkind folk, who maketh unkind remarks to me, like, "You are just too old for smartphones and touchscreen, dear!"

It's time, my fellow touch-o-phobes! To make ourselves heard and prove that we are human beings and not lemmings. Let those who want Touch have it, but let us at least have the option of passing up Touch for a Non-touch alternative which is not archaic in all other ways!

Are you listening... Nokia, Samsung, Sony et al...... ?

The Gift

I want to give Mark Zuckerberg a great big collective hug from all of us prehistoric beings (read as 'those born before the times of the internet')...

You see, Facebook is giving us a very special gift indeed!

How else would I have located my teen-time buddy, with whom I pretended to study Chemistry and Physics, studied neighbourhood boys, read 'hot' bits from Mills and Boon novels, and painted the town red?

And in what other way could I have reconnected with my very first 'best friend' - one who wrote a poem about me in Class 1... and for whom I ran to reserve space on the school merry-go-round at breaktime everyday?

There are many many others, with whom I had lost touch decades ago, but found via FB in the last 2-3 years. But a handful of them, like those above, are truly special. Finding these special ones and sharing your lives all over again is a thrilling feeling indeed!

Last week Mark Z's baby did it once again. I found a couple of long lost friends on FB... and with that, discovered anew an important phase of my life that has, at least in recent times, not found pride of place in my reminiscences. And so, now I must share the story of the Kalonia sisters, and some memories from the first few years of matrimony...

Kalonial Times

Dan-ta-ra. Flashback..

Sudarshan and I are just married, and leading a hippie-like existence in a 1-bedroom flat in Munirka. Sudarshan has to travel a great deal. But he always comes back on time though - on time for his next trip. That leaves me with a lot of time on my hands... and no one except the portly middle aged neighbourhood ladies for company. The idea of mingling amicably with them in my free time to talk about maid-servant hassles and in-law woes is quite alien to me. Of course, there are our neighbours upstairs- a joint family where a live soap opera plays out daily. But after some time, one gets tired of the same old melodrama, and even the thrill of learning new swear words in Hindi and Punjabi wears off..

That's when I found the Kalonia sisters - Vaishali and Sonali. It is difficult to explain what exactly they were to me. Technically, I was their teacher, since I was teaching at the Naval Public School where they were studying. But the actual equation we shared was hardly teacher-student - let's say it was more 'Abe Oye' than 'Good evening Ma'am'. Vaishali and I hit it off at once - we got along like a house... rather, a whole colony on fire. Sonali joined the party some time later, no doubt impeded initially by the fact that I was teaching her Math (her most hated subject) at school.

Very soon we became sisters-in-arms. Upon their return from school, they would barely touch home before they were in my house. We would hang out together, cook up interesting snacks, share music, or just indulge in wink-wink nudge-nudge girl talk. Once in a while, we would have a sleepover at their place, talking late into the night over food and the latest Grammy videos.

Their Mom frowned upon this arrangement though - she thought I was a bad influence. Can't really blame her, since I behaved more like a debauched hippie than a prudent and respectable teacher. To make things worse, I wore no sign of being legally married - no mangal sutra, no sindoor, no 'shankha-pola'... nothing. So for her, I was a libertine whose origins, morals, and marital status were all suspect - a total no-no as a companion for her daughters at that impressionable age..

But Vaishali and Sonalil were at that point in their teens - when if your follks want you to go East, you naturally go West.  And I think I had not outgrown my teens either. So we drew even closer.

Ditched!

My reminiscing about those days will be incomplete without one particular story.

Soon after we were married, Sudarshan (for reasons unknown till date) had decided that I needed to learn that one thing every new bride must know (no no, it's not cooking... or the finer points of Kama Sutra) - riding a bicycle. Accordingly, he spent a couple of days to teach me to ride. Which, incidentally, was not a simple job, since I  seemed to have had the singular knack of turning the handlebar of the bike directly towards any approaching vehicle or person while riding . So, to avoid giving heart attacks to unsuspecting drivers and pedestrians, I started practising daily in the afternoon, when there would be fewer moving objects on the streets to try and run into.

This seemed like a great idea... till that fateful day when I fell off the bicycle while trying to stop it (you see, Sud had only taught me pedalling... not how to start or stop that damned thing!). So, there I was - sprawled in a ditch at an awkward angle, with the bike twisted over me at an even more awkward angle. And having so carefully chosen a time when the streets were deserted, there was no one to rescue me.

That is the situation in which the Kalonia sisters found me. And it is not everyday that you see your Math teacher lying in a ditch. That too, one who resembled an overly ambitious contortionist - bent at an impossible angle and  waving her legs in the air, seemingly pedalling at the bike that was lying atop her. (I was doing this in a  rather futile attempt to dislodge and kick away the bike...).

To cut a long story short, the Kalonia sisters rescued me, and it kind of sealed the friendship.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Last month, we made a brief visit to our old house in Munirka. And as I gazed fondly at the spot where I had lain in the ditch, I resolved to try and find Vaishali and Sonali again.

And last week, I did. And it definitely is an event in my life. Because the times we shared were not only the growing up years for them, it was growing up years for us too - as a couple, and as individuals living independently for the first time. For Vaishali and Sonali our house meant a taste of grown-up life and freedom, for me their company meant the stolen joys of youth in the times of sudden hardship and responsibility. Reconnecting with them brought back waves and waves of memories - all the struggle of those early years of marriage, and all the fun...

The interesting thing is, I don't think the coming generations are going to experience the thrill of finding a long lost friend at all- Messrs Zuckerberg et al will make sure people never go out of touch in the first place! A good thing? Umm... maybe, and then again, maybe not!

You lose something precious, think it is gone forever... think of it less and less often as time goes by... only to discover it suddenly, after years, at the most unexpected time and place. And the joy of that is absolutely unparalleled!

Vaishali called me - all the way from California, barely minutes after she confirmed my friend's request on FB. 2 days later, it was Sonali. While ending our call, Vaishali said, "Now I'll have a smile on my face throughout the day!"

And the smile on mine is still going on, and on, and on...
                 

Our Leh-Days

Leh jayenge!

It looked like it was going to happen after all - the four of us taking off for a family holiday to Ladakh!

This might seem like a simple enough task to some families - but for us, it was not. Let me explain. Honestly, in the past 5 years or so, it might have been easier to get Shahrukh, Salman and Amir in the same room rather than the 4 of us!! Our schedules were definitely mismatched - maybe even our preferences. Sudarshan only took time off from his work and tours to visit home once in a while. Amartya's attitude towards home was that  'it's a decent place for getting a bed, a clean loo, and breakfast - FREE!'. And as for me, people had started commenting that my laptop and I would make a great Fevicol ad.

So, you see, it was no mean feat to get our act together and actually take off for this holiday as a team.. 

'Don't be a Gama in the Land of Lama'

View of Leh

Landing at Leh airport, we were met by our college-time-ka-yaar Amit, now Colonel Amit Srivastava - and promptly given (in true military style) a talking to about the do's and don'ts of being in a high altitude cold desert. This was summarised best in the one-liner posted on the walls of the guest house at the army camp : "Don't be a Gama in the Land of Lama". Simply put - I think this translates into 'Leave your ego behind and don't try to prove your physical prowess when you come to Ladakh.' :)


We soon realised that when they say Ladakh is a place of 'breathtaking beauty', it is quite literally so!! The awe-inspiring visuals hit you even as you land at Leh, but so does the lack of oxygen. We wheezed and panted at the smallest hint of physical activity..

First day at Leh: Much puffing, panting and TT

So, for the next 1.5 days we cooled our heels (or should I say warmed them?) in our cosy beds with the TV, and Asterix & Obelix for company. When tired of resting, we would all troop off to the sports room - where 2 of the adults would take turns to play TT, while the third tried to restrain Ananya from decimating the pool table with the cue...

On the third day, just when we were starting to feel  rather settled in our warm rooms, we had to leave for a day-trip to Pangong Lake - which many now refer to as the '3 Idiots Lake'. On the way, we had to cross Chang-La pass, the third highest motorable road in the world, at a height of 17586 ft. While driving up to the pass, we came across our first snow on the hillside - some old, sad looking, mud splattered snow. Since the kids had never seen snow before, we asked the driver if we could get down and touch it, because we might not find any later. He gave us a look that was 75% amusement and 25% disdain, and said, "Aage snow hi snow hai, aur kuch nahi dikhega." 

And so there was! Soon we were amidst the real thing - deep, pristine white snow all around! It was absolutely fantafabulous! But as luck would have it, we got stuck in a bad traffic jam near the pass. Now, the menfolk - namely Sudarshan, Amartya and an army jawan who had accompanied us, had not paid heed to the warning of the first day. So, trying to be Gamas in the land of Lama, they had come without adequate warm clothing. And at 17586 ft that is not a joke! Well, they had to pay the price for their indiscretions... To cut a long story short - by the end of the trip, the only ones who had not revealed (in grisly detail) the contents of their breakfast, mid-morning snack and lunch, were Ananya and I... :)

Pangong Tso - Serenity unlimited...

But the one hour we spent at the Pangong lake made it all worth the while. As I keep saying, you can't get much closer to heaven on earth than this place...

Over the next 4-5 days, we saw the magnificent Indus (Sindhu) river winding its way through the mountains; sighted marmots, kiangs, and yaks;  travelled over the world's highest motorable road at Khardung-la to cross over into the mesmerizing Nubra valley; saw the sand dunes at Hundar and got a taste of the Silk Road experience on the two-humped bactrian camels ...

(Here, Amartya and Ananya remind me that I have forgotten to mention the most remarkable thing we experienced during the trip - the butter chicken served at the army guest house at Pratap Pur, where we spent the night at Nubra... :) )

We even experienced a fresh snowfall (near Khardungla) and a sandstorm (at Nubra) - within a span of 24 hours...!!!

Seriously, how much more can you live life in one week? :)

'Test your Nerves on My Curves'

:D

Wondering what that is? Well it's only one of the many quirky road signs you see while driving in and around Ladakh. While some of them make you grin ('Lower Your Gear, Curve is Near'), others make you wonder ('Darling I like you, but not so fast')... and still others are pretty bizarre ('If You Are Married, Divorce Speed'). What about bachelors, divorcees, widowers et al, you ask!

Well, if nothing else, at least some people slow down near the signs just to read them for their entertainment value!

Jule, Ladakh!

A word about the Ladakhi people. Initially, we felt quite shocked hearing the taxi fares etc. in Leh - and were just starting to feel that rank commercialization is taking over the place. But once we got talking to the taxi drivers etc, we understood exactly how tough life is for the locals - for most of them, it's severe weather and no income in the six months of winter. But still, they are always courteous and cheerful. The cheery 'Ji ji ji' with which they pepper all their talk stays in your mind and makes you smile long after you have parted...


Mesmerizing visuals. A surprise waiting almost at every turn of the road as the visuals change dramatically. Exotic animals. Amazing serenity. Charming people. Ladakh is a magnificent place indeed, but one of the main reasons for this trip being really special for us was the special people there - our old friends. There was Amit and his family, with whom we shared a few quiet evenings over cocktails or kawa chai in the strategically located gazebo at the army camp - surrounded by the mountains and howling evening winds.


And then there was Colonel Sonam Wangchuk and his lovely extended family - Sudarshan's friends and neighbours from his childhood days in Delhi. What a great yakking session we all had... transported back to those old days in R. K. Puram - those days when we would play outdoors till late in the evening, sleep in charpais out in the open, bunk school to go and catch the latest Amitabh Bachchan flick, and so so much more! All this over steaming bowls of thukpa and some enchanting live music provided by the two boys, Amartya and Riggyal (Col Sonam's son)...


(Incidentally, Colonel Wangchuk is a Kargil war hero, and a Mahavir Chakra awardee. There is even a scene in the film 'Lakshya' that is based on his feat at Kargil - but we really couldn't remember when we last met such a down-to-earth, and totally chilled out person! We felt so proud knowing him!)


We left Ladakh wishing to return someday, with much time on hand. And yes, we felt much closer as a family than we had felt for a long time. So, "Jule, Ladakh!" it is! Jule - that priceless word in the local lingo which means everything from 'hello', to 'thank you'...


Jule, indeed.

Leh Gate

The kids fooling around on the banks of Indus

The silk route experience on Bactrian camels at Nubra valley

Falling snowflakes - at South Pullu
 on way to Khardungla pass

No escape from traffic jams - even at 17000 ft
(near Khardungla pass, the world's highest motorable road)