Chasing Childhood

Blast... I don’t know what it is about my Delhi visits! I have travelled to many places that are way more interesting, but every time I am in this city, I start itching to talk about the place - all the time wondering why, WHY this unholy fascination for the land of unholy goings-on!

Dil-li da Maamla hai

The first day of my week-long holiday, I had absolutely no intention of doing anything useful - or anything not-so-useful, for that matter. The Delhi heat and dust had started to get to me already, and all I really wanted to do was to compete with the bedspread on my Ma’s bed. I daresay I would have won, if it was not for the obscene amounts of time that Ananya, my 12-year old, was spending in front of the TV or laptop. As I watched her soak in some puerile stuff on SAB TV, her nose barely nanometres from the screen, I felt she was in serious danger of disappearing into the set, a la Mike Teavee in the Chocolate Factory - unless I did something drastic.

So I decided to concede defeat (albeit, temporarily) to the bedspread, and brave the scorching late afternoon heat of a Delhi summer to go all the way to  Shankar’s International Dolls’ museum at ITO, and top that up by traipsing down memory lane in Connaught Place. Well, to say that the museum was a tad disappointing would be an understatement. I actually recognized the faces of many of the dolls from visits during my childhood (due to technical difficulties, I will not go into exactly how long ago that was). But yes, that time they had seemed bright and alive, while now they appeared drab and desolate. That's understandable, naturally, but sprucing them up occasionally would not harm - honestly, some of them looked like the last cleaning and dusting they had seen was when they had been handed over to the museum personally by Shahjahan, or someone thereabouts...

Luckily, Ananya has a thing for dolls - of any kind, and some of the displays were rather exotic... but MOST importantly, the place was air-conditioned! So it was not an hour spent too badly at all!

Next stop – Connaught Place and Janpath.

I don’t have the foggiest why I start getting this warm glow over me when I am in this place. I don’t know why I should feel so tickled when I see the renovated Plaza theatre... I have no clue why it gives me a kick to find that ‘Prominent Tailors’, the tailor shop I used to frequent in my teens, still exists (for those of you born after 1980 - believe it or not, there actually was a time when a girl had to get her skirts and trousers stitched!) And I start doubting my own sanity when I find I still enjoy a soda and mutton chop at Nirula’s (so what if they were our favourite during the courting days – the current establishment is more washed up than Amisha Patel.)

But the best part of the day was the walk through Janpath... indulging, naturally, in the Standard Janpath Shopping Procedure:

1. Look into the wares of a roadside shop as you pass by, being VERY careful to get the right mix of interest and disdain in your eyes while you do it.

2. Casually examine one or two pieces that interest you, all the while carefully maintaining the aforementioned look.

3. Ask the price (Shift the interest-disdain mix from your eyes to your tone now).

4. Break out into derisive laughter as soon as the price is quoted, and counter it with your own price – which should be at MOST a quarter of the price quoted to you. The shop boy will counter this with his own even-more-derisive laughter – don’t be daunted.

5. After a few iterations of the previous step, say ‘Nahi chaiye, bhaiya’, and make an exaggerated show of walking off. This is the ‘make or break’ point.

6. If you lose this gamble, too bad. It’s likely the exact same thing will be available in at least 15 other shops on the same street, or at Sarojini Nagar, so you can try your luck in any of those. And if you win, gloat inwardly - planning how you will show your ‘catch’ off to your friends later.

Oh yes, we had loads of fun! But the real adventures that day had been elsewhere...

Delhi Daredevils

No, it’s not another IPL scandal that I am talking about. It’s the cycle-rickshaw pullers of Janakpuri.

Imagine the scenario. It’s the first day of my holiday, and I am off for what I hope will be a memorable outing with my daughter. Humming a happy tune, I amble up to a waiting cycle rickshaw, do the mandatory ‘Kya baat karte ho bhaiya, TEES?!! Metro station tak bees hi hotein hain, hum toh roz jaatein hai!” routine, and then settle in cosily on the seat - looking forward to a nice, long, unhurried ride to the Metro station.

Barely 100 metres into the ride, my hopes of a pleasant ride are dashed quite firmly. The rickshaw-walla, obviously suffering from the delusion that he was Michael Schumacher, started racing away like a maniac. And that too, on a road which someone seemed to have dug up and forgotten all about - a bed of spiky stones and dust. It was a ten-minute-long torture session - with me sitting there trying to divert myself by counting how many motor vehicles we overtook, while my insides felt as if someone was making a nice tossed salad with them.

The rickshaw-walla with the Schumacher Delusion...

And let me tell you, if you thought there could not be more than one rickshaw-puller in Janakpuri with the Schumacher syndrome, you would be wrong. If we got Schumacher on our onwards journey, on the way back it was Schumacher-With-a-Death-Wish. The guy actually rode (at top speed, naturally!) on the wrong side of the road - AGAINST the oncoming traffic! (For a stretch that seemed to me like 20 km, but was probably just 200 metres or so.)

Well, the bright side of these rides was that I returned home enlightened – with a hugely enhanced vocabulary of ma-behen expletives. You have to admit - there are some things in which Delhi never disappoints! 

And I think I finally have this fascination for Delhi kind of figured out. You remember those colourful 'goggles' sold by hawkers who used to move around selling cheap plastic toys once upon a time? The ones in which the 'lenses' were simply two pieces of brightly coloured translucent paper inserted into a cardpaper frame? See, the moment I get on to a plane/train to Delhi, I subconsciously put on one of those, and keep them on throughout my trip. Everything I see or do in Delhi is filtered through these - these psychedelic glasses named 'childhood'.

Yes, when I come to Delhi, it feels like coming home. Coming home to childhood.

These Are The Days

Like it or not, we live in the days of ‘Days’. Yesterday was Mother’s Day. Before that there was Women’s Day, Valentine’s Day, Earth Day and Blah-blah Day... and after this there will be Friendship Day, Youth Day, Chocolate Day and Whatnot Day. The problem isn't with having all these days crowding the calendar, but the hype, hoopla and air of expectation generated around them. People often ask me, “Do you believe in this stuff?” More importantly, I often ask myself, “Do I believe in this stuff?”

Well, let’s see.

There was a time when life was simple - uncomplicated by all these ‘Days’. Back then, I did believe in the few that existed – Teacher’s Day, for instance, was always special. But then, the whole world and its auntie started competing to have ‘Days’ earmarked for anything and everything. Now, it’s come to the point where you have ‘Jelly Bean Day’ and ‘Dance Day’ jostling with ‘Hug a Plumber Day’ and ‘Squirrel Appreciation Day’. Yes folks, come January 21, you must go out to your backyard and shake the paws of the squirrels you meet, and give them a handwritten card. And don’t forget to dish out the jadu ki jhappi to the plumber on April 25 every year, to be assured of free-flowing drains and a stink-free home...

(I do NOT exaggerate. In fact, this is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Doubters, please visit http://www.daysoftheyear.com/days/2013/04/)

Anyway, coming back to the point... with each growing 'Day', my belief wobbled and weakened.

And on went the wobbling, till the day I walked into a neighborhood novelty store just before Friendship Day, and saw youngsters buy ‘friendship bands’ and gifts - all in multiples of 50. While the man at the counter grinned gluttonously and counted the obscene amounts of cash being handed over by these kids. That day, my belief crashed completely.

It was nothing but crass commercialisation, the adult in me rationalised. But even so, the child in me wanted to believe. Fuelled, I daresay, to a great deal by the tamasha the world around me was putting up...

You see, till a few years ago, it was easy for me to turn my nose up at people who asked me about Mother’s Day or Valentine’s Day, with a “You really don’t think I believe in all this meaningless, commercial bullshit!” – in a tone that would have chilled a polar bear. But now the world around me is making this bullshit harder and harder to ignore.

Just look at what happened yesterday. I got up and unsuspectingly picked up the morning papers - to be immediately bombarded with stories of people with boundless love for their mothers, and outsized commercials holding forth on the virtues of various items as gifts for your dear Mater – from diamonds to Volini balm. The TV, and Friends On The Telephone or FB are no better. Whatever 'Day' be it, the world around you seems to conspire to remind you that celebrations are afoot... and you are not part of it. 

And it definitely does not help that half of my closest friends are teachers. It naturally follows that they have a gaggle of students fawning over them and deluging them with cards and goodies at the drop of a hat... and as for Rose-day, Chocolate-day, Teachers’-day, Valentine’s day, Friendship Day – I suspect they need to get special cupboards built for the booty they collect!

The rest of my friends are in the “Have Money. No Commitments - Except to Spend Money” age bracket.  And they just can’t keep their big mouths shut around Friendship Day or Valentine’s Day or Whatnot Day. They start talking about gifts and cards a month before D-day... and afterwards, follow it up with discussions related to the loot.

And the feeling of inadequacy deepens...

Meanwhile, this Mother’s day came and went just like umpteen others did before that - uneventful. Well, almost - if you don’t count the slightly drooping stem of lilies my daughter brought me. She and a friend had each swiped one from the decorations on the car of a newly wedded couple in the neighborhood – with the noble intent of gifting them to their respective mothers!

Well, what the heck! I guess I’ll have to make do with that for now - after all, she was willing to take a risk for me!

And meanwhile, the jury inside my head is still out, debating, “To believe, or not to believe, that is the question...”

Of Birds and Birdbrains

Last Sunday was a day of discoveries for us - one large bird, and a large number of bird-brains...

Just as we were starting our Sunday with an animated discussion on what was to be made for breakfast, and much more importantly, WHO was to make breakfast – the watchman informed us that there was a ‘chidiya’ stuck in our backyard, in dire need of being rescued from crows and stray cats.

An injured sparrow, thought we, and walked casually to the garden. Well, it wasn’t a sparrow. It was a full grown barn owl – a magnificent specimen! Not injured, but stuck in our garden and unable to fly away across the raised fencing in harsh daylight.

Hedwig, I presume...? Our Sunday guest

As we noticed the crows hovering overhead, we realised the owl needed help. And we could not do it ourselves, as it would just fly off the moment someone approached it.

Thus began Operation Owl Rescue.

The first call was to 101, because though an owl was a novelty, the fire brigade had in fact, in the past, helped us retrieve and rescue a snake that had got stuck under the inverter in our garage.

But clearly, this Sunday was not our lucky day. No answer at 101. It was 8 in the morning.

And then the hunt started in all seriousness – the hunt to find an animal welfare organisation that could help us out.

And oh boy... what specimens we found!

The first animal ‘welfare’ organisation we called informed us rather grumpily that they would not move their ass, or for that matter any other part of their body, until they received express orders to do so from the Navi Mumbai Municipal Corporation ward office. On a Sunday, we asked? Yes, said they. And off, went Sud. Leaving Ananya and me to watch over the owl like two protective mamas.

The NMMC expedition turned out, as we always suspected it would, utterly fruitless.

More calls, more specimens. One call, answered by a lady - in an accent that seemed to proclaim “I just live in Mumbai, but my heart belongs to Manhattan, you know” – informed us that while their organisation would not be able to help, we should try calling so and so...

There were others who we could almost visualise raising an eyebrow at having their Sunday disturbed for the sake of a mere owl... “Is there a leopard in your loft? A python on your potty? No? Then don't bother us!” their tone seemed to suggest.

(By the way, ALL these organisations had claimed in their online profiles that they did bird rescues!)

We even called up the Bombay Natural History Society, as some of the welfare organisations had suggested, to be told peremptorily – ‘It’s Sunday’, before having the phone slammed on us. So sorry folks, we will now revise the Animal School curriculum, to teach the animals days of the week, and caution them that they are NEVER to get injured, sick or stuck on a Sunday.

Operation Owl Rescue had turned into Operation Wild-Goose Chase!

On the verge of giving up (and resigning ourselves to the fate of guarding the owl till nighfall), we decided to try the fire brigade one last time. It worked! In 15 minutes, there were 6 strapping young men, dressed smartly in white bush shirts, shorts and gumboots chasing the owl from one end of our garden to the other, and back again. The distressed one was not ready to be 'rescued' so easily!

But finally, they did manage. The bird was captured and taken away to be released at an appropriate time and place.

And we returned, with a feeling of contentment, to our favourite Sunday pastime – arguing over who would cook the next meal...

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...

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...

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...... ?

Pontifications on Auntification

Ok… I have swept this topic under the carpet for long enough now… it is time I outed it. Friends, sisters, countrywomen…it is time to protest against a grave injustice being done to us. I am talking about that serious threat to the well being of urban Indian women– the menace of ‘Auntification’.

Consider the scenario. You are a woman some years above 30 (let's leave that part vague). You consider yourself fairly presentable, and a pretty good amount of attentiveness comes your way. You are used to jaws dropping when you reveal that you have kids, and the same dropping 2 inches further when you reveal your age. And then the bubble bursts – some full grown adult goes and calls you ‘Aunty’…   

And at once, you know- your time is near. Even before you can spell 'AUNTYJI', all that attentiveness and jaw-dropping will be gone. Soon, you would firmly be sent on your way with a one-way ticket to Auntyland.

I clearly remember the first time someone called me 'Aunty'. It was a neighbour of ours in Munirka. I was all of 23 and just married. Well, having been brought up in Delhi with colourful Punj neighbours, I felt like retorting, “%%$$##@, Aunty kisko bola be? Tu hoga Aunty. Teri behen Aunty. Tera poora khandan Aunty...!!!"

But then, that is not authentic Auntification. At 23, if a 30-year-old oddball decides to call you 'Aunty' just because you happen to be married, you can afford to laugh it off. I am talking SERIOUS Auntification here.

Of course, we are prepared for the final slaughter from early on – we have a kid when in our late twenties or early thirties, and the kid’s friends start calling us ‘Aunty’. So, by the time we reach the forties and serious-midlife-crisis time, we are kind of numbed to the 'A' word. But still, the initial stages of true Auntification – when full grown adults, not just kids, start calling  us ‘Aunty’, is hard on us – really hard..

Well, it’s an age-old problem (pun unintended), as you would say. But I say, why only us? Can you imagine being called ‘Aunty’ - not only by young adults in the neighbourhood, but also by casual acquaintances, the plumber, the watchman, and even strangers on a train - if you happen to be living in the US, or Japan, or the UK? Even if you are classic Aunty material, you would just be 'Suchi' to most people, without that abominable ‘A’ word to remind you all the time that you are getting on… and deepening your midlife crisis. X-(

Thankfully, rural India is as yet untouched by the Aunty Affliction. There, 6 to 60-year-olds call you ‘Didi’ rather endearingly. In villages that are close to a town it is sometimes ‘Madam’ (which is distasteful, but one can shrug it off). Strangely, when a 60-year old village woman calls me ‘Didi’, I don’t mind it at ALL- rather, it induces quite a pleasant sense of camaraderie. On the other hand, when an urban adult calls me ‘Aunty’, I feel quite, quite keen to strangle him/her with my bare hands…

And so, we fight back. With all we have got. Trying to delay the onset of Auntification, we slather on age-defying creams. We run on treadmills as if for dear life. We join programmes that promise to vibrate all the wobbly we-are-your-mortal-enemy chunks of flesh off our body. We worry more about our peeping grey roots than we do about a nuclear holocaust. We look up (for newer and more outlandish ideas of preservation)  to well-preserved idols like Demi Moore - who regularly botox  and detox (using leeches, apparently) - remaining gorgeous, naturally… (Pun very much intended.)

Really, is this all not getting a bit too stressful and demanding?

So I say, it is high time, ladies… let us rise as one against the rampant Auntification of our society… let us revolt... start a movement!

What is that - a meeting of the movement to discuss strategy - next week, you say? Sure thing, suits me just fine - gives me just enough time to get my root touch-up and anti-aging facial... I'll go call up the parlour RIGHTAWAY...

(This write-up was inspired by Seema Goswami's article in HT Brunch) http://www.hindustantimes.com/Brunch/Brunch-Stories/Who-are-you-calling-Aunty/Article1-830289.aspx

Birthday Banter

Perception of birthdays over the years...