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...

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...
                 

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

Returning home from the Kala Ghoda festival on a Harbour line train, I felt light and content. I had had an enjoyable day. Plus, the fact that I got a train as soon as I got to VT, and got a good seat to boot, contributed in deepening my sense of contentment. If I had been a cat I would definitely have sat there purring. :)

And then something happened - an incident which I can only term as faintly disturbing, but nonetheless, something that refuses to leave my thoughts.

At Mankhurd, the crowd in the train had thinned considerably. A woman got in with a small girl of 7 years or so, and headed for the seat behind mine. "Shabbo, yahan aajao beta," she called to her daughter. Shabbo, obviously a bold girl with a mind of her own, came and stood near our seat instead, asking my neighbour at the window seat, "Aap kahan utrenge?". The woman said Sanpada, and Shabbo called out, "Ammi, main yahin baithoongi."

Her mother attempted a couple of more times to make her come and sit near her, but to no avail. I was starting to like the spirit of this girl!

Sanpada came, and Shabbo sat down next to me. She had a cute, expressive face, and as our eyes met, I smiled. She smiled right back, and we struck up a conversation. 

"Tumhara naam kya hai," I asked.

"Aapka naam kya hai?" she retorted.

"Shabbo," said I, with a mischievous look. An old trick, and one that never fails to amuse. I had attempted this ruse many a times to strike a friendship with a kid.

But in this case, it drew a reaction quite different from what I had expected. There was no dropped jaws and a surprised "Aapko kaise pata!", no indignant reaction saying "Nahi, woh toh mera naam hai!"... instead, she responded in a faintly pleased tone:

"Aap Musalman ho!?" 

To say I was taken aback totally with this response, would be an understatement. It felt like she had landed a juicy one on my solar plexus. I tried to think how to answer, and she repeated, in a slightly more pressing tone, "Musalman ho aap?"

I finally smiled rather lamely and said, "Nahi," in some strange way feeling I had disappointed her. "Aur mera naam Shabbo nahi hai - woh toh tumhara naam hai naa?"

We then continued the conversation for another 2-3 minutes, when suddenly she glanced back at her mother, who had obviously somehow called her to attention. From where I was sitting I could not see her mother or what she did, but it was obviously some kind of warning to stem the conversation. When I tried to continue talking, Shabbo put her finger on her lips to indicate to me that I should keep quiet.

For some strange reason, this little exchange derailed the sense of contentment and harmony I had felt at the beginning of the journey.

A little later, as I got up and stood near the exit, our eyes met again. I smiled and waved to her. After a glance back to assure herself that her mother was not looking, Shabbo raised her hand gently to her waist level (so as not to draw her mother's attention, presumably), and waved back, with a slight twitching of the corners of her mouth which was just barely recognizable as a smile.

We parted friends, and the sense of disquiet that had crept over me a little while ago abated a bit.

But the incident has stayed with me and raised many questions. Would Shabbo's mother have stopped her from talking to me if my answer to her question had been different? Why did Shabbo feel compelled to obey her mother in the matter of carrying on a conversation with me, but not in the matter of choosing a seat? But most importantly, how could the first question coming to the head of a 7-year old in that situation be that particular one?!

Is it that bigotry is a lesson that can be learnt a bit too easily and too early in life by a child if people around are not careful...?

Delhi... Lost and Found

Recently, I made a trip to Delhi, to visit Ma. I mostly stayed indoors, catching up on all the family gossip with Ma, and of course, clearing the hundreds of spam sms’s flooding her phone inbox...:-/ http://womaninterrupted-merablog.blogspot.com/2011/02/mother-of-all-technologies.html

But even the limited time I spent out on the streets of Delhi gave me something to think about. In many ways, I started rediscovering the city I grew up in...

Delhi dehleez

On the August Kranti from Mumbai to Delhi, my immediate neighbours in the compartment were 4 men (not traveling together). They started conversing  as soon as the train started. They spoke in a coarse tongue, and their conversation consisted solely of business deals and money talk. “Haan haan, woh do lakh maang raha hai toh kal hi pahuncha de na usey paise!” sort of thing. The only time they deviated from the topic of ‘making money’ was when a couple of them waxed eloquent about the greatness of Delhi and rued the fact they had to travel to Mumbai so often for business.

Come night. One of the men clambered on to the top berth, and almost immediately, started snoring. Actually, to call it simply ‘snoring’ is an insult - the sound was roughly equivalent to 5 trains ramming simultaneously into a mountain, and then letting out a loud, anguished whistle. In the morning, one of the other men, tongue firmly in cheek, asked him, “Achchhi neend aayi?” “Haan ji, mujhe toh bahut badhiya neend aayi”, he replied. The first man shot back, “Aur aapki badhiya neend ne hum sab ko poori raat jagaye rakha!”

I could not help smiling! Simple. Direct. Unpretentious. Two years ago I would have been judgemental. But now, I found myself wondering which is better - artlessness and unsophistication, or the pretentious world where you go ‘Hey…lovely to see you!’ and ‘muah muah’ even at your worst enemies at a party…

‘Apne shahar ki toh baat hi alag hai…Dilli toh dilwalon ki’, one of them quipped, as the train chugged into Delhi.

Delhi Belle

I don’t know what made me travel by a DTC bus that day. And I definitely don’t remember when I last rode on one – definitely not in the last 15 years.

I was to visit a friend in far-flung Sarita Vihar, and I had every intention of using the universally applauded Delhi Metro. But at the last minute I changed my mind, and hopped into an AC bus on route 724…can’t think of any good reason for doing it, except the corny: ‘It was fate’. It probably was – I was destined to meet someone.

Inside the bus, I looked around for a ‘safe’ seat – having grown up in Delhi and being well aware of the noxious ‘paws’ lurking around in DTC buses. My eyes zeroed in on an empty seat next to a demure looking, smartly turned out young woman in her 20’s, and I went and sat down there.

Next, I started looking around for the conductor. A man strode purposefully towards us from the front of the bus. He came right up to where we sat and held out his hand to the young lady sitting next to me. The lady dug into her large bag. Ok, here he is, thought I, and rummaged into my bag to locate my wallet. Pulling out the cash, I turned towards the man to collect my ticket – and got a HUGE surprise.

It was the well-dressed woman next to me who was handing over the ticket – she was the conductor of bus #724!!! And even as I sat there - blushing inwardly for my presumptuousness and marveling at the whole idea of a woman conductor in a DTC bus, she hollered, in a strict school-principalish voice, “Haan bhaiya! Aage wale aa kar apne apne ticket le lo!”

I was completely fascinated, and spent the rest of my journey chatting with her. Most of what I heard was a pleasant surprise. Hired after the Commonwealth Games, these women came looking for the security of a government job – the coveted ‘sarkari naukri’. This particular lady had left a ‘desk job’ with a private company for this. Women conductors are put on day shifts, ending by 4 or so, for safety. But still, she was looking forward to being promoted to a desk job soon.

Crossing all limits of inquisitiveness, I asked her whether the crowd in AC buses behaved any better than in the others. Not really, she replied - in fact they misbehaved with more confidence!

A man came up to me (mistaking me for the conductor) and asked for a ticket… I could not decide whether to feel pleased or insulted – and ended up feeling bemused. But overall, it would be a rather adventurous job, I surmised…

Did she like this job? I asked, pushing the boundaries of politeness again. She gave me one withering look – “Would you?” Well, that put me firmly in my place!

Lost and Found

But still, the whole idea was a big and bold step forward for Delhi, I thought. And somehow, after a long, long time I started liking Delhi again during this trip…

Of course, the ubiquitous traffic snares are still very much in place, and your ears get tired trying to beep out all the ma-behn gaalis being bandied about, and no Delhi public place is quite complete without a few men standing around scratching their balls with supreme abandon…

But still, on looking inside myself, I could no longer find the active dislike for the city that I had developed some years ago.

And that brings me to the inevitable - the ‘Mumbai vs Delhi’ bit…

I have lived in Mumbai for over 5 years now. It is supremely impersonal. Everyone is immersed in themselves - nobody gives a damn for anyone else… so much so, that sometimes you start wondering if you really exist! So maybe that is why I found Delhi a welcome change – where people at least notice you, even if it is to drive too close to the pavement you are walking on - to splash muddy water from a puddle on to you (on purpose, naturally). Or lean out of their vehicle at a traffic signal to stare at you as if you were the last specimen of a female homo-sapien left on earth…

Delhi is the city of my birth... the place where I grew up, went to school and college, started my career, got married. But somewhere down the line I had distanced myself from it. It was a good place to go shopping and have fun times with friends, but that was it.

But this time, I started feeling reconnected to the city again. Of course, the DTC experience and all had something to do with it. But I think a lot of it was also due to a meeting with my school-friend Gautami. Time melted away as we spoke of the days gone by, giggled at juvenile jokes, and shared the most heartfelt joys and sorrows.

As I put on my red-and-black shoes to go out, she said ‘Oye, 40 saal ki ho gayi hai - sharam nahi aati laal jootey pehente huey!’ And then suddenly realised she was carrying a large red purse - and we both went into fits of laughter...Nobody could have guessed we were meeting after so many years – yes, it had taken us 22 long years to ‘find’ each other again.

And it was the same with Delhi. And I plan to keep in touch – with the people and places that matter. I guess, there comes a time in your life when you need to ‘Get back to where you once belonged’…