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.

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...

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...

Birthday Banter

Perception of birthdays over the years...

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’…