My social-networking inertia makes me an anomaly in the web world. And what’s worse, I lack the necessary spunk to announce it through my status message on Facebook and gtalk!
Surrounded by souls who wear their lives and emotions on their sleeves, changing their virtual ‘status’ each time their kitten coughs or the doorbell rings, I find myself at sea. While real people in the virtual world chronicle, comment upon, celebrate, debate and deliberate every smile, every toilet break, every mood swing, I have nothing more to offer by way of originality or wit than the perpetual drab ‘available’ on my gtalk next to the flashing green light. My alter-ego says, girl, cheer up, you at least are a netizen with couple of log-in id’s in your name; look at many around you who still think gtalk is a dirty word invented by the g-string g-spot brigade, and Facebook, a scrapbook full of portraits. But there’s little solace in that argument, you’ll agree.
We led perfectly non-defunct lives even before we began drawing almost-voyeuristic pleasures out of people’s self-advertised mental, bedroom or boardroom one-liners. So since when did the human race get this eloquent en masse? And why this sudden urge to go public with the most personal of mood swings? On any given morning, even before I’ve brushed my teeth, I know which of my ‘contacts’ slept late, which one woke up with a nightmare, who had what for dinner, whose daughter smiled in her dream and who fought with her partner! Must I be told?
To be honest, the status tags do make for some interesting eclectic reading! On days when I have nothing to do (though, again an embarrassing confession about having nothing to do, while the rest of the world sends virtual pokes, nudges, quizzes, battles) I read these personal opinions of the veritable kind by people who, until just a couple of years ago, I thought were just like me. The only opinion we freely dispensed then was whether the latest Govinda flick was more crass or classier than his previous one. Suddenly, to read from them, supremely profound, at times abstruse (and I daresay, even, comic) sentiments like, “life, blanched, smoked, it passes me by”, only makes me more insecure about my own linguistic, cerebral and existential prowess.
A friend, who has long since taken me off his list of contacts, commented in exasperation, “Available, available, available. Don’t you ever have anything interesting to say about yourself? You don’t deserve to be online!”
Well, he said it.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Obituary: The Feifdom of Barkha Dutt (1999-2008)
In a billion plus nation, a decade of undisputed reign for a person in any field is an impressive feat. Moreso, on television. And so, a Padma Shree, unprecedented recognition and several awards later, if the queen is finally being made accountable for her words and actions, prompting her to strike back in self defence, it’s a sure sign that her infallibility has fallen by Arabian Sea’s Taj promenade. But despair not Barkha Dutt, in the cycle of life, we all come with our ‘sell-by’ dates.
Barkha Dutt has been around as the unsparing (though sanctimonious), and ‘intelligent’ (or so proclaims a recent award she’s received) and objective (though often heavily critisised for losing it in times of real crisis) voice of the nation since 1999. She shot to fame with the coverage of Kargil war, as the intrepid female reporter covering live the gun battle, the blazing cannon shots, the flying shells, standing bravely in the face of death. Though she did come in the line of firing from several quarters accusing her of compromising the security of the nation with her live reporting, she emerged from it unscathed, unperturbed and vindicated.
Post Kargil, her reporting was so damned novel and path-breaking, the way she cast a magic spell on the urban Indian, churning out the gut-wrenching ‘truths’ about the haloed institutions of the nation, looking straight in the eyes of the men in power, and throwing, ever so fearlessly, uncomfortable questions at them, making mince-meat of their halting half replies. What guts, the nation sat up and took notice; what grit, the nation applauded; what gumption, the nation swooned. And thus was born, brand Barkha Dutt, the Star (pardon the pun here) of NDTV, the popularity and TRP ratings of which soared with that of the lady.
A minimally turned-out Barkha Dutt, with her trademark no-fuss hair cut, mike in hand, spawned many a clone in the TV news reporting arena, inspired many a woman-of-substance characterization for Bollywood belles (albeit with fancier outfits), and roused many an upper elite of the TV viewing India into suddenly questioning everything with a political tone. It was as if, the otherwise uninvolved apolitical Indian citizen had finally awakened, and taken seriously to armchair round-tables, thanks to the fiery words that zoomed in through the primetime news channel. She handled real social ‘people’ issues too, but the decibels in the studio would be the loudest best in the scenes of a political altercation involving community specific blame games. During times when the nation or the world refrained from going to war and riots and agitations, Barkha Dutt turned to playing messiah to the poor, dying, marginalized, and the wronged in the nation, with equally admirable flamboyance and elan.
And soon Barkha Dutt transformed into a generic entity with a massive fan following. In a magazine survey several years ago, the third most sought after career option for young girls (as young as 4 years), after modelling, and becoming an item girl in Bollywood or in music videos, was growing up to be like Barkha Dutt aunty, though I wont be surprised if it was more the Priety Zinta (post Lakshya) rub-off. Young men and women with a flair for live reporting wanted to be ‘Barkha Dutt’, thereby flooding the countless news channels with sound-alikes, dreaming big of striking gold aping her style. (Henceforth, in this piece, we’ll refer to the entire breed of these reporters as the ‘Burkha Dutts’ - the flip-side of being a generic icon) To me, personally, it didn’t matter way back then whether she was a left wing fire-brand, a right wing pundit, or middle of the path moderator.
Much as she would have liked to believe that she reigned supreme in the minds of the masses, but if truth be told, once the novelty wore off, and the women had discussed her ad nauseum at the kitty parties and men at their card tables, the masses switched their loyalties to the rather ‘prettier’ looking clones who had more important issues to tackle like which celebrity was spotted with whom in Goa, or how many ‘female’ spirits infest a particular tree at night waiting for human male catch (I’m serious), and how the aliens from a UFO stepped down to wish a young couple who eloped and married (I’m even more serious). Since Barkha Dutt refrained from pandering to the delights of those looking for cheap sensational ‘breaking-news’ stories, her appeal was limited to the rather discerning intelligentsia, the genteel parties, the vocal activists, and the motivated youth of the nation who sought inspiration in her fiery words and fearless exposes.
In recent years, the high pitched ‘Burkha Dutts’ have acquired an amazing appetite for theatrics before the camera. Facts take on larger than life proportions, the chimera of a corruption-free nation feels almost waiting for deliverance, thanks to their ‘flawless’ investigative journalism, and despite their intention to uncover the greys in society and politics, their take on most real problematic issues finally ends up as limited black and white. I’ve found many of them downright rude, cocky and disrespectful to the people in power or rank, at times too full of themselves with their half baked opinions, and at most times, grabbing more sound bytes than the interviewee or guest. I’ve not come face to face with Barkha Dutt (I am neither socially and politically awakened, nor celebrity enough to participate in any of her shows or know her personally) to hear her away from the camera, but the only lingering feeling that I go to bed with after having watched the shows that Barkha Dutt hosts is, “My God, will she ever let the other person talk?”
Barkha Dutt, in particular, has become increasingly predictable and repetitive in style, form, and content. Having failed to re-invent herself, like most personal working-styles that ultimately become the person’s waterloo, the discerning junta perhaps has got too discerning, and therefore is now tiring of her.
24/7 reporting of 26/11 has sounded a wake up call for the ilk, especially for the high priestess herself. Though it’s difficult to say how such a sudden outburst against Barkha Dutt in particular has got mobilized post Mumbai, there is a palpable revulsion. Maybe it’s her hyper-ventilating, lop sided (she stayed clear of the commoner’s arena of bloodbath, CST and Cama hospital) and self congratulatory reportage that did it, or maybe she was perceived as being too intrusive and playing God, but it has been most certainly because she (along with the others) could naively have given away vital information to the terrorists regarding the commando movements and positions. That of all reporters, Barkha Dutt failed to act with restraint, maturity and responsibility, is what has irked many. People switched channels in desperation to get one decent non-sensational coverage of the events as the tragedy unfolded, but the more channels we surfed, the more insufferable the 24X7 reportage became. Personally, after day two, I denounced the news channels, and went back to the good ol’ newspapers. Blogs went up in no time pooh-poohing her, and the likes of her; SMS’ poured in from all sides echoing similar sentiments. Several ‘Take Barkha Dutt off the Air’ groups have sprung up on Facebook and Orkut. Print media, that got left out in the mad race for TRP ratings in the middle of the Mumbai mayhem given the limitation of it’s once a day visibility, may finally be getting its own back at the TV channels, given the way most newspaper columns and editorials have lambasted the live coverage this time. For once, the politicians, if they’ve cared to follow these latest virtual bytes will feel happy they are not the only ones facing the flak!
Both celebrated and criticized for whipping up sentiments of people, Barkha Dutt has courted small controversies over her style many a time, but never before has this nation risen so vocally against a reporter in the wake of a tragedy. Is this the end of Barkha Dutt? Certainly not, for if she’s inherited even part of her mother’s grit (her mother, Prerna Dutt, nee Behl, fearless in her work, rose up to be the Chief Reporter at Hindustan Times) she’ll fight back and weather this storm brewing in the chat rooms and the virtual boardrooms. But what most certainly has ended is her infallibility. And with her, that of the entire brood of clones that she spawned.
RIP.
Barkha Dutt has been around as the unsparing (though sanctimonious), and ‘intelligent’ (or so proclaims a recent award she’s received) and objective (though often heavily critisised for losing it in times of real crisis) voice of the nation since 1999. She shot to fame with the coverage of Kargil war, as the intrepid female reporter covering live the gun battle, the blazing cannon shots, the flying shells, standing bravely in the face of death. Though she did come in the line of firing from several quarters accusing her of compromising the security of the nation with her live reporting, she emerged from it unscathed, unperturbed and vindicated.
Post Kargil, her reporting was so damned novel and path-breaking, the way she cast a magic spell on the urban Indian, churning out the gut-wrenching ‘truths’ about the haloed institutions of the nation, looking straight in the eyes of the men in power, and throwing, ever so fearlessly, uncomfortable questions at them, making mince-meat of their halting half replies. What guts, the nation sat up and took notice; what grit, the nation applauded; what gumption, the nation swooned. And thus was born, brand Barkha Dutt, the Star (pardon the pun here) of NDTV, the popularity and TRP ratings of which soared with that of the lady.
A minimally turned-out Barkha Dutt, with her trademark no-fuss hair cut, mike in hand, spawned many a clone in the TV news reporting arena, inspired many a woman-of-substance characterization for Bollywood belles (albeit with fancier outfits), and roused many an upper elite of the TV viewing India into suddenly questioning everything with a political tone. It was as if, the otherwise uninvolved apolitical Indian citizen had finally awakened, and taken seriously to armchair round-tables, thanks to the fiery words that zoomed in through the primetime news channel. She handled real social ‘people’ issues too, but the decibels in the studio would be the loudest best in the scenes of a political altercation involving community specific blame games. During times when the nation or the world refrained from going to war and riots and agitations, Barkha Dutt turned to playing messiah to the poor, dying, marginalized, and the wronged in the nation, with equally admirable flamboyance and elan.
And soon Barkha Dutt transformed into a generic entity with a massive fan following. In a magazine survey several years ago, the third most sought after career option for young girls (as young as 4 years), after modelling, and becoming an item girl in Bollywood or in music videos, was growing up to be like Barkha Dutt aunty, though I wont be surprised if it was more the Priety Zinta (post Lakshya) rub-off. Young men and women with a flair for live reporting wanted to be ‘Barkha Dutt’, thereby flooding the countless news channels with sound-alikes, dreaming big of striking gold aping her style. (Henceforth, in this piece, we’ll refer to the entire breed of these reporters as the ‘Burkha Dutts’ - the flip-side of being a generic icon) To me, personally, it didn’t matter way back then whether she was a left wing fire-brand, a right wing pundit, or middle of the path moderator.
Much as she would have liked to believe that she reigned supreme in the minds of the masses, but if truth be told, once the novelty wore off, and the women had discussed her ad nauseum at the kitty parties and men at their card tables, the masses switched their loyalties to the rather ‘prettier’ looking clones who had more important issues to tackle like which celebrity was spotted with whom in Goa, or how many ‘female’ spirits infest a particular tree at night waiting for human male catch (I’m serious), and how the aliens from a UFO stepped down to wish a young couple who eloped and married (I’m even more serious). Since Barkha Dutt refrained from pandering to the delights of those looking for cheap sensational ‘breaking-news’ stories, her appeal was limited to the rather discerning intelligentsia, the genteel parties, the vocal activists, and the motivated youth of the nation who sought inspiration in her fiery words and fearless exposes.
In recent years, the high pitched ‘Burkha Dutts’ have acquired an amazing appetite for theatrics before the camera. Facts take on larger than life proportions, the chimera of a corruption-free nation feels almost waiting for deliverance, thanks to their ‘flawless’ investigative journalism, and despite their intention to uncover the greys in society and politics, their take on most real problematic issues finally ends up as limited black and white. I’ve found many of them downright rude, cocky and disrespectful to the people in power or rank, at times too full of themselves with their half baked opinions, and at most times, grabbing more sound bytes than the interviewee or guest. I’ve not come face to face with Barkha Dutt (I am neither socially and politically awakened, nor celebrity enough to participate in any of her shows or know her personally) to hear her away from the camera, but the only lingering feeling that I go to bed with after having watched the shows that Barkha Dutt hosts is, “My God, will she ever let the other person talk?”
Barkha Dutt, in particular, has become increasingly predictable and repetitive in style, form, and content. Having failed to re-invent herself, like most personal working-styles that ultimately become the person’s waterloo, the discerning junta perhaps has got too discerning, and therefore is now tiring of her.
24/7 reporting of 26/11 has sounded a wake up call for the ilk, especially for the high priestess herself. Though it’s difficult to say how such a sudden outburst against Barkha Dutt in particular has got mobilized post Mumbai, there is a palpable revulsion. Maybe it’s her hyper-ventilating, lop sided (she stayed clear of the commoner’s arena of bloodbath, CST and Cama hospital) and self congratulatory reportage that did it, or maybe she was perceived as being too intrusive and playing God, but it has been most certainly because she (along with the others) could naively have given away vital information to the terrorists regarding the commando movements and positions. That of all reporters, Barkha Dutt failed to act with restraint, maturity and responsibility, is what has irked many. People switched channels in desperation to get one decent non-sensational coverage of the events as the tragedy unfolded, but the more channels we surfed, the more insufferable the 24X7 reportage became. Personally, after day two, I denounced the news channels, and went back to the good ol’ newspapers. Blogs went up in no time pooh-poohing her, and the likes of her; SMS’ poured in from all sides echoing similar sentiments. Several ‘Take Barkha Dutt off the Air’ groups have sprung up on Facebook and Orkut. Print media, that got left out in the mad race for TRP ratings in the middle of the Mumbai mayhem given the limitation of it’s once a day visibility, may finally be getting its own back at the TV channels, given the way most newspaper columns and editorials have lambasted the live coverage this time. For once, the politicians, if they’ve cared to follow these latest virtual bytes will feel happy they are not the only ones facing the flak!
Both celebrated and criticized for whipping up sentiments of people, Barkha Dutt has courted small controversies over her style many a time, but never before has this nation risen so vocally against a reporter in the wake of a tragedy. Is this the end of Barkha Dutt? Certainly not, for if she’s inherited even part of her mother’s grit (her mother, Prerna Dutt, nee Behl, fearless in her work, rose up to be the Chief Reporter at Hindustan Times) she’ll fight back and weather this storm brewing in the chat rooms and the virtual boardrooms. But what most certainly has ended is her infallibility. And with her, that of the entire brood of clones that she spawned.
RIP.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Some Man, the Common Man...
Dear Nation,
I am one billionth of those that constitute you. Other than exercising my voting prerogative, I rarely come out to express my opinion in public. There are millions like me, snug in their existence, not easily roused by turmoil or tragedy outside their immediate realm of concern. But 26/11 changed that. Unbridled, uncensored opinions have been flowing from all corners, only to show that this time, your citizens finally have more than superficially been impacted, and they are no longer willing to tolerate nonsense. Good for you. A nation awakened is a nation aware.
But, awakened, yes. Aware, you’re not. Thousands like me have been grappling with an entire gamut of emotions over the past week, ranging from shock, disbelief, anger, disgust, insecurity, and expressing themselves boldly. The Common Man (CM), it seems, if the media pundits are to be believed, has finally come of age. We heard over –the-top reporters cry hoarse over the end of resilience for the CM, we heard the most honoured celebrity guests on the various news channels refer to themselves as the CM, we read countless blogs and open letters of protest, ire, exasperation from the Who’s Who of the newly constituted ambit of the CM.
Long live the CM! Now that thou hast arisen, do not slip into a slumber again!
But alas! The newly constituted CM is delusively misled into seeing itself as such. Even when emotions run high, rhetorics fly live across TV bytes and when, try as we might, they and I will still NOT become your common man. I’m sure you’ll agree mother nation. Excuse me for my poor grasp over statistical data, but we, the non-common men and women who check into the Taj, dine at Wasabi, and are invited on NDTV 24X7 to express our opinions in times like these, constitute a miniscule percentage of your population. The Common Man, we cant be. Maybe the gentleman who drives us to all these places and the ayah who baby sits our children while we dine out at these places are, but for us, the tag is a misnomer.
The real common men were the nameless ones who lost their innocent lives, unsung, un-telecast, un-interviewed in the mindless shootout by the terrorists at VT station. The other common men who share threads of their common-ness with the ones gunned down at the VT and Cama hospital felt the same insecurity, terror post the attacks, as the Chanel laced glitterati friends of the elite dead. And yet, not one of them was invited into the studios to vent their ire and disgust. Clearly, this time the national crisis further widened the us and them divide even in near-identical respective tragedies.
I wish our prime time news channels had ventured beyond the promenade of the Taj and the Trident to ask the people sitting in the interiors of states like Bihar and UP, Assam or Orissa their response to this horrific act of violence. They may have been surprised at the nonchalance of the real common man; such things happen in their backyards everyday, just that the live telecast makes a dramatic impact.
Everyday, in the name of caste, religion, land or language, innocent people are lined up again the wall, much as in the same way at the Taj and Trident, and gunned down mercilessly. Of course, as a macabre foreplay to the imminent bloodbath, the helpless women in the lot first get gangraped, (talk of multiple drama) and are then forced against the wall with the rest of them and gunned down.
But as long as they are a bunch of dalits, or people belonging to a certain community, or poverty stricken citizens lying in a pool of blood, such ‘small’ news reports don’t touch our lives at all. Infact, they don’t even get intercepted by our social consciousness radar. No TV crew, no live (or recorded) footage, no honoured guests voicing discontentment on air, no ‘we stand united against terrorism’ SMS’, no candlelight vigils at India Gate and no white-tshirt solidarity. If this is not homegrown, and most of the time, state sponsored or at least state patronized terrorism, what is? But you see, it’s the real common man dying there, not people like us, and sadly, that common man has no way to raise his voice with the rhetoric of ‘Enough is Enough’.
Brutal death, whether it comes inside the lobby of the Taj, or in a leaking thatched hut in a village, I suspect, the trauma must be the same. As would be the final moments of terror and horror in the eyes of both Gucci-ed bodies with a hint of wine as well as the emaciated half naked ones.
Dear Nation, I know you’re used to murder mayhems in cold blood, so much so that you’re kind-of immune by now. And therefore people like me have never spared a thought for homegrown homespun terror tragedies. I’m surprised at my (and of others like me) capacity to remain calculatedly detached at one form of terror and not the other. I’m appalled that I weep for one set of dead, and not the other, the numbers and varied demographics of which runs into many many thousands.
Have we as a nation become so numb that unless there’s minute by minute real life drama played out in front of us, we choose to remain blind to the 26/11s that happen everyday in the country. Must be the reality-TV hangover. I’m not even sure if the public outrage against the Mumbai siege, and the way the nation mourned, would have been the same had the news channels not kept on continuously flashing the nationalities of the terrorists and the evidence of the Pakistani hand; or had they been Hindu terrorists instead. As the bonechilling reports of the ruthless bloodbath kept trickling in, bit by bit, in the first couple of days, I saw even the liberal Hindu voices losing their objectivity at the gory images, and turning around to friends and family expressing livid anti-Muslim sentiments. Fortunately, the one front on which your citizens did emerge triumphant this time was in showing the maturity to check this community-targeted rage quickly, and in turning it against the politicians.
Our anger at our politicians is a natural response to their incompetence, apathetic politicking, and single-minded pursuit of power. But as your citizens, it’s time we too started sharing some responsibility. It’s time we recognized the social dichotomies among us and turned from being passive recipients of news bytes (and not always only sensational news) to active seekers of answers. Just as we need to make our politicians accountable, we need to make the media also take on the responsibility of reflecting the truths about you in an unbiased, sensitive, balanced way. Half unbaked truth is no truth. It is time that people like us recognize that nameless people like ‘them’ who fill up our ambient backdrop are real people. They are the real CM. Then alone we can ask the relevant questions. And stand united in protesting against injustice of any form. Injustice, which is also beyond our immediate realm of living.
Lovingly yours,
A Citizen
I am one billionth of those that constitute you. Other than exercising my voting prerogative, I rarely come out to express my opinion in public. There are millions like me, snug in their existence, not easily roused by turmoil or tragedy outside their immediate realm of concern. But 26/11 changed that. Unbridled, uncensored opinions have been flowing from all corners, only to show that this time, your citizens finally have more than superficially been impacted, and they are no longer willing to tolerate nonsense. Good for you. A nation awakened is a nation aware.
But, awakened, yes. Aware, you’re not. Thousands like me have been grappling with an entire gamut of emotions over the past week, ranging from shock, disbelief, anger, disgust, insecurity, and expressing themselves boldly. The Common Man (CM), it seems, if the media pundits are to be believed, has finally come of age. We heard over –the-top reporters cry hoarse over the end of resilience for the CM, we heard the most honoured celebrity guests on the various news channels refer to themselves as the CM, we read countless blogs and open letters of protest, ire, exasperation from the Who’s Who of the newly constituted ambit of the CM.
Long live the CM! Now that thou hast arisen, do not slip into a slumber again!
But alas! The newly constituted CM is delusively misled into seeing itself as such. Even when emotions run high, rhetorics fly live across TV bytes and when, try as we might, they and I will still NOT become your common man. I’m sure you’ll agree mother nation. Excuse me for my poor grasp over statistical data, but we, the non-common men and women who check into the Taj, dine at Wasabi, and are invited on NDTV 24X7 to express our opinions in times like these, constitute a miniscule percentage of your population. The Common Man, we cant be. Maybe the gentleman who drives us to all these places and the ayah who baby sits our children while we dine out at these places are, but for us, the tag is a misnomer.
The real common men were the nameless ones who lost their innocent lives, unsung, un-telecast, un-interviewed in the mindless shootout by the terrorists at VT station. The other common men who share threads of their common-ness with the ones gunned down at the VT and Cama hospital felt the same insecurity, terror post the attacks, as the Chanel laced glitterati friends of the elite dead. And yet, not one of them was invited into the studios to vent their ire and disgust. Clearly, this time the national crisis further widened the us and them divide even in near-identical respective tragedies.
I wish our prime time news channels had ventured beyond the promenade of the Taj and the Trident to ask the people sitting in the interiors of states like Bihar and UP, Assam or Orissa their response to this horrific act of violence. They may have been surprised at the nonchalance of the real common man; such things happen in their backyards everyday, just that the live telecast makes a dramatic impact.
Everyday, in the name of caste, religion, land or language, innocent people are lined up again the wall, much as in the same way at the Taj and Trident, and gunned down mercilessly. Of course, as a macabre foreplay to the imminent bloodbath, the helpless women in the lot first get gangraped, (talk of multiple drama) and are then forced against the wall with the rest of them and gunned down.
But as long as they are a bunch of dalits, or people belonging to a certain community, or poverty stricken citizens lying in a pool of blood, such ‘small’ news reports don’t touch our lives at all. Infact, they don’t even get intercepted by our social consciousness radar. No TV crew, no live (or recorded) footage, no honoured guests voicing discontentment on air, no ‘we stand united against terrorism’ SMS’, no candlelight vigils at India Gate and no white-tshirt solidarity. If this is not homegrown, and most of the time, state sponsored or at least state patronized terrorism, what is? But you see, it’s the real common man dying there, not people like us, and sadly, that common man has no way to raise his voice with the rhetoric of ‘Enough is Enough’.
Brutal death, whether it comes inside the lobby of the Taj, or in a leaking thatched hut in a village, I suspect, the trauma must be the same. As would be the final moments of terror and horror in the eyes of both Gucci-ed bodies with a hint of wine as well as the emaciated half naked ones.
Dear Nation, I know you’re used to murder mayhems in cold blood, so much so that you’re kind-of immune by now. And therefore people like me have never spared a thought for homegrown homespun terror tragedies. I’m surprised at my (and of others like me) capacity to remain calculatedly detached at one form of terror and not the other. I’m appalled that I weep for one set of dead, and not the other, the numbers and varied demographics of which runs into many many thousands.
Have we as a nation become so numb that unless there’s minute by minute real life drama played out in front of us, we choose to remain blind to the 26/11s that happen everyday in the country. Must be the reality-TV hangover. I’m not even sure if the public outrage against the Mumbai siege, and the way the nation mourned, would have been the same had the news channels not kept on continuously flashing the nationalities of the terrorists and the evidence of the Pakistani hand; or had they been Hindu terrorists instead. As the bonechilling reports of the ruthless bloodbath kept trickling in, bit by bit, in the first couple of days, I saw even the liberal Hindu voices losing their objectivity at the gory images, and turning around to friends and family expressing livid anti-Muslim sentiments. Fortunately, the one front on which your citizens did emerge triumphant this time was in showing the maturity to check this community-targeted rage quickly, and in turning it against the politicians.
Our anger at our politicians is a natural response to their incompetence, apathetic politicking, and single-minded pursuit of power. But as your citizens, it’s time we too started sharing some responsibility. It’s time we recognized the social dichotomies among us and turned from being passive recipients of news bytes (and not always only sensational news) to active seekers of answers. Just as we need to make our politicians accountable, we need to make the media also take on the responsibility of reflecting the truths about you in an unbiased, sensitive, balanced way. Half unbaked truth is no truth. It is time that people like us recognize that nameless people like ‘them’ who fill up our ambient backdrop are real people. They are the real CM. Then alone we can ask the relevant questions. And stand united in protesting against injustice of any form. Injustice, which is also beyond our immediate realm of living.
Lovingly yours,
A Citizen
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Seriously, Misled!
Next came my rucksack’s turn to act difficult. Last week, I dragged it down from the loft in an attempt to clean it – needed it for a short trip that weekend – but imagine the rude shock I was in for when it refused to cooperate.
“No, I’m not interested please. I’d much rather die than be seen with you,” it protested, and pulled itself away from me.
“Oh poor baby, something’s wrong in the loft-world up there, is it?”
“No. The problem is with what we are doing with our lives. We’ve thought about it, and we’re more or less united in our stand.”
“Which is?” I’m not sure whether I actually uttered the words or my arched eyebrows did it.
“Which is that we believe we’ll be demeaning ourselves by acquiescing to be seen with you.”
“Hallo?” I certainly did take affront to that, but went gentle on them nonetheless. “Listen, do you need a break? Stay put for a while. If you so wish, I could happily move you to a better, maybe sunny corner of the house, eh? I’ll take the other backpack. Just that you’ve been my favourite for a long long time. So will miss you this time buddy. But hey, I’ll manage! Happy now?”
“Stop this emotional blackmail right now. Do it on the weaklings. I’m a bag of steel, and I want to be with iron men who will help me break out of this life of anonymity. Period. And yes, you try your luck with the other backpack. If I know him well, you’ll have pretty much the same conversation you’ve just had with me.”
This looked serious. And without any context.
“Now come on. What’s wrong, will you tell me?”
After much deliberation, these carefully chosen words came out, “We’ve resolved not to get domesticated any more. We are made for more dramatic things in life, and refuse to be allowed ourselves getting stuffed with maps, LPs, clothes and shoes.”
“So what is it you wish to lug that’ll make you feel sufficiently macho?”
The moment of truth finally came, “All that those heroes were carrying. Grenades, AK47s, magazines, etc. I mean, look at them. They immortalized their rucksacks along with themselves. With you, all we get is toil without recognition. My buddy and I have been very envious of that Kasab fellow’s blue backpack hogging all the limelight all these days. And we can’t take it any more. We know we are smarter, and deserve to be pasted all over the media. And so, we demand that we be set free. We want to be off. And let’s do away with any mushy farewells please. We’ve found our calling in life and tears and sobs don’t quite fit there.”
“You mean you two wish to walk off here and now? Maybe you could wait until this weekened and see me through on my trip? And for heaven’s sake, we abhor those terrorists, how can you even think of associating with them?”
But they were adamant. “No. They are our super heroes. We heard it on TV that there are other heroes at large in Bombay. We want to get to them before the cops do. So, NOW. Release us NOW.”
“Well, well, not that I’ve kept you two as hostages. Looks like you’ve had an overdose of current affairs. There,” I said, stepping aside. “You are free to go. But just remember that it wont be an easy life. No cosy warm home corners, no affectionate pats after a trip well done, no affectionate gestures from my kids trying to cover you with cute stickers, no regular clean-up shampooing, no sight seeing. Life will be tough dudes. Ruthless masters, brutal rugged terrains, back-breaking weight, dirt, grime, unpredictable work hours, at times for days on end, even more unpredictable outcomes. You ready for it?”
“Yes we are,” came the unflinching resolve.
“And what when you get nabbed by the police, or worse, your masters killed?”
“Don’t you get it?” Said my favourite one with the look of triumph on his face, “Any which way, we’ll be on TV. That’s what we want. Didn’t you see, Kasab, his rucksack and its contents got far more footage than the brave cops who nabbed him? We’ve decided. That’s the only way to get immortalized. And enough. Please do not waste our time any more.”
I sensed the urgency in their tone, and the futility of any logic. They walked up to the main door without so much of a goodbye, hesitated for a while at the door, and turned around sharply. I could see the military posturing already sneaking in.
“Give us some money. How are we supposed to travel to Bombay?”
“Well, up to you to figure your own course of action. You two have let me down. Goodbye, and goodluck. A rough indication of when I ought to switch on the TV for your sensational debut?”
“We shall let you know.” They had even got that emotional switching-off perfected.
“No please don’t. I don’t want any of your calls traced back to me. Now please be off, and let me rest.”
And thus, they were gone, ungrateful, cocky and arrogant in their defection.
The next day, I went to the market to pick up a new rucksack for my trip, but somehow, couldn’t find any. So carried a small bag instead, and merrily went away that weekend.
Imagine my surprise when this morning I answered the doorbell to see those two bags, all battered and bruised, panting, half dead, waiting to be let in.
“Well? Beat-en retreat?”
While one of them said nothing, went straight up to the loft area avoiding my gaze, my favourite one mumbled faintly, with his head hung low. “We stood no chance. It seemed all the knapsacks in India had thought alike, and there was a major queue outside the possible hide-out of the terrorists. When we tried to jump the queue saying we’re the smartest, the other applicants beat us black and blue, colours similar to Kasab’s bag. So we protested that now we looked even more suited for the coveted post, but they came down with a fresh barrage of blows.”
I didn’t buy that, so told them that it sounded rather fishy that the cops couldn’t reach where the bags didn’t fear to tread.
“Your wish. Don’t believe us,” he said, rather hurt. “Wasn’t just us bags there. We also saw a queue of credit card salesmen, another one of the dry fruit wholesalers, and firearm agents. Now please move away from the door. We’re tired and drained and crestfallen post my shattered dreams. We want to rest.”
I’m letting them rest. The only minor change I’ve done in my house is that I’ve moved the television to another room, out of their hearing range.
“No, I’m not interested please. I’d much rather die than be seen with you,” it protested, and pulled itself away from me.
“Oh poor baby, something’s wrong in the loft-world up there, is it?”
“No. The problem is with what we are doing with our lives. We’ve thought about it, and we’re more or less united in our stand.”
“Which is?” I’m not sure whether I actually uttered the words or my arched eyebrows did it.
“Which is that we believe we’ll be demeaning ourselves by acquiescing to be seen with you.”
“Hallo?” I certainly did take affront to that, but went gentle on them nonetheless. “Listen, do you need a break? Stay put for a while. If you so wish, I could happily move you to a better, maybe sunny corner of the house, eh? I’ll take the other backpack. Just that you’ve been my favourite for a long long time. So will miss you this time buddy. But hey, I’ll manage! Happy now?”
“Stop this emotional blackmail right now. Do it on the weaklings. I’m a bag of steel, and I want to be with iron men who will help me break out of this life of anonymity. Period. And yes, you try your luck with the other backpack. If I know him well, you’ll have pretty much the same conversation you’ve just had with me.”
This looked serious. And without any context.
“Now come on. What’s wrong, will you tell me?”
After much deliberation, these carefully chosen words came out, “We’ve resolved not to get domesticated any more. We are made for more dramatic things in life, and refuse to be allowed ourselves getting stuffed with maps, LPs, clothes and shoes.”
“So what is it you wish to lug that’ll make you feel sufficiently macho?”
The moment of truth finally came, “All that those heroes were carrying. Grenades, AK47s, magazines, etc. I mean, look at them. They immortalized their rucksacks along with themselves. With you, all we get is toil without recognition. My buddy and I have been very envious of that Kasab fellow’s blue backpack hogging all the limelight all these days. And we can’t take it any more. We know we are smarter, and deserve to be pasted all over the media. And so, we demand that we be set free. We want to be off. And let’s do away with any mushy farewells please. We’ve found our calling in life and tears and sobs don’t quite fit there.”
“You mean you two wish to walk off here and now? Maybe you could wait until this weekened and see me through on my trip? And for heaven’s sake, we abhor those terrorists, how can you even think of associating with them?”
But they were adamant. “No. They are our super heroes. We heard it on TV that there are other heroes at large in Bombay. We want to get to them before the cops do. So, NOW. Release us NOW.”
“Well, well, not that I’ve kept you two as hostages. Looks like you’ve had an overdose of current affairs. There,” I said, stepping aside. “You are free to go. But just remember that it wont be an easy life. No cosy warm home corners, no affectionate pats after a trip well done, no affectionate gestures from my kids trying to cover you with cute stickers, no regular clean-up shampooing, no sight seeing. Life will be tough dudes. Ruthless masters, brutal rugged terrains, back-breaking weight, dirt, grime, unpredictable work hours, at times for days on end, even more unpredictable outcomes. You ready for it?”
“Yes we are,” came the unflinching resolve.
“And what when you get nabbed by the police, or worse, your masters killed?”
“Don’t you get it?” Said my favourite one with the look of triumph on his face, “Any which way, we’ll be on TV. That’s what we want. Didn’t you see, Kasab, his rucksack and its contents got far more footage than the brave cops who nabbed him? We’ve decided. That’s the only way to get immortalized. And enough. Please do not waste our time any more.”
I sensed the urgency in their tone, and the futility of any logic. They walked up to the main door without so much of a goodbye, hesitated for a while at the door, and turned around sharply. I could see the military posturing already sneaking in.
“Give us some money. How are we supposed to travel to Bombay?”
“Well, up to you to figure your own course of action. You two have let me down. Goodbye, and goodluck. A rough indication of when I ought to switch on the TV for your sensational debut?”
“We shall let you know.” They had even got that emotional switching-off perfected.
“No please don’t. I don’t want any of your calls traced back to me. Now please be off, and let me rest.”
And thus, they were gone, ungrateful, cocky and arrogant in their defection.
The next day, I went to the market to pick up a new rucksack for my trip, but somehow, couldn’t find any. So carried a small bag instead, and merrily went away that weekend.
Imagine my surprise when this morning I answered the doorbell to see those two bags, all battered and bruised, panting, half dead, waiting to be let in.
“Well? Beat-en retreat?”
While one of them said nothing, went straight up to the loft area avoiding my gaze, my favourite one mumbled faintly, with his head hung low. “We stood no chance. It seemed all the knapsacks in India had thought alike, and there was a major queue outside the possible hide-out of the terrorists. When we tried to jump the queue saying we’re the smartest, the other applicants beat us black and blue, colours similar to Kasab’s bag. So we protested that now we looked even more suited for the coveted post, but they came down with a fresh barrage of blows.”
I didn’t buy that, so told them that it sounded rather fishy that the cops couldn’t reach where the bags didn’t fear to tread.
“Your wish. Don’t believe us,” he said, rather hurt. “Wasn’t just us bags there. We also saw a queue of credit card salesmen, another one of the dry fruit wholesalers, and firearm agents. Now please move away from the door. We’re tired and drained and crestfallen post my shattered dreams. We want to rest.”
I’m letting them rest. The only minor change I’ve done in my house is that I’ve moved the television to another room, out of their hearing range.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Big Ones...!
I’ve got big ones. Not the Dolly Parton big ones, but yes, big ones. But then, big ones are valued only if they are big, and firm. Pam Anderson set the standards impossibly high for the rest of the womankind. And so, in my case, no man has ever salivated at them; and no woman has ever envied them. Had it not been for the bras, of which, thanks to my dimensions, only the most unattractive ones walk into my wardrobe, they would have reached down to my knees. But I managed to rein them in time.
One day, as I sat surfing the net, they popped out of the harness and said, “We want freedom. Liberate us. NOW.”
“Hallo? You two talking to me? I shall do nothing of the sort. Now duck right back in, and stay still. I like neither blabbering nor jiggling boobs. Have I made myself clear?”
I shoved them back where they belong, and having quelled the mini mutiny, forgot all about them next moment and went back to answering emails.
A few minutes later, I felt shooting pains in my boobs. This was untimely. They mess around with me only at the height of my PMS. That’s when they become tender and gooey, and irritatingly sensitive, and swell up to double their already gargantuan size threatening to tear at the seams of all my clothes. Basically, become a pain. But my bad times had just got over. And I saw no reason for this untimely insane temperament.
I looked down and saw the mischief mongers out again doing high fives. They sneered at me and said, “You don’t let us out, and we wont let you in peace!”
“Bitches!!” I screamed, and forcefully shoed them back in again. “In you go. You deserve to be thrashed and shown your proper place.”
But any one who has faced rebellion on any front knows only too well that simmering mutiny can never be doused. And so, that day on, it became a constant tussle between them and me. To tell you the truth, they did make my life miserable. They would pop out from the sides of the swim suit moment I would emerge from the water, they would pop out from the harness moment I stepped out in a figure hugging t-shirt exposing ugly multi-tiered secrets, would become impossibly overactive when I would be out jogging, start itching while I was in a theatre watching a movie, would squiggle and twitch around so that my bra hooks would get unclasped on their own right in the middle of the market place, and behave unpredictably mean all the time.
I gave up in less than a week.
“All right, let us talk. Tell me what your demands are.”
I saw them winking at each other. If I had my way, I would have dismembered them and thrown away from my body. Honestly, I didn’t need them, and I was tired of lugging them around for years. A trainer at a gym had once leeringly sized up my dimensions and commented that these, by themselves, add two kilos to my body weight. He had offered, as part of a month long weight reduction fitness regimen, personally massaging them to ease and melt the fat away. Thanks, but no thanks, and I had walked off without enrolling for the programme.
“We don’t want to be behind bras. We’ve had enough.”
“Sorry. But that’s not negotiable.”
“That is our demand. Accede or face the consequences.”
“But it’s an impossible demand. How do you expect me to make a cow of myself moving around with these pendulous humongous masses of embarrassment? Think of another demand, maybe I shall give in to that. What about a say, massage or something? I promise a dedicated hot oil massage this week for you two.”
“NO.”
“Ok, twice a week, for the rest of your lives. Ok?”
“NO. We want liberation. We believe in bra-burning. Off with it, off with it.”
“Ah! Listen, let me try and explain. Have a nice long look at yourselves. And look at me too. By some coincidence, you both and I are not exactly petite-framed femme fatales. You agree?”
They nodded.
“Now, going bra-less with this frame isn’t particularly pleasing to the eyes. You agree?”
“No we don’t. We don’t care whether others like it or not. We want to breathe easy. Period.”
At my wit’s end by now, I asked aloud what had suddenly gotten to their heads.
“We read the article you were reading the other day in the newspaper. Fashion divas walking the ramp bra-less, proudly displaying what lies beneath.”
“But that was New York. And on the ramp. Men without balls and women without tits sit thru those shows. Watching asset-less bare bodied models stirs up no one there. You and I are in the real world. Now come, good girls, shed your madness, and let’s be friends again. Ok?”
I need not have bothered explaining. It was a no-go with them. We hit an impasse. And I finally lost my temper.
“Fine. You two shall get what you want. And let’s see how long you can handle it on your own.”
So, after putting away all my bras, I holed myself up indoors. I went overboard with DVDs, books, magazines, reading even the sports news in every daily. I slept. And started online dance lessons and took to the skipping rope in the mornings. Called a masseuse over and got myself pampered once daily, with strict instructions not to touch the defected two. Life was bliss.
With no fixed center of gravity, and with all that jiggling, my back did start aching, but there’s nothing a little bit of yoga cant cure, so there I, as fighting fit and living it up indoors as I’d been outdoor earlier.
But the mood was no longer upbeat on the other side of the fence! Ailments soon began striking our twin ladies. Though careful not to tell me anything, their silent murmurs and hush-hush groans floated right into my ears every now and then. Of course, I feigned complete nonchalance.
And then it was, finally, on the eight day, the two of them sheepishly snaked upto me and said they’d had enough. They were in pain, a lot of it, and they needed support.
Support! Ha! Without much ado, I quickly unpacked the drawer load of bras and hooked on. And felt the body equilibrium back in place! Victory!
One day, as I sat surfing the net, they popped out of the harness and said, “We want freedom. Liberate us. NOW.”
“Hallo? You two talking to me? I shall do nothing of the sort. Now duck right back in, and stay still. I like neither blabbering nor jiggling boobs. Have I made myself clear?”
I shoved them back where they belong, and having quelled the mini mutiny, forgot all about them next moment and went back to answering emails.
A few minutes later, I felt shooting pains in my boobs. This was untimely. They mess around with me only at the height of my PMS. That’s when they become tender and gooey, and irritatingly sensitive, and swell up to double their already gargantuan size threatening to tear at the seams of all my clothes. Basically, become a pain. But my bad times had just got over. And I saw no reason for this untimely insane temperament.
I looked down and saw the mischief mongers out again doing high fives. They sneered at me and said, “You don’t let us out, and we wont let you in peace!”
“Bitches!!” I screamed, and forcefully shoed them back in again. “In you go. You deserve to be thrashed and shown your proper place.”
But any one who has faced rebellion on any front knows only too well that simmering mutiny can never be doused. And so, that day on, it became a constant tussle between them and me. To tell you the truth, they did make my life miserable. They would pop out from the sides of the swim suit moment I would emerge from the water, they would pop out from the harness moment I stepped out in a figure hugging t-shirt exposing ugly multi-tiered secrets, would become impossibly overactive when I would be out jogging, start itching while I was in a theatre watching a movie, would squiggle and twitch around so that my bra hooks would get unclasped on their own right in the middle of the market place, and behave unpredictably mean all the time.
I gave up in less than a week.
“All right, let us talk. Tell me what your demands are.”
I saw them winking at each other. If I had my way, I would have dismembered them and thrown away from my body. Honestly, I didn’t need them, and I was tired of lugging them around for years. A trainer at a gym had once leeringly sized up my dimensions and commented that these, by themselves, add two kilos to my body weight. He had offered, as part of a month long weight reduction fitness regimen, personally massaging them to ease and melt the fat away. Thanks, but no thanks, and I had walked off without enrolling for the programme.
“We don’t want to be behind bras. We’ve had enough.”
“Sorry. But that’s not negotiable.”
“That is our demand. Accede or face the consequences.”
“But it’s an impossible demand. How do you expect me to make a cow of myself moving around with these pendulous humongous masses of embarrassment? Think of another demand, maybe I shall give in to that. What about a say, massage or something? I promise a dedicated hot oil massage this week for you two.”
“NO.”
“Ok, twice a week, for the rest of your lives. Ok?”
“NO. We want liberation. We believe in bra-burning. Off with it, off with it.”
“Ah! Listen, let me try and explain. Have a nice long look at yourselves. And look at me too. By some coincidence, you both and I are not exactly petite-framed femme fatales. You agree?”
They nodded.
“Now, going bra-less with this frame isn’t particularly pleasing to the eyes. You agree?”
“No we don’t. We don’t care whether others like it or not. We want to breathe easy. Period.”
At my wit’s end by now, I asked aloud what had suddenly gotten to their heads.
“We read the article you were reading the other day in the newspaper. Fashion divas walking the ramp bra-less, proudly displaying what lies beneath.”
“But that was New York. And on the ramp. Men without balls and women without tits sit thru those shows. Watching asset-less bare bodied models stirs up no one there. You and I are in the real world. Now come, good girls, shed your madness, and let’s be friends again. Ok?”
I need not have bothered explaining. It was a no-go with them. We hit an impasse. And I finally lost my temper.
“Fine. You two shall get what you want. And let’s see how long you can handle it on your own.”
So, after putting away all my bras, I holed myself up indoors. I went overboard with DVDs, books, magazines, reading even the sports news in every daily. I slept. And started online dance lessons and took to the skipping rope in the mornings. Called a masseuse over and got myself pampered once daily, with strict instructions not to touch the defected two. Life was bliss.
With no fixed center of gravity, and with all that jiggling, my back did start aching, but there’s nothing a little bit of yoga cant cure, so there I, as fighting fit and living it up indoors as I’d been outdoor earlier.
But the mood was no longer upbeat on the other side of the fence! Ailments soon began striking our twin ladies. Though careful not to tell me anything, their silent murmurs and hush-hush groans floated right into my ears every now and then. Of course, I feigned complete nonchalance.
And then it was, finally, on the eight day, the two of them sheepishly snaked upto me and said they’d had enough. They were in pain, a lot of it, and they needed support.
Support! Ha! Without much ado, I quickly unpacked the drawer load of bras and hooked on. And felt the body equilibrium back in place! Victory!
The Agonising Aunts...
The doorbell rang just when I was about to step out of the house. My neighbour, from one floor up, stood there nervously with a note pad peeping out partially from under her shawl.
“Didi, can you give me five minutes please? I don’t know how to say this, but I’m sure you’re the only one who’ll understand my predicament. Please didi? I want to send a letter to the magazines…”
Even before I’d nodded, she hesitantly drew out the note pad with the following text:
“I am a 27 year old woman, married for three years. I have a happy loving family with a healthy toddler and a loving husband who doesn’t even look at other women. I am a caring wife and provide very tasty meals to my family. My husband praises my cooking before others, which makes me very happy. But for the last three months, I’m facing a peculiar problem in my marital life. Whenever he touches me these days, even my forearm, he quickly jerks his hands away, almost as if something inside him tells him that I’m an untouchable. I come from a high caste family, and have a fair complexion. My husband says he finds me pretty. Then why has he suddenly started treating me like this? I have been passing sleepless nights. Please help.”
“Hey Neetu, haven’t you confronted him?”
“God, didi, no. How can I ask him this? What will he think of me?”
I kept a straight face, and nodded, and told her she did have a serious problem at hand. But then, I was the least suitable person to offer proper guidance.
“But didi, you are also a woman and a wife, tell me please. I cant talk about this with anyone in this world, hence the magazine route.”
I couldn’t have told her I was dying of both mirth and impatience, but maintaining that same graveness, I explained my high (un)fitness quotient. Told her would not quite be able to identify with her situation: I’m more than a decade old in the game of marriage, so things don’t bother either party; I’m not exactly a wife who could be termed ‘caring’, or the mister ‘loving’; I have mostly male friends, and he, mostly female; since I don’t cook, not even when faced with an imminent death-by-starvation threat, I do not quite know what being lavished with praises for ones cooking means; ditto on the prettiness factor.
She saw reason. I didn’t quite fit into her agony aunt mould. I made a few changes to her text, wished her good luck, and then forgot about her and her problem for over three months, until last fortnight, when the heavens above my head began to shudder, groan and become painfully noisy, with incessant hammering and drilling and dragging of what seemed like, the entire concrete structure from one end to another.
When it became unbearable, I decided to have a word with our lady of the house.
“Getting flat renovated, Neetu?” She still looked just as depressed, so out of courtesy, I asked if all was well with her, and the problem sorted.
Oh, why did I have to ask? For, she ran in to return with a whole bunch of magazines. Turned out, our lady had sent her problem to a number of agony aunt columns, only to be inundated with conflicting ‘advice’! Sample a few:
“…have faith and patience. He sounds like a genuine person and loves you a lot. Your current problem may be due to his stress at work. Recession time, you see? Everytime he comes near you, a sudden sense of guilt grips him for not devoting enough time to work, or maybe, even the fear of a layoff, and therefore, the sharp recoil reaction. Continue to love him, be a loyal devoted wife, and show him that you’re his, come what may. That will relieve his tension at work too, and soon you’ll see the positive results…”
“…you may have had a sudden change in your hairstyle, or dress sense, which may be repulsing him. Or a strong perfume, maybe? Ask him, but not directly, what his ideal woman would look like…”
“…is taking you for a ride. He sounds too good to be true. Find out if he has another woman tucked away somewhere. Seek her out, and ask her to leave your property alone. That done, see the way your husband becomes yours again…”
“…a man will not look at another woman only under two circumstances: one, if he’s suddenly turned gay; two, if he’s putting on a Shree Ram act, and making an ass of you. To me, he looks more like a scoundrel. Dump him…”
“…have you checked if it’s not a bad breath problem? Get dental help, immediately…”
“…you have not given your sun sign, so the current position of the harmful stars on your raashi cant be ascertained...”
“…wait until the coming Karwa Chauth. Everything will be all right. Your husband maybe trying to test your devotion…”
“…some spirit in the house that’s distracting him? Get a havan done in your house immediately. Has he ever indicated that flashes from his past life pass through his mind?…”
I was speecless! Could this be true! Our lady sounded as if she’d actually gone ahead with each of the suggestions, but was still waiting for the blessed elusive touch!
She had more replies to share, but I excused myself. Getting up, I wished her luck, and glanced around the hall enquiringly.
“Oh didi, this is my last resort. This magazine you see? It’s an interiors magazine, and I’d sent my question there too. They suggested some basic changes. Am trying to restructure this flat as per the vaastu aesthetics. But then, I’m losing hope. The reply said I’ll get instant results from the day work starts in my house, but…”
A week is a long time in a woman’s life.
This morning, she came in gushing, delirious, fainting, “Didi, you wont believe this, but my problem is solved!”
“Aha, so Vaastu worked, great!” All said, I did genuinely feel happy for her.
“No no, my grandma came visiting us yesterday, and she instantly knew something was terribly wrong with me. So she probed. I had to tell her didi, I simply broke down, and sobbed and told her all.”
“Hmmm…and?” I couldn’t believe I was actually waiting to know the plot denouement!
“You’ll not believe it, she simply touched my arm, shook her head and said, coconut oil my girl. Nothing but static electricity, look at your skin, its so dry. You silly girls will not use it in the name of being all modern modern, and then wail and whine.”
“And…?”
“Didi, it worked!”
Phew! Could this be true!
“Didi, can you give me five minutes please? I don’t know how to say this, but I’m sure you’re the only one who’ll understand my predicament. Please didi? I want to send a letter to the magazines…”
Even before I’d nodded, she hesitantly drew out the note pad with the following text:
“I am a 27 year old woman, married for three years. I have a happy loving family with a healthy toddler and a loving husband who doesn’t even look at other women. I am a caring wife and provide very tasty meals to my family. My husband praises my cooking before others, which makes me very happy. But for the last three months, I’m facing a peculiar problem in my marital life. Whenever he touches me these days, even my forearm, he quickly jerks his hands away, almost as if something inside him tells him that I’m an untouchable. I come from a high caste family, and have a fair complexion. My husband says he finds me pretty. Then why has he suddenly started treating me like this? I have been passing sleepless nights. Please help.”
“Hey Neetu, haven’t you confronted him?”
“God, didi, no. How can I ask him this? What will he think of me?”
I kept a straight face, and nodded, and told her she did have a serious problem at hand. But then, I was the least suitable person to offer proper guidance.
“But didi, you are also a woman and a wife, tell me please. I cant talk about this with anyone in this world, hence the magazine route.”
I couldn’t have told her I was dying of both mirth and impatience, but maintaining that same graveness, I explained my high (un)fitness quotient. Told her would not quite be able to identify with her situation: I’m more than a decade old in the game of marriage, so things don’t bother either party; I’m not exactly a wife who could be termed ‘caring’, or the mister ‘loving’; I have mostly male friends, and he, mostly female; since I don’t cook, not even when faced with an imminent death-by-starvation threat, I do not quite know what being lavished with praises for ones cooking means; ditto on the prettiness factor.
She saw reason. I didn’t quite fit into her agony aunt mould. I made a few changes to her text, wished her good luck, and then forgot about her and her problem for over three months, until last fortnight, when the heavens above my head began to shudder, groan and become painfully noisy, with incessant hammering and drilling and dragging of what seemed like, the entire concrete structure from one end to another.
When it became unbearable, I decided to have a word with our lady of the house.
“Getting flat renovated, Neetu?” She still looked just as depressed, so out of courtesy, I asked if all was well with her, and the problem sorted.
Oh, why did I have to ask? For, she ran in to return with a whole bunch of magazines. Turned out, our lady had sent her problem to a number of agony aunt columns, only to be inundated with conflicting ‘advice’! Sample a few:
“…have faith and patience. He sounds like a genuine person and loves you a lot. Your current problem may be due to his stress at work. Recession time, you see? Everytime he comes near you, a sudden sense of guilt grips him for not devoting enough time to work, or maybe, even the fear of a layoff, and therefore, the sharp recoil reaction. Continue to love him, be a loyal devoted wife, and show him that you’re his, come what may. That will relieve his tension at work too, and soon you’ll see the positive results…”
“…you may have had a sudden change in your hairstyle, or dress sense, which may be repulsing him. Or a strong perfume, maybe? Ask him, but not directly, what his ideal woman would look like…”
“…is taking you for a ride. He sounds too good to be true. Find out if he has another woman tucked away somewhere. Seek her out, and ask her to leave your property alone. That done, see the way your husband becomes yours again…”
“…a man will not look at another woman only under two circumstances: one, if he’s suddenly turned gay; two, if he’s putting on a Shree Ram act, and making an ass of you. To me, he looks more like a scoundrel. Dump him…”
“…have you checked if it’s not a bad breath problem? Get dental help, immediately…”
“…you have not given your sun sign, so the current position of the harmful stars on your raashi cant be ascertained...”
“…wait until the coming Karwa Chauth. Everything will be all right. Your husband maybe trying to test your devotion…”
“…some spirit in the house that’s distracting him? Get a havan done in your house immediately. Has he ever indicated that flashes from his past life pass through his mind?…”
I was speecless! Could this be true! Our lady sounded as if she’d actually gone ahead with each of the suggestions, but was still waiting for the blessed elusive touch!
She had more replies to share, but I excused myself. Getting up, I wished her luck, and glanced around the hall enquiringly.
“Oh didi, this is my last resort. This magazine you see? It’s an interiors magazine, and I’d sent my question there too. They suggested some basic changes. Am trying to restructure this flat as per the vaastu aesthetics. But then, I’m losing hope. The reply said I’ll get instant results from the day work starts in my house, but…”
A week is a long time in a woman’s life.
This morning, she came in gushing, delirious, fainting, “Didi, you wont believe this, but my problem is solved!”
“Aha, so Vaastu worked, great!” All said, I did genuinely feel happy for her.
“No no, my grandma came visiting us yesterday, and she instantly knew something was terribly wrong with me. So she probed. I had to tell her didi, I simply broke down, and sobbed and told her all.”
“Hmmm…and?” I couldn’t believe I was actually waiting to know the plot denouement!
“You’ll not believe it, she simply touched my arm, shook her head and said, coconut oil my girl. Nothing but static electricity, look at your skin, its so dry. You silly girls will not use it in the name of being all modern modern, and then wail and whine.”
“And…?”
“Didi, it worked!”
Phew! Could this be true!
AB Baby's Home...!
The tall man signed his name as Abhinav Bhindra in the entry register at the entrance of the condominium apartments I stay in, but it went unnoticed by the security guards. The lady visitor who signed in next after half an hour, was quick to recognize the only name worth chanting in the nation these days. Speaking breathlessly into her mobile, she raced up to her friend she’d come a visiting, pressed the doorbell, and waited impatiently.
“AB!!!!” they suddenly squealed together, which made the ground beneath their feet quake, and given the quality of construction at the ultra premium condo, some cement chipped off the ceiling and fell on my khichadi on the floor below.
“AB!!!” came another squeal, this time in the balcony, out for everyone to hear, and sure enough, not without the desired effect. Soon, more footsteps could be felt thundering all around, from above, from below, from the park and from the parking lot, all gravitating in that one direction.
Craning my neck up, I asked one of the ladies who was leaning against the balcony above mine the reason for such sound and flurry. “AB is here in our condo!! Our condo!! AB!! Can you believe it?”
“AB who? Senior or junior or junior’s wife?”
“Hallo! Have you been hibernating? The only AB worth mentioning…”
I didn’t stay on to hear the rest. The look of incredulity from them all told me I’d already made an ass of myself.
Soon, the action seemed to move elsewhere as the combined weight trundled off en mass.
Later that evening, a notice on the building bulletin board said AB had graciously consented to come down to our society on such and such day, and that it was the condo’s honour to be hosting him. I could sniff the excitement in the condo’s air. Oh what a coup of sorts, some exclaimed, against the rival condos in the locality! One stroke, and they’d be mowed down on the popularity charts. The condo will be front page news. Who knows AB may like this place, and buy himself a flat here. I overheard two residents discuss buying a couple more flats in this complex rightaway, as the property price would shoot (said with a wink, meant as a shared joke) up immediately.
In the interest of national pride and condo solidarity, I decided to attend the function at the club house.
The next day I learnt from my part-time domestic help that our ladies, who were last heard trundling off the previous day, had landed at an old lady’s (an octogenarian living alone with her pup) flat where Mr AB was to have come, but unfortunately, our man had already left the condo premises by then. My maid paused here to ask if this man was really a VIP, and I confirmed with a short nod. My maid looked pleased. She said she’d get her children to the function.
Over the course of the week, I got the complete de-briefing. It turned out that Abhi (as the old lady referred to him) happened to be that old lady’s nephew and that he’d just returned from the US, and was due to leave for Europe on work and had briefly come to meet his aunt. Few ladies seem to have tried to correct the old lady saying they were sure she meant China not USA, but then the others were quick to point out that it was quite possible he’d gone there post Beijing. The old lady seemed lost. They asked her if he’d shown her his gold, but she said the boy, being humble as he was, never spoke of any gold or silver to her. Our ladies probed further and satisfied themselves that he was still single without any known commitments. The old lady added that Abhinav’s mother is on a constant lookout for the right one for him, but the fellow just doesn’t seem interested. One of the ladies nodded, and said she’d read about him having mentioned some personal problems prior to China, must have been some girl. Girls these days are too insensitive, they nodded and agreed. Such a gem this boy, and look how he’s wasting himself without a perfect match. More nods followed. The old lady seemed more perplexed about this public knowledge of intimate details of her nephew’s life.
Our ladies then managed to prevail upon her to invite him over for lunch that weekend. They said he was a national asset, and they wished to felicitate him. The old lady smiled and said that every Indian is a national asset, at which the ladies collectively saluted the old lady for her humility. But shhh! they said, not a word to be sneaked to him until he breezed into the Surppprrrrise! One lady winked and corrected, ‘shoot’ into the surprise, and the entire cackle of them is said to have cracked up laughing at their cleverness as they left.
Convincing the Resident’s Welfare Association Secretary to make an occasion out of it was the least of the troubles. And so, the notice on all the notice boards across the several towers of the condo.
And then came the preparation for the mega event. Any element of spontaneity was decided to be done away with, as AB is believed to be a perfectionist. The secretary came up to rehearse his speech.
Somewhere in the middle of it, he made a rousing suggestion, “Bindra Boulevard we’ll rename our arterial pathway”, and everyone reacted rapturously. “The towers will be renamed Abhinav Tower 1, AT 2 and so on,” residents got up from their seats and got delirious. “We’ll convert one section of the landscaped area into a shooting range for practice,” and the young residents turned on their heads and hurrah-ed.
Seeing the residents getting carried away, the secretary requested those present to maintain decorum. The key to impressing AB was in precision, he said, and we were asked to clap in unison. Zero discordant notes. We tried. When some children, despite all efforts, and mostly due to the soaring excitement, failed to get the applause-chord right, they were given the petal-showering duty. So each time the residents clapped, petals were to be showered over AB.
Mrs C raised her hand and said she could arrange for white petals (AB’s favourite colour, she’d done her homework on that, she said) free of cost, from her aunt’s flower shop, provided the aunt’s family was invited to sit through the proceedings, and the aunt’s daughter would be the one sent up to throw the garland around AB.
Furor, furor! The Condo moms were up in arms at this. Garland! Outside daughter! What about the very many accomplished eligible Bindra matches within the condo? Unfair unfair! No outsider would get that privilege. Mrs C gave a nonchalant shrug and said, well then, go ahead, shell out money to get his favourite whites! Bloody expensive they are, in case you forgot to factor that in! He is a class apart, ladies!
It was a delicate situation for the Secy and Jt. Secy. Cash crunch versus crashing sentiments. Stalemate. The Jt. Secy, a lady with a college going daughter, came up with a solution. A ‘Miss Condo’ for young ladies, but of course, with Mr AB adjudging!
The youth of substance were quick to vociferously object to this blatant gender stereotyping, and decided to walk off, calling this entire AB felicitation business a farcical exercise by the desperate moms in match-making with AB. Shame on you, swayamvar organizers, few said as they stormed out. Ah, plain-speak! Utter chaos ensued, and the junta stood more divided than the day they had come together to elect the office bearers.
The hapless Secy looked on helplessly at the imminent fiasco, when he suddenly cleared his throat and said into the mike that there was a way out. If they so wished, the interested parties could have a private audience with AB in the library after the function, and exchange numbers, bio-datas, and so on.
Never before in the brief history of the condo had such unanimous aye aye’s been heard. The hall reverberated with thunderous applause and chants of excellent idea excellent idea, which made the glass panes shake and some cement chip off the ceiling. But no one seemed to notice.
With tempers showing signs of cooling down, it was decided that the little ones would take to the stage. A mother whose child had just been taught, ‘Prabhu hamara kitna mahaan’ volunterred to adapt the song on the lines of ‘AB hamara kitna mahaa…’ and train the kids; another mom suggested getting the toddlers to recite the new alphabetical mantra – A for Abhinav, B for bullets, C for Champ, and so on…
I didn’t stay on to hear the rest. And decided to give the Sunday event a skip too.
But then when I saw the hordes congregating at the club house on D-day, I gave in, and silently took a seat at the rear. And like everyone else there, waited.
Just then, someone screamed from one end that the old lady could be seen along with a young man, slowly tottering towards the club house. There was a murmur, then a noise, then shhhhs, there was excitement, there was nervousness, there was anticipation. And there was that long wait of three minutes, which seemed like eternity, while the lady paced in at her own pace.
And then there was complete silence. Complete silence. The silence of shock and disbelief, as the young man stepped in and shook hands with the Hon Secy saying, “Abhinav Bhindra, so nice to see you!”
And then, oh, only then did everyone realize what a single alphabet can do! For our man turned out to be AB with an ‘h’ in his surname! And he certainly wasn’t complaining!
“AB!!!!” they suddenly squealed together, which made the ground beneath their feet quake, and given the quality of construction at the ultra premium condo, some cement chipped off the ceiling and fell on my khichadi on the floor below.
“AB!!!” came another squeal, this time in the balcony, out for everyone to hear, and sure enough, not without the desired effect. Soon, more footsteps could be felt thundering all around, from above, from below, from the park and from the parking lot, all gravitating in that one direction.
Craning my neck up, I asked one of the ladies who was leaning against the balcony above mine the reason for such sound and flurry. “AB is here in our condo!! Our condo!! AB!! Can you believe it?”
“AB who? Senior or junior or junior’s wife?”
“Hallo! Have you been hibernating? The only AB worth mentioning…”
I didn’t stay on to hear the rest. The look of incredulity from them all told me I’d already made an ass of myself.
Soon, the action seemed to move elsewhere as the combined weight trundled off en mass.
Later that evening, a notice on the building bulletin board said AB had graciously consented to come down to our society on such and such day, and that it was the condo’s honour to be hosting him. I could sniff the excitement in the condo’s air. Oh what a coup of sorts, some exclaimed, against the rival condos in the locality! One stroke, and they’d be mowed down on the popularity charts. The condo will be front page news. Who knows AB may like this place, and buy himself a flat here. I overheard two residents discuss buying a couple more flats in this complex rightaway, as the property price would shoot (said with a wink, meant as a shared joke) up immediately.
In the interest of national pride and condo solidarity, I decided to attend the function at the club house.
The next day I learnt from my part-time domestic help that our ladies, who were last heard trundling off the previous day, had landed at an old lady’s (an octogenarian living alone with her pup) flat where Mr AB was to have come, but unfortunately, our man had already left the condo premises by then. My maid paused here to ask if this man was really a VIP, and I confirmed with a short nod. My maid looked pleased. She said she’d get her children to the function.
Over the course of the week, I got the complete de-briefing. It turned out that Abhi (as the old lady referred to him) happened to be that old lady’s nephew and that he’d just returned from the US, and was due to leave for Europe on work and had briefly come to meet his aunt. Few ladies seem to have tried to correct the old lady saying they were sure she meant China not USA, but then the others were quick to point out that it was quite possible he’d gone there post Beijing. The old lady seemed lost. They asked her if he’d shown her his gold, but she said the boy, being humble as he was, never spoke of any gold or silver to her. Our ladies probed further and satisfied themselves that he was still single without any known commitments. The old lady added that Abhinav’s mother is on a constant lookout for the right one for him, but the fellow just doesn’t seem interested. One of the ladies nodded, and said she’d read about him having mentioned some personal problems prior to China, must have been some girl. Girls these days are too insensitive, they nodded and agreed. Such a gem this boy, and look how he’s wasting himself without a perfect match. More nods followed. The old lady seemed more perplexed about this public knowledge of intimate details of her nephew’s life.
Our ladies then managed to prevail upon her to invite him over for lunch that weekend. They said he was a national asset, and they wished to felicitate him. The old lady smiled and said that every Indian is a national asset, at which the ladies collectively saluted the old lady for her humility. But shhh! they said, not a word to be sneaked to him until he breezed into the Surppprrrrise! One lady winked and corrected, ‘shoot’ into the surprise, and the entire cackle of them is said to have cracked up laughing at their cleverness as they left.
Convincing the Resident’s Welfare Association Secretary to make an occasion out of it was the least of the troubles. And so, the notice on all the notice boards across the several towers of the condo.
And then came the preparation for the mega event. Any element of spontaneity was decided to be done away with, as AB is believed to be a perfectionist. The secretary came up to rehearse his speech.
Somewhere in the middle of it, he made a rousing suggestion, “Bindra Boulevard we’ll rename our arterial pathway”, and everyone reacted rapturously. “The towers will be renamed Abhinav Tower 1, AT 2 and so on,” residents got up from their seats and got delirious. “We’ll convert one section of the landscaped area into a shooting range for practice,” and the young residents turned on their heads and hurrah-ed.
Seeing the residents getting carried away, the secretary requested those present to maintain decorum. The key to impressing AB was in precision, he said, and we were asked to clap in unison. Zero discordant notes. We tried. When some children, despite all efforts, and mostly due to the soaring excitement, failed to get the applause-chord right, they were given the petal-showering duty. So each time the residents clapped, petals were to be showered over AB.
Mrs C raised her hand and said she could arrange for white petals (AB’s favourite colour, she’d done her homework on that, she said) free of cost, from her aunt’s flower shop, provided the aunt’s family was invited to sit through the proceedings, and the aunt’s daughter would be the one sent up to throw the garland around AB.
Furor, furor! The Condo moms were up in arms at this. Garland! Outside daughter! What about the very many accomplished eligible Bindra matches within the condo? Unfair unfair! No outsider would get that privilege. Mrs C gave a nonchalant shrug and said, well then, go ahead, shell out money to get his favourite whites! Bloody expensive they are, in case you forgot to factor that in! He is a class apart, ladies!
It was a delicate situation for the Secy and Jt. Secy. Cash crunch versus crashing sentiments. Stalemate. The Jt. Secy, a lady with a college going daughter, came up with a solution. A ‘Miss Condo’ for young ladies, but of course, with Mr AB adjudging!
The youth of substance were quick to vociferously object to this blatant gender stereotyping, and decided to walk off, calling this entire AB felicitation business a farcical exercise by the desperate moms in match-making with AB. Shame on you, swayamvar organizers, few said as they stormed out. Ah, plain-speak! Utter chaos ensued, and the junta stood more divided than the day they had come together to elect the office bearers.
The hapless Secy looked on helplessly at the imminent fiasco, when he suddenly cleared his throat and said into the mike that there was a way out. If they so wished, the interested parties could have a private audience with AB in the library after the function, and exchange numbers, bio-datas, and so on.
Never before in the brief history of the condo had such unanimous aye aye’s been heard. The hall reverberated with thunderous applause and chants of excellent idea excellent idea, which made the glass panes shake and some cement chip off the ceiling. But no one seemed to notice.
With tempers showing signs of cooling down, it was decided that the little ones would take to the stage. A mother whose child had just been taught, ‘Prabhu hamara kitna mahaan’ volunterred to adapt the song on the lines of ‘AB hamara kitna mahaa…’ and train the kids; another mom suggested getting the toddlers to recite the new alphabetical mantra – A for Abhinav, B for bullets, C for Champ, and so on…
I didn’t stay on to hear the rest. And decided to give the Sunday event a skip too.
But then when I saw the hordes congregating at the club house on D-day, I gave in, and silently took a seat at the rear. And like everyone else there, waited.
Just then, someone screamed from one end that the old lady could be seen along with a young man, slowly tottering towards the club house. There was a murmur, then a noise, then shhhhs, there was excitement, there was nervousness, there was anticipation. And there was that long wait of three minutes, which seemed like eternity, while the lady paced in at her own pace.
And then there was complete silence. Complete silence. The silence of shock and disbelief, as the young man stepped in and shook hands with the Hon Secy saying, “Abhinav Bhindra, so nice to see you!”
And then, oh, only then did everyone realize what a single alphabet can do! For our man turned out to be AB with an ‘h’ in his surname! And he certainly wasn’t complaining!
Love Thy Neighbour!
The day I moved into the second floor apartment of a recently added tower in a swanky Condominium, the gentleman from the first floor pressed my spanking new doorbell, and stood there waiting. He explained his presence there, tentatively. “It seems you have just arrived…may I, may I be of any help?”
“But why would you want to help?” I asked.
“Because we’re neighbours. Simple.” He stood there adding that his sixth sense said there was going to be some kind of a karmic connection between us.
“Between neighbours? Forget it. If you must be of some help, please send your maid to me instead please.”
“You don’t understand. I felt it that first instance my eyes fell on you this morning when your stuff was getting unloaded. Cant you already see the connect? Our balconies overlook the same car park, they lie stacked upon one another, water from the building overhead tank will come first to your house and then will flow down to mine, we share the common floor-cum-ceiling area, brick by brick, with this continuous flow of concrete, iron and cement. In the beginning, there is always only that smooth concrete binding force…How can you not see it?”
Of course, I couldn’t. Maybe I was karmically challenged. I decided to give it a try all the same. I could do with a pair of extra hands anyway. Within minutes he was struggling with the heavy boxes, pushing, pulling, shoving, lifting, breaking his back, all with a smile.
Even while I stood there sizing up the queerness quotient of that man, I suddenly felt the wires meet! Live wires, these! Made me feel those first, very first stirrings in my heart. I could see the sweat-beads forming on his puckered forehead on that hot and humid Delhi midday, and the gentle trickle flowing down the sideburns, down to the Adam’s apple…how I felt this irresistible urge to rush to him and collect his perspiration on my palms to acknowledge his gracious and selfless help; to look into his eyes as he struggled with those mammoth cartons all by himself, and silently say, ‘I can now see what you saw then.’
Were these the first delicate strains of tenderness hovering around? Oh yes, I felt them now. I felt them strong, felt them sure.
The day ended far too soon. He left in the evening with the sweet promise of an early return the next day. So, on day two, we swept and dusted and mopped and lined the cupboards with newspapers and arranged things together. We set up my kitchen together, dish by dish, empty vessel by vessel. We skipped down to his house for a shortbread-and-crisps break, and like a magician, he rustled up the most deliciously subtle pancakes, smeared in the headiest of maple syrups I’d had in ages. At my honest confession that I can’t cook to save my life he said he’d happily don the chef’s cap for me at all meals. With measured steps, taking time over each tier of the staircase, we walked up together back to my house. And at dusk, we lit up my house together. The unmistakable and growing symbolism of it all, how could the two stranger-hearts not start ticking as one?!
Just then the doorbell rang.
In walked The Hubby, and stood there stupidly, waiting to be introduced. Name? Did he have one? Did it matter?! The Hubby, reading my mind, mood, skipping beats, dilated pupils, and my embarrassment quickly initiated the formalities of both the introduction and a quick dismissal of the other man from my presence.
I didn’t have to say anything, the Hubby knew it all. With a wink and smiles breaking at the corner of his lips, he murmured, “I can see you’ve had an eventful house-warming, wifey! Good good, enjoy! Don’t forget to share the details with me, though! Do you, by any chance, want me to come home a little later tomorrow evening?!”
“Ha!” I hugged him tight, and promised not to go overboard.
Easier said!
By day three, the gentleman and I were cooking together in my kitchen, I more as an apprentice. By day four, we were eating together out of the same plate to save us the trouble of washing more dishes. By day five, in a bid to save our building water, we were using only one washing machine between the two households to do ‘our’ clothes. On day six, I asked him if he was on an extended leave from work. He said he’s a painter, so all the world’s his canvas, all the people his subject and all the physical space his work-studio. Profound, I thought; my admiration grew manifolds.
The gentleman and I spent our days together. In bliss. Utmost bliss. We talked of the sun and the moon, of the intergalactic phenomena and micro bursts, of blueberry crush and Spanish risotto, of volcanoes and whirlpools, of my school rivals and his culture vulture critics, of the men in my life and the women in his.
Just that, he somehow seemed to have forgotten to mention the one woman who mattered most.
The Wife!
Who’d have even foreseen a Mrs. Neighbour, who apparently had gone visiting her folks these last three weeks? Upon her return, I’m not sure how she figured that her husband’s heart was not exactly at the same place where she’d left it. Suddenly overnight, I became the dreaded and universally loathed ‘other woman’ in the neighbourhood. I was distraught, my heart shattered to bits, and with the gentleman not there to pick up the shards (as he was too busy fighting the wild flames of fury on the floor below), I became inconsolable. An amused hubby- my confidante, sounding board, soulmate, friend, philosopher, guide all rolled into one - offered to broker peace between me and that wife, but I flatly refused.
I would stick my ears close to the ground and feel the vessels being thrown up at the ceiling in the flat below; I would remain precariously bent from my balcony for hours, straining to hear the gentleman’s agitated cries of despair for being thus separated from me. I tried to sniff things out, but my olfactory senses used to remain perpetually blocked with all the hollering! Total devastation on all sides!
The other apartment residents tried to help in their own ways. They came and asked me if the gentleman had been sighted in recent days, or if he was unwell. Whether I knew if the wife was back. They were concerned that all kinds of sounds would emanate from the first floor house at odd hours, had the couple below set up their own theatre group? Men from other flats above would pop in on their way to work every morning to offer their most generous help with my house work. The drivers in the car park below would stand there with their eyes glued to my balcony, and his, for some drama to unfold. I politely asked them and their masters and mistresses to go to hell.
And then I saw HER! Two days after she had resurfaced into his life, she stormed into mine. Growled and looked and sniffed around the place for traces of her husband’s droppings, remnants of his existence intertwined with mine. Finding none (I had it all safe and locked up in my heart, those sweet gentle moments) she threw a piece of paper at me and shrieked, “Take this, you b**ch. I am going, but I will make sure you remain behind bars all your life,” and made a dash for the balcony.
Not having seen a suicide note ever before in my life, I was tempted to focus on it. But that would most certainly have sounded my death knell, as madam would have done her deed by then. Though there were enough well-wishers waiting to ‘catch’ her in her fall to martyrdom, I decided she needed immediate psychiatric aid, and ran to her.
“Mad woman, this is the second floor, for Pete’s sake. You attempt such an asinine thing, you’ll end up with just a broken rib and land up in jail, or worse, you’ll land in your own balcony, but still land up in jail. You know what that means? Your husband will be all alone in the house all over again.”
It helped. She turned to leave my flat threatening to do it from the 12th floor next time if I didn’t leave her husband for good. I told her I was not moving, she could do what she thought best. So, she turned back around, and this time dashed into my kitchen to storm out with a knife. Ah! That same knife with which until a few days back, he and I would chop ginger and carrots and onions and broccoli and at times, my finger, together. I would not let this imbalanced woman defile those memories. Ah, those bittersweet memories! So I snatched it back from her, sniffed it deep to make sure he was still on it, and said, ok, I’ll move.
So I shifted into to a new apartment in the corner-most, most secluded tower of the condo, where I was sure our karmic connection would no longer work. No common cement, iron bars, wall paint, water tank, drain-pipe, or plinth to hold us on together…
And then it happened again. The doorbell. And a hesitant nasal male voice from this dungaree-clad gentleman with flowing locks, “Hello…looks like you’ve just arrived…may I…”
It was beyond belief!
With unflinching curtness, I asked back, “Do you have a wife? A wife who doesn’t know you’re up here offering your free services to me?”
“What are you saying? I AM the wife sweeeeeetiepie! I know I know, it happens when people see me for the first time, but you’ll get used to me, my baiiibeee! Which you will, because I live next door to you!”
Phew! It takes all kinds to fill up my neighbour-collage!
I knew I was in safe company! Beaming, I let him in. There was such an awful lot of work waiting to be attended to…
“But why would you want to help?” I asked.
“Because we’re neighbours. Simple.” He stood there adding that his sixth sense said there was going to be some kind of a karmic connection between us.
“Between neighbours? Forget it. If you must be of some help, please send your maid to me instead please.”
“You don’t understand. I felt it that first instance my eyes fell on you this morning when your stuff was getting unloaded. Cant you already see the connect? Our balconies overlook the same car park, they lie stacked upon one another, water from the building overhead tank will come first to your house and then will flow down to mine, we share the common floor-cum-ceiling area, brick by brick, with this continuous flow of concrete, iron and cement. In the beginning, there is always only that smooth concrete binding force…How can you not see it?”
Of course, I couldn’t. Maybe I was karmically challenged. I decided to give it a try all the same. I could do with a pair of extra hands anyway. Within minutes he was struggling with the heavy boxes, pushing, pulling, shoving, lifting, breaking his back, all with a smile.
Even while I stood there sizing up the queerness quotient of that man, I suddenly felt the wires meet! Live wires, these! Made me feel those first, very first stirrings in my heart. I could see the sweat-beads forming on his puckered forehead on that hot and humid Delhi midday, and the gentle trickle flowing down the sideburns, down to the Adam’s apple…how I felt this irresistible urge to rush to him and collect his perspiration on my palms to acknowledge his gracious and selfless help; to look into his eyes as he struggled with those mammoth cartons all by himself, and silently say, ‘I can now see what you saw then.’
Were these the first delicate strains of tenderness hovering around? Oh yes, I felt them now. I felt them strong, felt them sure.
The day ended far too soon. He left in the evening with the sweet promise of an early return the next day. So, on day two, we swept and dusted and mopped and lined the cupboards with newspapers and arranged things together. We set up my kitchen together, dish by dish, empty vessel by vessel. We skipped down to his house for a shortbread-and-crisps break, and like a magician, he rustled up the most deliciously subtle pancakes, smeared in the headiest of maple syrups I’d had in ages. At my honest confession that I can’t cook to save my life he said he’d happily don the chef’s cap for me at all meals. With measured steps, taking time over each tier of the staircase, we walked up together back to my house. And at dusk, we lit up my house together. The unmistakable and growing symbolism of it all, how could the two stranger-hearts not start ticking as one?!
Just then the doorbell rang.
In walked The Hubby, and stood there stupidly, waiting to be introduced. Name? Did he have one? Did it matter?! The Hubby, reading my mind, mood, skipping beats, dilated pupils, and my embarrassment quickly initiated the formalities of both the introduction and a quick dismissal of the other man from my presence.
I didn’t have to say anything, the Hubby knew it all. With a wink and smiles breaking at the corner of his lips, he murmured, “I can see you’ve had an eventful house-warming, wifey! Good good, enjoy! Don’t forget to share the details with me, though! Do you, by any chance, want me to come home a little later tomorrow evening?!”
“Ha!” I hugged him tight, and promised not to go overboard.
Easier said!
By day three, the gentleman and I were cooking together in my kitchen, I more as an apprentice. By day four, we were eating together out of the same plate to save us the trouble of washing more dishes. By day five, in a bid to save our building water, we were using only one washing machine between the two households to do ‘our’ clothes. On day six, I asked him if he was on an extended leave from work. He said he’s a painter, so all the world’s his canvas, all the people his subject and all the physical space his work-studio. Profound, I thought; my admiration grew manifolds.
The gentleman and I spent our days together. In bliss. Utmost bliss. We talked of the sun and the moon, of the intergalactic phenomena and micro bursts, of blueberry crush and Spanish risotto, of volcanoes and whirlpools, of my school rivals and his culture vulture critics, of the men in my life and the women in his.
Just that, he somehow seemed to have forgotten to mention the one woman who mattered most.
The Wife!
Who’d have even foreseen a Mrs. Neighbour, who apparently had gone visiting her folks these last three weeks? Upon her return, I’m not sure how she figured that her husband’s heart was not exactly at the same place where she’d left it. Suddenly overnight, I became the dreaded and universally loathed ‘other woman’ in the neighbourhood. I was distraught, my heart shattered to bits, and with the gentleman not there to pick up the shards (as he was too busy fighting the wild flames of fury on the floor below), I became inconsolable. An amused hubby- my confidante, sounding board, soulmate, friend, philosopher, guide all rolled into one - offered to broker peace between me and that wife, but I flatly refused.
I would stick my ears close to the ground and feel the vessels being thrown up at the ceiling in the flat below; I would remain precariously bent from my balcony for hours, straining to hear the gentleman’s agitated cries of despair for being thus separated from me. I tried to sniff things out, but my olfactory senses used to remain perpetually blocked with all the hollering! Total devastation on all sides!
The other apartment residents tried to help in their own ways. They came and asked me if the gentleman had been sighted in recent days, or if he was unwell. Whether I knew if the wife was back. They were concerned that all kinds of sounds would emanate from the first floor house at odd hours, had the couple below set up their own theatre group? Men from other flats above would pop in on their way to work every morning to offer their most generous help with my house work. The drivers in the car park below would stand there with their eyes glued to my balcony, and his, for some drama to unfold. I politely asked them and their masters and mistresses to go to hell.
And then I saw HER! Two days after she had resurfaced into his life, she stormed into mine. Growled and looked and sniffed around the place for traces of her husband’s droppings, remnants of his existence intertwined with mine. Finding none (I had it all safe and locked up in my heart, those sweet gentle moments) she threw a piece of paper at me and shrieked, “Take this, you b**ch. I am going, but I will make sure you remain behind bars all your life,” and made a dash for the balcony.
Not having seen a suicide note ever before in my life, I was tempted to focus on it. But that would most certainly have sounded my death knell, as madam would have done her deed by then. Though there were enough well-wishers waiting to ‘catch’ her in her fall to martyrdom, I decided she needed immediate psychiatric aid, and ran to her.
“Mad woman, this is the second floor, for Pete’s sake. You attempt such an asinine thing, you’ll end up with just a broken rib and land up in jail, or worse, you’ll land in your own balcony, but still land up in jail. You know what that means? Your husband will be all alone in the house all over again.”
It helped. She turned to leave my flat threatening to do it from the 12th floor next time if I didn’t leave her husband for good. I told her I was not moving, she could do what she thought best. So, she turned back around, and this time dashed into my kitchen to storm out with a knife. Ah! That same knife with which until a few days back, he and I would chop ginger and carrots and onions and broccoli and at times, my finger, together. I would not let this imbalanced woman defile those memories. Ah, those bittersweet memories! So I snatched it back from her, sniffed it deep to make sure he was still on it, and said, ok, I’ll move.
So I shifted into to a new apartment in the corner-most, most secluded tower of the condo, where I was sure our karmic connection would no longer work. No common cement, iron bars, wall paint, water tank, drain-pipe, or plinth to hold us on together…
And then it happened again. The doorbell. And a hesitant nasal male voice from this dungaree-clad gentleman with flowing locks, “Hello…looks like you’ve just arrived…may I…”
It was beyond belief!
With unflinching curtness, I asked back, “Do you have a wife? A wife who doesn’t know you’re up here offering your free services to me?”
“What are you saying? I AM the wife sweeeeeetiepie! I know I know, it happens when people see me for the first time, but you’ll get used to me, my baiiibeee! Which you will, because I live next door to you!”
Phew! It takes all kinds to fill up my neighbour-collage!
I knew I was in safe company! Beaming, I let him in. There was such an awful lot of work waiting to be attended to…
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