How Many More?

I hear of yet another sexual assault in India; this time at 6 pm in Bombay, supposedly one of the only couple of places that was considered to be completely safe for women in the country. There's anger, there's shame, and there's a painful quest for remedies to correct this disturbing rise in such cases across the country.

**********

Each time I interact with people from other countries, the foremost thought that comes to my mind: Which of these is the other person thinking (and their eyes more or less say it)? 

Because I am an Indian woman:

1)      How many times I have got raped in my own country.

2)      How many of those were gang rapes.

3)      How often I have been molested after stepping outside of home.

4)      If I do step out alone, at all, that is.

5)      Did my parents think of killing me before I was born?

6)      How poorly am I used to being treated, in general.

7)      Do I have the freedom to think, decide and act on my free will?

8)      Do I even know what free will means?

9)      Feel sorry for me. And am I not glad to be away from that uncivilized place?

10)   My sheer audacity to even think of discussing misogyny in the rest of the world!

The brutal truth behind, and the myopic dangers of stereotyping and getting stereotyped.  

We are not racists. No. Never.

This post first appeared on Halabol

I’m glad I landed in Africa. It’s the one place where everybody from every other part of the world gets to be unapologetically racist without having to worry about who’s peeping over the shoulder or who’s going to punch a hole through your face for letting certain words slip out of your tongue. You get to call the blacks black because, well, they are black and they are everywhere. How wrong can you go with it? And there is only that much you can talk about Burberry and De beers and trips to Las Vegas and how many cars you have at your disposal. Once bored, you get to talk freely about the things that have long stopped working in these parts (or never worked in the first place), systems that are defunct, people that are barbaric, practices that are tribal, drains that are clogged, governments that are corrupt, minds that are dull, morals that are missing, words that cannot be trusted, and the world that this world is not.

The whites, too, don’t have it easy. In today’s world, the white-man’s burden is in having to tolerate, besides the newly-found economic sprint in the black feet, the proliferating hordes of Chinese who don’t give a damn to whether or not you’re a white, the cunning Koreans who will invariably invade the golf courses en masse, the abrasive noisy browns only too eager to do the white-thing, the nose-in-the-air Arabs who think money is the answer to everything (it isn’t? you think so?), the - phew, there’re just far too many niggling irritants in this world to keep count of now. But as long as there are browns and yellows and wheats and blacks, the whites will remain whites. So they clink their glasses and do their social-cause thingy at the charity events and complain that the pool water has half a percent more chlorine than their skin can tolerate and balk at a pathetic little piece of dry leaf floating in the overhead tank and they make sure their gated compounds are secured and bolted and fastened and electrified and made impenetrable a hundred times over and they go to bed sighing ah, a white man’s got to do what a white man’s got to do.    

But we’re Indians; and we’re not racists. Never. We are simply more of a lion let loose among a pack of wild boars. Naturally, He, the alpha Indian-in-Africa, is invincible, and is equally a She. Never mind the hours of power cut He faced in his city back home, the dark continent deserves its epithet; never mind the unending shenanigans of the corrupt back home, the term becomes synonymous with the people’s intent here; never mind the constant struggle getting and retaining a domestic help back home these days, She won’t tire of waxing brusque of the help here - the wretched lazy good-for-nothing slobs, all. There is an inexplicable joy in calling a black a black in these parts – it allows for a good laugh and some delicious desi bonding rounds of beer and butter chicken. And should you be heard using the b-word, just switch to the uber-safe kalus the moment the house-maid drops that steel tumbler into the kitchen sink to remind everyone of her black presence.     

If one were to go by the colour of skin, I was born nearly white, turned brown by the time I was in Std III A, turned yellow with jaundice sometime later, and am now black, thanks to my midday swims. My locus standi is, therefore, questionable when I mouth platitudes like, but why can’t we just see them as perfectly normal people who breathe and live and think and feel like people anywhere else in the world? So, I need to qualify further. But I like the people here, I say; the happiest warmest souls on earth despite all rotten odds, and I’m cut short by He saying they’re not-quite-human; look at the way they shoot and loot and riot and kill. Yes, but we do that too, in much the same ways, I say, and She says we’re light-years-ahead; there’s no comparison- they don’t have it in them to rise above themselves. Is it, I ask, but just look at all the wonderful talent they have in their midst, and another He and She butt in saying, Frauds-minds and drugs peddling, that’s the talent; their minds work properly only for things they shouldn’t. Is it, I ask and then point out, just look at the women, the strong-willed the women, and all the He’s and the She’s say, the dark ages is where they still belong; look at them take on wives after wives only to have more sons. Yes, I say, but they don’t kill their daughters or burn their wives and… the hostess announces dinner, and our superiority gets suspended. For the moment.

With my plate in hand, I saunter into the balcony where a part of the gathering has moved. Before I’ve taken my next step to join them, I hear someone say, these kalus really have no brains; all they’re good at is singing and dancing and running and voodoo and drugs. A wiser one makes His valuable contribution to shared delight, junglees, all! And the gurgle of sated chuckles turns into a howlarious laugh.    

We are not racists. No. We are just being ourselves. 

Shona Raja Beta

This post first appeared on Halabol

I look at my shona baby and feel my heart melt like the thick blobs of Haagen Dazs Cookies and Cream that he has left uneaten on the plate in front of him. How adorable he looks slumped in that chair hunched over my iPhone, lost to the world. On the spoon remains an untouched apology of what had been a firm tiny scoop that I had cut out for him a little while ago and begged him to eat.

He doesn’t like eating on his own, my shona baby. And I love to feed him. Makes for such great bonding. I pick up the spoon and take it to his mouth. Eat it, my Raja beta, I say. He grimaces, as if about to puke. My darling shona baby will eat it now and make me feel so proud na, I cajole him. He seems not to have heard it, so I give him an emotional bait of eat it my darling baby, just a little, a teeny weeny bit, and make your mamma feel so proud of you. He shakes his head and flicks his locks with reckless abandon that captures the madness of Maradona and sinisterness of Shoaib. Little bit you eat my shona baby, I egg him on. Kill it fucker, hisses shona, scoring another goal on my iPhone and squinting harder for a clearer view of the scores. He’s such a fine player, my boy, that he’ll put any other child his age to shame.

I’m bored now, he says throwing the mobile phone towards me. He reaches across the table for my iPad, but I say No, a firm NO. Then I am not going to sit in this stupid place, he says stomping and rising up. I know what he wants to do. He wants to sit in the car and play on his own iPad which I refused to be brought up to the parlour. You’ve got to be strict with children, you know; I’m not the one to spoil my child rotten. But look at him, what anger, re baba!

Eat some ice-cream, shona, I say. At least taste it. You were the one who wanted to come here all afternoon. He grimaces again in that awfully cute way. Ufffo, leave me, Mom. I don’t care about this stupid ice-cream and I don’t want to speak to you now, he screams and kicks the chair he was sitting on and topples it over. I’m afraid he may have hurt himself. He isn’t even wearing his shoes; he’d told me before leaving that the only condition he will come with me is if I let him go in his Crocs. Of course, my shona silly, why should I ever have a problem with that?! 

The waiter runs to us to ask if everything is all right. Get lost, you idiot, my shona yells. What rage, at this age, imagine! And all this because I didn’t let him carry his iPad! Children these days, they have a mind of their own! Mine is total CEO material, I tell you.

I ignore the waiter and tell my shona to calm down. Relax, my baby, I say. It’s all right if you don’t feel like having ice cream now. Don’t get worked up; how will you do your homework in this mood? Accha listen, how about popping by at some toyshop in this mall and you pick up something for yourself? That’ll make you feel better, na? Let’s go.

Shona’s eyes don’t lighten up much but he looks a lot less grumpy now as he heads for the door. He is refusing to walk with me, how cute! He picks up some game CD in the shop downstairs and looks okay now, thank God! I tell him he will not get to play with it until he has finished his homework. He makes a face and says I am always unreasonable; his friends get to do whatever they like. I laugh at the big word he just used and tell him I am so because I don’t want to spoil him silly. I see him drag his feet to the car and can quite sense his disappointment. I’m his mother, after all. My poor child has had a long day. And I know I am being too hard on him.

And so, Surprise! I say as I unlock the car door. Today my shona is going to drive us out of the mall! Oh, that spontaneous hug from him is worth the priciest of possessions in this world! I adjust the seat and place him between my lap and hand him the steering wheel. Don’t worry, I am pretty much there with the other controls; he is a bit short for his age, so his legs don’t reach down there yet.   

He turns on the ignition, and we are off. Seeing him handle the steering wheel with such ease and confidence, my heart swells with pride a hundred folds. Look at him, my big boy. Just ten, and how matured, how able! He’ll grow up to be an invincible young man, this, my darling shona baby.

A real fine man. Yes. 

I'm Going To Love This, I Say!

The aircraft wheels touched the runway at 7:15pm. At 7:14pm, half the passengers had already unfastened their seat belts. At 7:14:04pm, one half of the other half had the overhead lockers open. At 7:14:45, one half of the last half had started talking on their mobile. And the last quarter of the quarter (or whatever, pardon my weak maths) sat back and soaked in all the action, bracing for the touchdown.

I'm going to love this place, I say to myself. Just as I love all the madness back home, I'm going to love it here...

Here?

We've just landed in Lagos for a short looksie reccee, and I already kindof know what's in store.

Or, do I?

I walk out of the aerobridge and look in the direction of my co-passengers gliding down the escalator. Cool, I think, and I step onto it. An Indian in Nigeria, what cause should there be for concern? Only to realise, in that split second between my cock-sure confidence and  a frantic groping for some support, that the rails of the escalator are not moving, but the steps are. So if you haven't tried stepping onto a moving object, while holding on to a stationary object on the side, I'd say, do try it once to appreciate my cause for panic. It's like seeing your torso move forward (and downward), but your hands firmly in place, tugging at the body in motion. And the many more (smarter) passengers who did not hold on to the side rails for support add to the forward thrust from the rear, leading to a near stampede-like situation. My panic, as you can see, is not misplaced. By the time I've figured out the cause for this pandemonium, I've already stumbled on the steps a couple of times -  fallen, got up, fallen again - and made a complete fumbling-ass of myself. Not a promising start to a new place.

But I find my optimism intact; I'm going to love this place.

The airport terminal is hot, humid, and crowded. The ACs aren't working today, someone cribs. That's reassuring. It tells me simply that on most other days, the ACs DO work. That's quite okay. Just the other day, IGI plunged into total darkness. I have no reason to crib.

'You're welcome!' A jolly protocol officer welcomes us with warmth and helps us with the immigration formalities and we chat about this and that. It takes forever (an understatement) for our suitcases to arrive on the baggage carousel, but that's okay. Until a couple of years ago, most airports in India functioned on the same premise of non-urgency. I look at the other seasoned passengers who seem unperturbed. Every one looks happy and so so content. 'You're welcome!', gushes another officer on duty. I'm going to love this place, I think, and bend to pick up my suitcases. 'You're welcome!' says another official, helping me with my bags. 'Only two pieces?' he asks, with raised eyebrows. I nod. 'You sure?' I nod again. 'Wow. You're welcome!' I hear, and we move on.

By the time I've cleared the customs (and yes, they do ask for the yellow yellow-fever card, so I didn't get poked in vain) and stepped out of the terminal building, my ears are choking with 'You're welcome's. When a police officer from the siren-screeching security escort van (you'll need two, one each in front and behind your car, if you're any true blue expatriate in Nigeria) nods his head and says, 'You're welcome,' I give up. It's more of a pleasant endemic here, and I realise they probably do genuinely mean it.

Outside, the daughter cribs. 'I don't like the people here.'
Is this the moment of truth? Have I failed as a global citizen? Have I  bred brats who are racists, despite the best of my intentions?

'Why?' I ask feebly.

'I feel scared at the way everyone's talking here. Why are they fighting?'

I heave a sigh of relief. So it's something that innocuous. I squeeze her paws and reassure her. ' Don't worry darling. It's just that they have a louder voice. Don't you see them laughing?' That's true, actually. Look around you anywhere in Lagos and you'll see everyone happy. Happy and jolly and cheerful and merry. Yes, even the poor (much like in India, you see them everywhere) laugh a lot, and they mean their laughs.

I'm going to love this place, I say to myself and sit in the car. 'You're welcome, madam,' says the driver, and we drive on.

The streets are more-or-less dark (the entire nation runs on generators, so the late evenings belie the robustness and the throbbing feel of daytime). Most houses look like Osama's Abottabad compound with impossibly high boundary walls topped with barbed wires. The escort vehicles are doing their job well. In about 20 minutes, we are there at the hotel.

'You're welcome, madam,' say the guards in the escort vehicles as they leave.
'You're welcome, madam,' say the hotel guards and waiters, as we wheel in our suitcases.
'You're welcome, madam,' says the smartly turned out person  at the reception as he hands us room card.

 The hot-bod Nigerian men will put the Greek Gods to shame, any day, even with their clothes on.Oh yes yes, I'm going to love this, I secretly salivate.

The door doesn't open with the card. We try again. It doesn't. Someone (this time, an even hotter Lebanese) comes, fiddles with the door for fifteen minutes. I don't really mind the sweet delay. I'm going to so so love this place, I say, and go back to ogling.

We hear a beep which means that the card and door contraption are working.  'You're welcome,' says the chikna Leb, and ushers us into the room.

Once in, all four of us make a mad dash for the loo. The quickest, my daughter, breezes in, only to be out in a second announcing, 'The door has no lock.'

'Maybe it's the style, you idiot,' butts in my son. 'What would you know about boutique hotels?'

'It doesn't matter,' I say. 'We'll manage. Let me go in.'

'No. We'll have to get it fixed. This is not acceptable,' says the Mister, checking out the door.

'Let me go, will you?' I shout and push my way in to the swanky lock-less loo. I am reminded of all the bytes floating around the virtual world about Lagos, and I know that if there's any truth in them, try as he might, the Mister will never succeed in getting the lock fitted.

I'm going to so so love this place...I say with utmost bliss as I go about my small business.

The Mad Dash for Ash...

'You have only two options', the Dott announced. 'Either you make me Aishwarya Rai's daughter or you become Aishwarya Rai. Bas, no more, no less.'

'Neither is possible, dott dear, come drink up your milk,' I said.

'No. I'm either a born-star or I choose to die this moment. No more, no less,' she said. The Dott is just about six (days, of course). It's but obvious that kids these days have their facts of life, at least the basics like born-die-star baby-star mommy, right early.

'But you are my star, my darling girl, come drink it up.'

'I am not a star. Don't lie. I didn't hear songs being played for me on the radio, I didn't see pujas being done for me on TV, nothing moved on Twitter, not even one out of the one-billion congratulations were for me, no laddooos, I didn't find bets being placed on me, nothing nothing not one thing happened in my honour. What does that bitch of the other newborn have that I don't?'

'Oh my darling baby, come let me hug you tight. We are private people and like to keep to ourselves sweetheart. You are my star, aren't you? Now come on, drink up the milk like my precious precious gem.' 

'You can't fool me mom. I'll either have Aishwarya feed me, or I starve myself.'

'I'm not even sure if Ash will choose to breast-feed her baby, so stop fussing. Come on now, be a good girl and drink up the milk.

'No. I don't like your milk. I want Aishwarya's. No more, no less.' 

'Don't act difficult girl. Okay, let me ask the doc if they have a way of getting some yummy Bournvita pumped in here. Maybe you'd like that?'  What all must we moms do to keep our kids happy.

'You're a disaster mom. Aishwarya would never even dream of something like this. She is just so perrrrrrfect in anything and everything. Take me to her this minute. I know she's in this very hospital. Take me to her NOW or I'll start wailing.'

'Oh, no no no. Don't do that. I find it impossible to handle you when you do that. Listen to me. I've no idea which room Ash aunty is in. Now be a good girl and...'

'SHE'S NOT AUNTY,' bellowed the Dott. 'She's my man-hi-man ki Maa.'

Ma? My dott calling that dumb plastic-doll Ma? I wished the hospital bed's mid-hinge would collapse that very moment and the bed engulf me in its folds. Oh why did I live to see this day.

'Stop grimacing,' said the Dott, trying to wriggle out of my arms. 'If you can't do it, I'll find a way to get to her. No one can come between a true-super-daughter and a true-super-Ma. Maaaa...I pine for your arms and your cuddle...'

'Fine,' I said in exasperation. There was little point in showing the ungrateful brat any reason. Imagine my flesh-and-blood doing this to me! That, when she knows the entire list of terrible things that can happen as part of post-partum blues (she's seen me devour preggy and post-preggy books by the dozen). And even then, to be so so insensitive. I had half a mind of disowning her then and there, but as parents, one needs to be generous to a fault. 'Your wish. Go. But don't you come back to me if she refuses to take you as her dott. Remember, there can be only ONE star baby in this country, and that is already born and registered. You're in for a rude shock girl. Go.'

'What do you know,' she retorted. 'Ever since I heard that Ash and you were to deliver around the same time, I prayed to God every single moment of my foetal existence that I get her eyes, her hair, her skin, her beauty. See my blue eyes? That's the degree of my connect with my real-Ma. We are made for each other. One look at me and she'll run to me.' The Dott jumped off the bed and started her slow waddle towards the cabin door. Kids these days, I tell you. They learn everything right in there. 

'Ha! Run! Not with her stitches!' I smirked.

'Ha! What do you know? Ash can do anything. She can even fly in like a superwoman and rescue me from your clutches.'

'Oh well. Soon you'll know. But don't even think of coming back to me when she refuses to change your nappies. Madam Ash can't possibly be doing the menial jobs herself!'

The Dott stood there for a few seconds, and then turned around. 

'She won't? You think so?' she asked.

'You bet!' I could sense the tides turning!

'Hmmm...then who do you think will do it? Jaya-dadi? I'm petrified by her stern look. Daddu? Ooooooohhhhhh, I'd LOVE that! But then he'll be too busy caring for his bahu. Oh gosh, you think the maids will change my nappies? I so HATE the thought of that...'

'Why? You're forgetting the other Bacchhan man in the house?'

'Who?' she asked.

'Abhishek. Your adopted D-A-D!' I taunted her.

'Who's he? How come no one ever spoke about him? But it's okay, I can do without him. I just need my super-real-Maaaaaaa. I don't need anything else in this life.' The Dott turned back around towards the door and started waddling all over again.

'You can't wish away Abhi, girl. For all practical purposes, he's the one who'll bring you up. Beginning with the nappies.'

'You think so?' the Dott said, looking in my direction again. 'You mean, Ash will not have time for me?'

'Nopes. Not with all those signed contracts already waiting for her.'

'You mean I won't get to be on magazine covers with her?'

'Unlikely. The other kid will have that privilege, I guess. I told you, she's already the original registered star-entity, not you.'

'Hmmm...okay let me give it one more shot. What if that bitch and I were to get exchanged in the nursery? You know, I've seen such things happening in the movies...maybe you could help me there. Imagine, you'll end up having Ash's baby!!!' the Dott suggested, with hopeful, even pleading, eyes.

'Oh no no no. I am doing none of that. For me, it's only you or no one else. You were the one who's kicked me that long in my tummy, not Ash's child. So, you are free to go. I'll be quite fine without any baby. Badly need to catch up on sleep anyway. Been days.'

I picked up the day's newspaper and slid down to a comfortable position to rest for a while.

'Will I be able to walk the red carpet with her?'

'Again, unlikely. The world knows of only one star baby, she can't suddenly strut down the Reds with two.' 

The Dott stood there motionless, deep in thought.

'And listen. You can call me anytime, in the odd chance that you miss me.Good luck, my darling girl...muuuuaaaaahh!'

Silence in the room. Nothing stirred, not even the sterilised dust particles.

And then it happened in slow motion...the tilt of the head, the torso, the legs, the entire body, the tears trickling, the bald head bobbing, the arms open, the mouth contorting, the feet toddling, and a shrill cry piercing through the concrete walls of the hospital...Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa...my Maaaaaaaa...I have started missing you already...Can't leave you and go...Maaaaaaa.' She ran towards my bed and stood at the foot. She'd managed to jump on her own, but climbing on to the bed wasn't exactly her cup of tea. They haven't yet started training kids in this department while still inside the tummy.   

'Oh, oh, what about my sleep then?' I said, a bit disappointed, having mentally prepared myself for a good restful snooze. I lifted her off the floor and placed her next to the pillow.

'Don't worry mom. I won't trouble you at all. You cuddle me and we'll both sleep tight!' the Dott said, kind of smothering me with a thousand kisses.

'Sounds like a plan! Good, come into my arms rightaway and drink up the milk first!'

'Sounds like a great plan, mom, okay!' 

And we both slept happily ever after. Until the next radio jingle blessing the OTHER blessed new-born, that is.

'Mom...?'

'Yes, my darling?'

'Why can't I be Ash's baby-girl?'

And it started all over again...

Will the insane one billion let me enjoy my little one in peace, please?

Education...

bridges gaps on the one hand and furthers divides on the other...

It includes and isolates at the same time...

It makes you feel big, and it shows how small you are...

When Enough is Not Enough...

A fraction of a second is what it took my kids on the back seat of the car to tear open the neatly wrapped return gift and compare the shades. A minute is what it took them to start a fight over which one's was better. Five minutes is what it took them to come to an amicable conclusion. Ten minutes is what they spent playing with their respective gifts in the car. Twenty minutes later, by the time the car had been parked in front of our house, the toys lay half-broken, fully-forgotten on the car floor.  

From what I could gather from the remains, each piece of what-was-junk-now looked terribly terribly expensive. A lot of thought must have, of course, gone into the careful selection of the return gift. For most of the birthday parties these days, it's the single biggest make-or-break measure of its success, so no parent wants to take a chance with it. But frankly, I don't think our children deserve to get anything more until we have succeeded in teaching them them to value what they already have.   

And so, yet another birthday party, yet another mockery of the simple act of giving for pleasure...not that I have not been party to the crime in the past. I'm reminded of this mail I had sent out to a bunch of parents at the end of my son's 8th birthday party three years ago. Reproducing it here in the hope that my sentiments find resonance somewhere... 

Hi all,

A big thankyou to all for having made Anav's 8th birthday celebrations enjoyable and memorable. Given our packed and rushed days, it's indeed an extra effort to fit in these frequent parties, so I was overwhelmed by the manner in which you all went out of your ways to send your kids over (or tried your best to make it possible); made for a beautiful lifelong memory for Anav! For him, the excitement continued well into late evening as he eagerly unwrapped his presents, squealed in delight at each one of them, and then sat with his little sister exploring/ playing with/ reading them all! Thanks again for the absolutely lovely, thoughfully picked up stuff, every single one of them.

I'm not sure why I'm sending this mail, but certain thoughts have been playing on my mind for a while, and I guess today's party gave me the necessary impetus to piece it together coherently. Having briefly interacted with you all on the phone adn in person, I feel confident that you are a bunch of parents who will appreciate my concern. Year after year, we see our kids getting loads of stuff at parties, both as birthday presents or as return gifts. While every item holds a special meaning for our kids, I feel uncomfortable by the way we are loading children, both ours and their friends, with more and more. Please dont get me wrong here, I am not the one to champion the cause of austerity, certainly not at birthdays! But what does bother me is the way we are aiding in our kids' increasingly failing to value things - far less than how we as kids used to feel about any new acquisition. We do it all the time - just look at the way our kids' rooms look these days, cupboards, cabinets, drawers, spilling over with stuff, and yet, our children never seem to feel it's enough. As parents, we perhaps will be guilty of bringing up the most matarialistic generation of kids the world has seen so far. 

Since we'll continue to interact with one another the rest of the year, most certainly in the context of birthday parties, I am taking the liberty of suggesting that we keep the exchange of gifts and presents simple. There's very little that our kids dont have these days. Can we at least aim to reach a situation (an ideal one, in my view) where our kids get equally thrilled unwrapping a small pencil box and a boardgame or a book. I have tremendous faith in the openness with which our kids' minds work. I know they like simple stuff as much as those terribly expensive and involved gadgets, but it's unfortunate that we often feel hesitant, even embarrassed, buying the not-so-expensive stuff for the birthday child.  

I have been party to this crime year after year. Often, I've gone overboard with presents and with return gifts, though I must admit that it's always been out of an actual joy of picking up more and more of those cute little stuff for kids, and never due to the compulsion of having to compete with others. But I'm not sure how many of those things kids would have cherished beyond the initial few minutes of thrill. And so I felt that a beginning has to be made somewhere. As Anav's happened to be the first birthday in class, purely as a precedent, I'd thought of keeping everything really simple this time. So I picked up those sarangis from Delhi Haat as return gifts, at Rs35 per piece (bulk rate), and felt rather happy doing so. My kids have always enjoyed playing it, and i was reasonably confident that most of his friends would like it too (though not without annoying the parents with all that noise!). But moment I put them in each of the carry bags, I felt it wasnt 'enough', sadly, undoing the one step I had earnestly hoped to take this time. So a hurried last minute trip to the mall, and the bags got a little weightier with those tennis balls, drawing books and the chocolates. At Rs 100 per child, the bags looked slightly more 'acceptable' than before, though it was still far less than what my kids returns with from most of the birthday parties. 

The party's over, the rooms have been cleared, and the birthday presents have been stacked in Anav's cupboard, some intact, some with contents already missing. But I've been feeling rather disappointed at having failed myself. Why couldnt i go ahead with my initial belief that the inexpensive, but incredibly delightful piece of instrument was all that the kids would go back with. Perhaps if the same item came for Rs200, I would not have had a moment of doubt.

As I said, I'm not sure why I'm writing to you all, but maybe, just maybe, it will help at least one parent not make the mistake I made this time. That, in itself, will be a BIG step.

Thanks again for having made Anav's party incredibly fun. The kids were great, and I look forward to seeing most of them again in the years to come!

Warm regards,

Richa

Spanking New Girlfriend

'I think I've had enough. You HAVE to get me a new girlfriend now.'

I yawned a massive yawn and continued to pore over the map. The temperatures in the city have already begun dipping at night, and with the glass screens left ajar, my house could easily have passed off as a family suite perched atop some ‘Tiger Point’ at any of the hill stations. I pulled over the duvet further up my legs and strained to locate the goddamned place on the map.

‘Do you remember where Kigali is?’ I asked him, absentmindedly, without lifting my eyes off the by-now badly creased map. The Son has left ugly circles all over it to cover all the test cricket playing nations of the world. The Dott has painted squatting aliens over places she thought they would find ‘Indian’ toilets. It’s a miracle The Hubby has left it untouched.

‘You’ll never listen, will you?’ he whined an annoying whine, some of which drifted into my ears. They had been pretty passive for a while anyway, with the eyes doing most of the dog-work with the map.


‘Hmmm? You saying something to me?’ I asked, surprised.

‘See? This is why I need a new girlfriend. You just don’t listen!’ There was that hence-proven-I’m-vindicated look in his eyes, laced with ample annoyance.

‘What do you mean a new girlfriend? When did you have an old one in the first place!’ My chortle must have sounded too dismissive because he snapped back gnarling.

‘Laugh your gut out now madam. I too will have my day, then we’ll see!’

‘Found it! It’s right here! To think that I was looking everywhere but here for the place!’ I said, looking at the map. One part of my mission accomplished, I turned to the next: locating Ouagadougou.

‘Hmmmph. Will you or will you not find me a girlfriend?’ This time he sort-of charged on, so I decided to tackle his problem before getting back to mine.

‘I don’t understand this,’ I said, folding the map any which way and tossing it aside. ‘Don’t you think I’m the wrong – I mean totally completely absolutely wrong – person to be asking for help in this matter? I may be the old wife, but your wife all the same! What interest would I possibly have in locating a girlfriend for you?!’ I said, struggling to keep my laughter from erupting at that inappropriate moment!

‘You stand to gain every which way, if you only used your mind to think and see how,’ said The Hubby, his tone softening a bit. In his typical 360 degree-analysis mode, he quickly grabbed a paper and pen from the side table and began the crash-course for me.

A few doodles, lines, scribbles, arrows (by now the page resembled an year-old’s artwork) later, he pointed to something looking like a toad and said, ‘Let’s assume this is you, the wife. The old wife.’

‘Aaahhhhhhmmm,’ I nodded.

‘And this,’ pointing to an amoebaesque (sorry, Kafka) puddle, ‘is me, the harried Hubby.’

‘Aaaaahhhhhmmm?’ I raised my brows.

‘Now you see how this one is always harried because of this, and as a result this is, in turn, hassled because the harried one gets more harried by the day?’ He added some sharp spear-like contraptions emerging from the toad and leading upto the amoeba rather ominously.

‘Okay, good drawing. But that’s it. Let’s cut this crap and let me get back to looking up the second place.’ I said and picked up the map again.

‘NO. We must decide NOW. It’s either a new girlfriend or you chuck out the cook,’ the Hubby growled again.

This looked serious indeed!

‘Excuse me?’ I said. ‘Did I hear it right? What connection could there possibly be between a girlfriend and a cook! You surely don’t expect her to rustle up cosy dinners for you every evening, eh?! And as if I would let her stay in this house!’ I could have died laughing.

‘This is no joke. You cannot have everything YOUR way. So we’ll have one of my way and one of yours. Get it?  Decide fast and decide now.’

I placed the map back on the side table and got into the act of thinking! My life without a cook was out of question. A life with some girlfriend floating around looked okay enough. Maybe she could prove to be a useful baby-sitter too, if the bacchhas decided to take a fancy to her! The decision was easy enough.

‘Okay. You may find yourself a girlfriend. Now that that is settled, may I get back to the map please? Am dying to locate that place!’ I said.

‘No. YOU need to find me a girlfriend. And that’s final,’ the Hubby said with a steely determination.

Hell! Now this new tamasha!

‘Why on earth…’ I began protesting, but he cut me short.

‘Because you’ve lived with me all these years and you will know who’s perfect for me.’

So, there.

I’ve been thinking about it, and I guess I know the right place to look for the girl.

The golfing sites and online forums! (am too lazy to drive up to the golf courses, of course)

With a bit of good luck, if I do hit the jackpot, my life will turn into an enviable one, m’friends. Look at the many benefits: my weekends will be free because they’ll be out on the greens together. I’ll have undisturbed weekday mornings without having to force out laughs at his forwarded golf jokes and golf mails. The evenings will be peaceful without having to sit through the ball-by-ball analysis (the hundredth, thousandth, millionth time) of the last terrible game (never mind if it was played a millennium ago). I assume several dinners-out for them, which means I get ample time in bed to read books.

And I get by comfortably with whatever the maid decides to cook, her mood permitting, that is.

Not a bad win-win situation, don't you think?

Interested lady golfers, please get in touch with me at the earliest. 

The Fear of Loss...

'I don't want you to die', he said last night. 'Ever, ever, ever.'

'Why?' I asked

'I'll feel so helpless without you.' 

So. He grows up. My son. At 10, he is now able to think of possibilities which can have a lasting impact on his life. His senses visualise loss, loneliness, dependence, attachments. Death.

Welcome to the world of the grown-ups and the growing-ups, Son. The fear of loss will, from now on, be a constant companion through life. It'll stick to you like a leech. The sooner you train your senses to ignore it, the happier and stronger you'll make yourself from within. There is no such thing as death - you just stop living. And fear forces your mind to believe you cannot live the way you would want to.

Let not fear make you stop living before you actually stop living, son. Learn to live it up. With, or without me. Or him, or her, or this or that.

The Bad People

It seemed like an innocuous chancing upon of two stranger kids in the passageway of the AC 1 compartment of a train, both, on their way to the ‘hills’ for a short break with their respective families. Until words floated into my ears which made me look up from the book I was engrossed in, suddenly alert and all ears.

‘Are you a Muslim?’ asked the girl in pink Barbie tank top and purple tights, not very much older than my six year old daughter.

I could not see my daughter from where I was sitting, but the awkward pause in the conversation told me she probably was fumbling for words, and even more, for getting a hold over the ‘meaning’ of what she had been asked.

‘I don’t know, I’m not sure…I’ll ask my mother when I go in…’ Something in the way she replied, the tentativeness, the volume, the diffidence, told me instantly without even looking at her that my otherwise super confident cocksure girl was not comfortable fielding this query.

‘How dumb of you not to know even this!’ said the other girl gently swinging from one of the coupe window iron bars, or some such. ‘How old are you?’

‘Six,’ said my daughter, the discomfiture still writ large in her tone.

‘GOD! So old and still don’t know whether you are a Hindu or a Muslim! But anyway, I hope you are not one M.’

‘Why?’ came another feeble word from my perplexed daughter.

‘Because they are all bad people. Very very bad people. Paapi, as my maasi calls them…’ she said giggling and grimacing as if a terrible stink had suddenly whiffed through the passageway.

‘What’s paapi?’

I wanted to get up and intervene, not because I felt my daughter’s mind was being fed with an unqualified bullshit which had no business being there, but because I felt the other girl needed to be shown the prejudice that had been forced down hers.

But I waited a while. It was a long journey, and the conversation could wait. It was more important for me to first gauge the extent of this malaise in her young impressionable mind. However, there was an abrupt break in this exchange because breakfast arrived and the girls ran into their respective cabins to eat. My daughter whispered in my ears, ‘Mom, am I a Muslim? I don’t want to be one.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Sejal says Muslims are bad people as they kill and eat cows. Tell me no please. What are Muslims?’

Distressing as it is to see the origins of the deep-rooted seeds of intolerance lying very much (also) among the so called educated elites, one shudders at the mere thought of the extent of the spread of this mindless blinding bias. Sejal is the quintessential urban educated child with a set of parents both with plum corporate jobs who spend close to a lakh a year on their daughter’s ‘good’ schooling needs. That an eight year old may have already formed such a staunch anti-Muslim opinion in her mind is also a telling sign of the all pervasive subliminal reach of this conditioning. The seemingly innocuous tidbits that work at slowly poisoning the mind are all around us, waiting to be picked up and assimilated. It’s simply in the way you and I believe and talk and discuss and listen. The specific targets might change – Muslim, Hindu, Christian, Harijan, Biharis, Madrasis, Dalits, Pakistanis, Chinkis, blacks, whites, whatever – but the insidious nature and sting of the venom remains largely the same.

When I later sat with the two girls to help them dig deeper into the purport of what they were discussing, I felt I succeeded sooner than I’d expected. Children absorb information at lighting-speed, but they also are willing to squeeze out the unwanted and reabsorb the desirable that much faster. Since Sejal had grown up hearing that Muslims are sinners for slaughtering cows and eating beef, that was the only line of argument her mind could forward.

‘What’s wrong with eating beef,’ I asked her.

‘My dadi says it’s a sin because when they kill the cow, who will give milk to the calf?’

‘Do you eat chicken and mutton at home?’ I asked. She nodded. I pointed out to her that she or her family were guilty of the same crime that she was accusing the Muslims of. Wouldn’t the goat’s little one also not be denied his mamma’s milk if we went ahead and ate her up?

The intense yet faraway look in Sejal’s eyes told me her young mind was trying hard to distill this new way of looking at the situation. She saw sense in what was being said, just as she’d seen reason in what she’d heard earlier. But something about the way the facts were put forth before her assured her that there perhaps was more sense in what she was hearing now than what she’d learnt earlier.

That point onward, it my task became easier. I sat there explaining how certain beings are sacred to one religion, and not to another. How different religions adopt different ways and means of getting to that same one goal of loving and getting closer to their respective Gods. The girls sat there, with rapt attention, oblivious of the train thundering through a long tunnel.

Thus far, I had still not addressed my daughter’s concern: was she a Muslim?

And so, after having sat with the girls for a while, I posed them a couple of questions, one to each: Would you still rather your new train friend were not a Muslim? And would you still rather you were not a Muslim?

The replies, not surprisingly, to both from both was a spontaneous No.

And then, turning to my daughter, I told her she was not a Muslim.

‘Oh, doesn’t matter mom,’ she shrugged. ‘Would I still have you and daddy if we all were Muslims?’

Yes, I said.

‘Then it really doesn’t matter mom!’ 

A shorter version of this piece appeared in Tehelka magazine, October 1, 2011.

http://www.tehelka.com/story_main50.asp?filename=hu011011PERSONAL.asp

I Am, Finally, Anna. Or, Am I?

A late, confused, unsure, and somewhat reluctant supporter to the cause, I finally stepped out of my comfort zone and joined in the peace rally today. Turned down the volume of my car stereo to let the arousing rythm of the slogans by eager volunteers float in, gave a quick crash course to my kids on what was happening before them, turned off the ignition, told my kids to pick up their water bottles, and that's it...we were out, crossing the road over from being a passive armchair commentator on all things wrong with us to actively lending my support.

Why did I step out of the car? Do I believe a Lokpal can cleanse our deep rooted corruption? I don't. Have I been following Anna and his crusade closely for the last couple of months? Not much, indeed. Do I see myself as a staunch supporter of Anna and his satyagrah? Not in the least. Does a beaming Anna being led away from Supreme Enclave stir up a patriotic fervour in me? Unlikely. Did the charm of the TV cameras' flashing lights lure me to my one minute of photo-op fame? Ha! Good one! So then, why?

Because those many many moments of frustration and irritation with the corrupt bribe-ridden state machinery flashed through my mind today in that split second when I saw the enthusiastic young college-going students doing what thousands around the country have been doing for the last couple of days: doing their bit symbolically by lending their voice of support to a selfless cause by one selfless Gandhian and spreading his word around...Bhrashtachaar hataenge / Anna teri jung hum jeetenge...in its tone and tenor, the words felt impactful, simple, even sincere, perhaps, and oh-so-different from the loud, high pitched proclamations of undying love for the motherland one is used to hearing from the rowdy supporters of various political parties. I thought of the thousand bucks I had shelled for my passport renewal, of the innumerable rounds I had had to make to the government offices to get an NOC out, of the (newly laid) pot-holed roads which steadily wreck my car, of the clogged drains and overflowing sewers in most localities each time it rains, of the several trips that my father has had to make to the RTO to obtain some basic clearances in a car-sale deal. Of every such instance when I have shrugged, sighed, seethed within, and moved on.

So I stepped out, and crossed the road over to the other end where I suddenly became a miniscule part of a pan-national movement, almost a forest-fire that looks like it won't get appeased in a hurry. I knew that if there was one moment there was to speak out, it was this.

It was a heady concoction of pride, a lump-in-the-throat kind of nationalism, anger, satisfaction at finally raising ones voice against a national malaise, and the sheer joy of belonging...somewhere. What standing there did to me is not difficult to fathom; the crowds and noise do that to me, anyway. I saw my 6-year-old daughter excitedly light up candles along with a few other kids, while my 10-year-old son clutched the water-bottle, looking a bit unsure about how our being there would bring corruption levels down in the country, and played the watchful big responsible brother to his butterfly little sister, alongside.

And then I saw the PCR vans with the cops standing there, helpless at having to be a mute witness to the protest, with pretty much nothing to do, and yet, a lot to do. I saw the abundant patience and politeness with which they were conducting themselves, every single one of them, and I wondered what would be flashing through their minds right then.

And then, just as suddenly as old frustrating memories had come flooding to me in the car of the corrupt state machinery, there was a sudden surge of those many many many other occasions when I had been pleasantly surprised, even taken aback in a nice way, at the efficiency and smoothness with which a job had been done by a government office, with negligible fuss. Of those several occasions when a government servant had gone out of his way to assist me with to the best of his ability. I knew it was time for me to head home.

Not because i had suddenly lost interest in Anna's cause or saw the state machinery with fresh tinted whitewashed eyes, but because I realised that the answers to matters of this gargutuan proportion were far far more complex than my lighting a candle. And just as I knew I had to raise my voice against corruption, I knew I had to do something else...

'Thanks for ensuring a free-flow of regular traffic here, and thanks for making it easy for us. You'll are doing a great job...!' I smiled and said to the policemen standing there as I walked back to my car, got the kids to belt up, and turned on the ignition...

'Take care madam, andhere mein theek se jaaiyega,' said one of them, coming up to my car as it inched its way forward.

On our way home, my kids asked me if I would join the car protest happening tomorrow, starting at the same place.

I didn't reply to that.

Because I still don't know whether I will or I won't.

Life on www.publicdomain.com

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.

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.

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

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.

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!

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!

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!