Musings in March

Being newly unemployed is weird. You keep feeling guilty about not checking your mails over the weekend and then realise there are no mails to check. And that it isn't the weekend.

There is also a Pavlovian response to the clock striking 12:30-immense hunger pangs.

Working, however dead-endish the job may be, is better than being cooped up in a tiny flat with family.

I bought a personal laptop. It's HP and red. For supercilious geeks, it is equipped with intel i3 processor, has a 4 GB RAM and 1 TB hard drive. And beats audio, which I am told makes no difference. Did I tell you it was red?

A new laptop does not mean that your internet will suck less.

Maybe a slow internet is a blessing in disguise. Instead of link hopping, I can now concentrate on non World Wide Web related pursuits...like blogging mindlessly from my phone.

If Benedict Cumberbatch had not bitched about season 2 of Downton Abbey he could have been on it. As Mary's posh, repartee prone suitor. Because let's face it, Mathew was a bore.

Can the Windows Network Diagnostics ever trouble shoot a problem?

Kolkata is a bore till the time you resist the gossip. Once sucked into that whirlpool, it can be mild fun.

For a land of economists (and otherwise), Kolkata does poorly in terms of efficient utilisation of space. Men keep standing in buses while rows of 'ladies' seats' lie empty.

What is it with strangers trying to strike up conversations everywhere?

Consulting is not a profession. It's a way of life.

Now that the AAP is back to its stupid ways, all my gloating has gone in vain.

When my grandfather is angry (which is all the time), he resembles Amitabh Bachchan. A thin spindly, balding Amitabh Bachchan.

Laziness trumps Kolkata's claims to being the cultural conscience keeper of the country. The neighbourhood library opens according to the whims of the librarian-sometimes at 12, sometimes at 12:30. The scheduled time is 11 am.

Somehow old people don't understand your need of getting away from home. On a daily basis.
Neither do a lot of young people for that matter.

It may be the belated onset of adolescence speaking but the buddy buddy school of parenting should be done away with.

How can shared autos be a valid mode of transport in a metropolis?

In the Mahabharata, the marriage of Draupadi to the Pandavas comes through because Kunti, not knowing what her sons had got home, told all five of them to share it. And once given, her order cannot be violated. Why? Is it because she is a mother and the Mahabharata was meant to indoctrinate people into being obedient? Or was it meant to serve as a lesson to stupid people who took orders unquestioningly?

The old NCERT history books are as dry and didactic as all the other books I read through my school life. The new NCERT history books seem intent on proving that nobody knows anything for sure.
As important a lesson as any.

A cousin called Rabindranath Tagore the Bappi Lahiri of his times. My mom clutched at her bosom in shock and  disbelief.

My own mother lives in a sexist bubble, the inhabitants of which believe that a woman's bad mood means she is PMSing.

Alliterative titles are fun.

A primer on how to deal with stupidity

Situation 1: there's a party in honour of one of your old colony friends (and I use the word very very loosely) who is about to get married. All the uncles and aunties who have seen you since you were three years old have gathered, along with their offspring. The would be bride's mother (who you have hated since you were three years old) asks you why you are getting so fat. Then asks if there isn't a nice Bengali brahmin boy in your office you could get married to.

Likely response: flash a fake smile and make a quick exit.

Optimal response: First, roll your eyes.
Then say: Yes, that's my life's ambition-to get married. And the only reason I have a job is that it works as a lovely mating ground for people looking to further the proliferation of their caste.

Situation 2: same setting as above. The uncles are discussing politics and current affairs. One of the uncles happens to be the top boss in an organisation in part responsible for Delhi's traffic mess. The would be bride's father tells him that it's difficult being the top boss anywhere. Men are so vulnerable you see, with random women throwing around accusations of harassment.

Likely response: you look up, taken aback for a second. Then pile chicken curry on your plate and make a quick exit.

Optimal response: First roll your eyes.
Then point out that besides getting married that is the other life ambition of women. Entrapping their powerful well connected bosses in false cases so that their personal and professional lives can be open for discussion in mainstream and online media and in drawing rooms of privileged men.

Situation 3: same setting as above. The bride is joking to younger girls around her that nothing ever comes out of studying.

Likely response: you laugh agreeably.

Optimal response: even though you agree, be a bitch and beg to differ. Say education begets jobs which can then be used to marry nice Bengali brahmin boys and entrap powerful well connected bosses in sexual harassment cases.

Situation 4: a young educated career woman in a position of authority tells you that Hindus in the country have taken enough shit. And it's time they did something about it.

Likely response: you roll your eyes.

Optimal response: just roll your eyes, just do.

Situation 5: a middle aged educated man says prostitution should be legalised. You nod in agreement because of all the logical advantages of this-sex workers stop being harassed by cops and pimps, more empowerment allows them to demand clients wear protection, more taxes for the country and so on. Then the man tells you his logic-it can help prevent rapes.

Likely response: you don't look up and continue to eat like nothing has happened.

Optimal response: yes, because you know rapists are not criminals or sociopaths. Just, naive sexually repressed young men. Plus whatever depraved acts they want to do, they can do with 'those' women. Our well behaved middle class women are safe - that's all that matters.

Why I love Bollywood- In Celebration of the Mediocre Films

We all rhapsodise about the good films. And bitch incessantly about the bad ones. Everyone knows about Lagaan and Jaani Dushman.

Yet there are other perfectly ordinary films that nobody really cares about. Which have stellar moments, where you can see that the writers/ director paid attention, applied thought.

In no particular order, and with no pretensions of being exhaustive, my favourite sequences from these films are as below.

(Please feel free to add yours in the comment section)

·         The Opening Sequence in Hasee toh Phasee

It’s a wedding. Douchey boys are engaging in the sexist pursuit of rating girls. And then Siddharth Malhotra rates Parineeti Chopra as an eight. Still sexist , you would say, except Parineeti plays a chemical engineer from IIT, in spectacles and a boy cut. The eight is on the basis of a stimulating conversation he has with her. The unthinkable has happened. You just met a likeable rom-com hero.

·         The rescue sequence from Ek Villain

She is a shrill, manic-pixie do-gooder. He is a brooding anti-hero. She makes him go to a retirement home to kidnap an old man (where he has been dumped by his evil children) so that he can be reunited with his elderly girlfriend. You have started rolling your eyes.

And then the sequence in question-where the rescue is orchestrated in the backdrop of Amitabh Bachchan’s Shaheshah playing out at a movie screening. It helps that Siddharth Malhotra has the right physicality. But you have to admire the director’s cheekiness. Get the ultimate brooding anti-hero to do the heavy lifting, while the pretty boy…well…looks pretty.

·         The via-Agra song in Yeh Jawani hai Deewani

Okay fine, I just called YJHD mediocre to curry favour with the cool kids. I loved the film through and through. But even the haters have to appreciate the genius of the song with Madhuri Dixit and Ranbir Kapoor. It exists in the film…just because. Just because it would be fun to see Madhuri match steps with the son of the hero she has been cast opposite in the past. Just because the audience was bound to love it. And more cynically, just because…it was a way to sell more tickets.

·         The treasure hunt in Student of the Year

Crowd-pleasing scenes used to be usual fare in Hindi films before our directors grew up and decided to tell real stories. (Examples are the antaksharis in Maine Pyar Kiya and Mujhse Dosti Karoge, the special appearance of Salman Khan in Dhai Akshar Prem Ke, and the shenanigans on the ship in Kaho naa Pyaar Hai). The treasure hunt in the school with inane clues and frenetic running around was a reminder of how film-makers used to get family-friendly eyeballs in the nineties.

Want to guess who my favourite student is?

·         The road sequence in Mujhse Frandship Karoge

Yes, there is a film by that name. Yes, I paid money to watch said film in a multiplex. The leads (in the precarious we-hate-each-other phase before they move on to the I-think-I-am-in-love-with-him/her phase) are travelling by car. To fill the time, she starts humming English songs, and he jumps in to sing their Hindi versions. At one point they sing ‘Neela duppatta, peela suit, chali chali tu dil ko loot’, and it’s English original (which I had no idea, existed).

·         Salman Khan’s cameo in Phata Poster Nikla Hero

Salman Khan’s reaction when thinking about working in the sequel to Andaz Apna Apna: “Aamir ke saath kaam karna padega…”.  *Pained expression*. Pure gold.

Even part from the cameo, this is recommended for Shahid Kapoor fans 

·         Ranveer Singh and Ali Zafar’s pillow talk in Kill/ Dil

The two are staring at the stars with Singh sighing about people turning into stars after death. Zafar chimes in…”Haan, inmein se toh kitno ko humnein taara banaya hoga”. The two are contract killers by the way.

   

Of Face-book Friends and Childhood Foes

(This was written four and a half years ago. But I didn't have the heart to edit it (or maybe I was just too lazy). Kindly bear with the wordiness.)

I was facing an unenviable prospect. A 2000 word article on the viability of complete Capital Account Convertibility for India is never an easy task. That, at 11 o’clock at night, and with an hour left for the deadline to expire was impossible to achieve. Especially when I still had 30 of a 56 page RBI paper to read before I could commence writing. I decided I needed a break- procrastinating for another ten minutes could hardly hurt. Accordingly, I turned to the one source of relaxation that, as I had recently started appreciating, never failed to provide succour. Facebook.

My account showed that a certain Sanjri Mehta wished to add me to her already burgeoning friend list. I stared at her profile picture for a good 35 seconds out of pure surprise. I knew her, from school. She looked different now, much thinner, but with the same angelic smile that unfailingly melted the heart of even the most hardhearted of disciplinarians. It was no surprise then that all the children of Nursery A fell in love with her the moment she entered the monochromatically green classroom for the first time. It was not long before I learnt one of the most fundamental truths of life- looks could be deceptive.

That day, I waited patiently for my chance at the swings (patiently for a three year old in any case) while Sanjri took what seemed to me like her 18th turn. No longer being able to control myself, I told her to let me have a go as well. In response, she stuck out her pink little tongue while her minions (yes, in kindergarten) shrieked in delight at their leader’s wit and presence of mind. I appealed to my class teacher, but not wanting to be labelled a complaint cock (in nursery A parlance), omitted the part involving the tongue showing. Eventually I could enjoy the pleasure of the wind blowing in my face while my toes pointed at the sky, for all of three minutes but it still seemed a victory to me.

Of course, the victory was even more short-lived than I had imagined. When we trooped back to class after the PT period the teacher stood in front of us and extolled the virtues of sharing-our books, toys, food, even the swings and then went on to reward my adversary with a chocolate for having shown the that particular behaviour in the playground. Appreciating the unfairness in the world, I decided to drown my sorrows in the nimbu pani with which my mum had filled my Little Mermaid water bottle that day. But I had only to take the first sip when I found out that the cool drink had metamorphosed into sand-the kind that prevented kids from getting hurt, when they fell in the playground. I looked up to find Sanjri and her three friends pointedly giggling in my direction.

It all came flooding back- all the memories of kindergarten. Of having been teased mercilessly for having oiled hair. Of losing my favourite crayon and being scolded for that even as I was certain that it had been pilfered by my devious foe. Of never being allowed to captain a team during an intra class kho-kho match because it was invariably always Sanjri and one of her friends. You might call me immature but at that moment, I felt a certain power. With one click, I could ignore her friend request- the ultimate snub in the virtual world – and that would be my revenge for all the injustices heaped on me during my childhood. After all, Sanjri was an important reason for my premature loss of innocence, responsible for making me realise early in the day that the world was evil even though my world was confined to the toys-filled corridor outside the classroom.

I recalled the gigantic dollhouse in the centre of the same corridor. It had a big and ugly doll inside that we named Martha, after one of the Nursery teachers. She was soft and cushiony and immensely huggable, the doll I mean, and I remember slipping out of class with my best friend, Madhulika, on the pretext of going to the washroom (truancy at three) to play with her.

Madhulika’s dad was a journalist, the free lancing kind (which I did not understand then), so he generally made the time to pick her from school in the afternoon. At times, he took me too, and dropped me home in his car, after treating the two of us to ice cream at Nirulas’. I always chose the 21 Love flavour while Madhulika tried a new one each time. Uncle sometimes had a Banana Split, which I thought was a disgusting combination but I could not be sure since I was too meek to try it. I also loved their car-my parents did not have one then, actually not until much later, so the little doll that hung from the rear view mirror of the white Maruti800, and made a squeaking sound every time the car crossed a speed breaker never ceased to amuse me.

Their house was another novelty, very unlike the boring government quarters that I lived in. It was not big. Just a small whitewashed bungalow, I am not sure where, but with a tiny garden in front. They did not have a drawing room with stuffy sofas, like my house did, where you couldn’t even sit with your feet up. They just had some mattresses and lots of colourful cushions and Madhulika and I could mistreat them in any manner. Her mother was always too occupied to reprimand us, and naturally, we took full advantage. They also had a room with three walls covered completely with books, all kinds- thick, serious ones and the ones with a lot of pictures as well. Her mum told me I could borrow any when I learnt how to read properly. That made me pay a lot of attention to what the teacher used to recite in class, and the stuff about the alphabet that my mother regularly tried to drill into my head. What they did not have was a television set so Madhulika could not watch All The Best or Super hit Muqabla on DD but besides that, she did not miss much. I, for one, could never understand my parents’ enthusiasm for the Sunday Matinee Show. It only aired old movies anyway, that invariably ended in a fight sequence and a death (never of the hero or the pretty girl he intermittently hung out with, on screen) but generally of the hero’s mother or friend (who had had a thing for the pretty girl too).

When things became more interesting with cable, Madhulika’s parents might have got her a TV, I never knew, because sometime after kindergarten we stopped being friends. It was not a squabble or a fight, just that we were shuffled. While she went to II-C, I remained in A section. We might have cried and sulked for a while but soon made new friends and forgot all about each other till our citation ceremony in 12th standard when Madhulika (now predictably called Maddy by her commerce classmates), overcome with emotion, gave me the tightest bear hug. For that moment, it seemed like we were back in the green classroom and the 14 years that had passed when we had last been there, all but vanished. She promised to call that day and I likewise vowed to keep in touch. I did keep it- I occasionally comment on her status on Facebook and she posts a ‘Wassup’ on my wall every now and then.

I was about to visit Madhulika’s profile for the same ritual, when my phone lit up- a message from the editor reminding me that my article was not in yet. The clock on my computer screen showed that it was 11:35 pm. Sanjri’s pretty face was still grinning mischievously from the screen. I looked at it one last time, then clicked on the Confirm Friend Request button and logged out.

The Year that Was

2014.

I have written about this before. As a child, I had been used to standing on the shore, at times dipping my feet into the water that spilled onto the beach while my mother firmly held on to my hand. This time it was me who had the death grip on a colleague’s hand, as she guided me into deeper waters. As a large wave approached, I lost my grip and went under. Breathing brought water into my nose and ears and for two seconds I was more scared than I had ever been before. The wave subsided, and somebody found my hand. I was safe again, but this time less scared of any oncoming wave.

Very frequently this year, I cribbed, I bitched, I was unhappy.

But this was by far, the most interesting year of my life. It was my first year as a real adult, and I think I found my way through, armed with some deep insight into growing up.

There was Goa.

Then there was the first visit to Bhutan, the trek to Tiger’s Nest. That point in the trek, when for the first time I didn’t second guess myself. I absolutely knew what I wanted to do, and did just that. The first time I wasn’t just happy, I was in bliss.

It was also the first time I was at my unhappiest, and alone. I didn’t have friends to cheer me up, I didn’t have my parents fussing over me, my sister telling me it would be okay. But I managed to pick myself up. I broke down on the way, but I wasn’t embarrassed about it. Alone wasn’t the same thing as lonely.

There was the first visit to the Maldives where I learnt that binge-watching MTV could be incredible fun. And that Sidhharth Malhotra was hot. And that I was capable of washing bed-sheets and scrubbing denims clean.

There were the second visits to the two countries when I realised I felt safer there than in India. Where I realised I was capable of random conversations with strangers. When I realised that I was more parochial than I thought. But I was still less parochial than others. Floating lights can lift your mood. Old people do not find happiness in the small pleasures of life. They crib more. I might revel in being alone, but want my parents to be with me the next time I go to the Buddha Statue in Thimphu.

And along the way, in Delhi, in Bombay, in Shirdi, in Nasik, in Kolkata, there were a host of other things I learnt, about me and the world.

I oscillate between naiveté and shrewdness. (When did I forget the difference between having fun conversations and being friends?)

The average woman matures faster than the average man. It’s true, not a sexist conspiracy.

There is no person in the world I love more than my sister. But I don’t want to be like her.

As people grow up, they make compromises in their lives, which were unimaginable when they were younger.

The most unlikely people can surprise you. The auntyji-ish colleague can be a tennis aficionado and Agatha Christie groupie. The quiet, mousy colleague could have had a love-life that could be the stuff of movies.

It’s important to say no.

Manoeuvring social obligations is a bitch.

I can’t spell ‘manoeuvring’ without the help of a word-processor.  

I look back at my Hindu college days through rose-tinted glasses. I realised this by watching a video of old photos which ironically, was designed to make me feel nostalgic. Or maybe I am emotionally stunted.

I can go to great lengths, sometimes stupidly, to save 700 bucks.

We often allow people to hurt us, and don’t hit back.

I can write soppy blog-posts.

Of old friends

Manu da sat across the room from me, at the door of the balcony, under the sun, rifling through the newspaper supplement. Every ten minutes or so, he would look up to stare at his shut bedroom door and sigh wistfully. He had a mug of tea at his side, yet untouched. I sipped mine in silence. I had winced at the first taste, and shot an accusatory look at him. He had orchestrated an elaborate bow at that indictment of his culinary skills. Then reverted to his ritual of staring at the bedroom door. Malini di was getting ready inside, before they stepped out for a winter afternoon date on a Saturday. The door had closed exactly hundred and two minutes earlier. I knew because I had begun dressing at exactly the same time, and emerged within ten minutes.

“How much more will we have to wait for her? Should I just go?” I asked half-heartedly.

“What time are you supposed to meet them?” he asked.

“Half an hour back”, I drawled.

He smiled. “If you had any talent, you would make a wonderful artist. Reclusive and people hating. The media would love you”.

I protested. It wasn’t people I hated. Just the stepping out to catch up with people I knew long back in school, and who had gone all weird on me.

“Weird, how?”

“One of them got married.”

“That is the worst”, he dead-panned. “The other?”

“She is an MBA. All ambitious and everything. She is probably earning pots of money”.

“So, you are jealous?" he wondered out aloud, his eyes narrowing. (I could see them because he had recently got a haircut, so the famous curls didn't cover them anymore.)

 "Well no”, I answered. “But she will wonder what happened to me, how I lost all my drive”.

“So don’t tell them the truth”, he answered, matter-of-factly.

“What do I tell them?”

“Whatever suits you”.

He was right, I thought to myself, as I made my way to Warehouse Cafe in CP, an hour later than planned. The place was dark, there was loud music and I missed my step and stumbled. A waitress came to my help but she said “Ma’am” in the disapproving tone my mom adopted when two minutes before the school bus arrived, I would start a frantic search for ‘chart paper’ for the SUPW class scheduled that day. It was ominous.

I spotted them at a corner table, both fashionably thin. I walked towards them and both saw me at the same time. And then something happened that I hadn’t for a minute thought out in my head. They spontaneously called out my name while breaking into the happiest of smiles and I mirrored them. And while we hugged and talked at the same time, I was glad to be there.

As it turns out, you don’t mind when school friends point out that you have gained weight (maybe because they don’t worry that it will hurt your chances in the marriage market). You can call them snobbish and forgetful without hurting their feelings. You can say elitist trash that comes to your mind, which you would filter out in different company. Everyone gets less ambitious and less serious and less intense as they grow up. Marriage does not cause personality makeovers. It might actually help people open up more. You can be honest about your career plans with your school friends. They knew you before you started understanding yourself better, so they understand what could make you happy. They ask about your family, and you genuinely care about how their kid siblings are doing. You want to know about what their old colony friends are up to, the ones you used to hear about all the time. Friends’ husbands don’t necessarily have to be people you don’t like. When they walk you to the metro station before they leave, it can leave an incredibly nice feeling in your stomach (especially after your relentless independence). And even though you are now more different from each other than you ever could have imagined, you know that you still have some solid friends.

I want to move.

I am a selfish bitch.
Someone got raped on Friday. Someone like me. A young career woman on the way home after an evening with friends. And all I can think about is I have done the same. Tons of times. I did it last Friday. I didn't take a cab home, I rode on the ladies compartment of the Delhi metro. Apparently separating the sexes is the only way to keep women safe now. That is, till the next case. Maybe next time it will be the Metro. Maybe that's the next way my freedom will get curtailed.

I want to move to a different country. Where women in public spheres are not seen as aberrations or threats. Where religion is not a polarising force. Where national leaders don't express the need for a 'holy book' for the country. Where people from the majority community don't peddle crap like 'We have taken enough'. Where donor agencies are not welcomed with open arms to make the country more 'business-friendly', especially when their ulterior motives are known. Where young educated women don't have to give up their dreams and careers to have happy family lives. Where different points of view have the space to be heard without being branded sickular or sanghi. Where people question and debate, don't believe and accept. Where the family elders don't bemoan cultural pollution when the young embrace their rights to choice.  Where people forget who or what the 'other' is.