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Goodbye old life…

2009
11.27

Typed on November 26, 2009:

Last year, on this very day, I was headed back to Mumbai post accepting a job offer in Delhi, Noida to be more precise. The previous night I remember watching on TV (in the days when I used to watch telly), bullets flying around at Leo’s in Colaba. I presumed it was a gangbang and drifted off to slumber-land. I woke up to an SMS, which conveyed concern and a sense of urgency from dad; Mumbai seemed to be burning.

My new boss texted to ask if I was alright, and en route to Mumbai. My friend, the Slug asked me to SOS if I could not find transport at the airport. The deafening silence at the a deserted domestic terminal in Mumbai, made this honourary Mumbaikar, very queasy. I headed to the Slug’s house and we watched in wonder and horror, as the gory events of 26/11 unfolding at the Taj Mahal Hotel in Colaba.

Shobha De was ranting (like a banshee) with fury to Barkha Dutt, about politicians from opposing parties travelling on the same flight, while the latter seemed impressed by this unlikely feat (a la such a national sacrifice!). Though I must admit, De was saying what should have been said, about politicians and their little tawdry tricks.

Narendra Modi arrived in Mumbai, and was posing tall in front of a TV camera. A man positioned himself (unknowingly) between the minister and the viewfinder, and a split second later, NM shoved the unsuspecting bloke out of the way! Comical. Akin to swatting a fly.

26/ 11 now seems light years, away. I no longer live in Mumbai, something I thought unimaginable a little over a year back. I resided for eight months in Noida, which for me is like the urbane wilderness. It’s quiet, dull, and what I disliked most is the lack of any cultural activity in this allegedly developed town.

I don’t know how eight months went by, and even though I lived there, I wasn’t really living. As I walked the streets, I was constantly looking over my shoulder to see who was observing me and what cars were approaching dangerously close. Though I must dmit, there were no “incidents”.

And yet, I don’t regret the experience, because I learned to appreciate the simple, joyous things in life. Like being able to stroll in broad day light, in a pair or shorts. Or stepping out at 12 am, to gab with a friend over a cup of coffee. And not having to travel (on an average) for four hours a day for a job I thoroughly detest.

Ahhh…life is good. Touch wood.

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Breaking up is easy.

2009
11.21

I have a new good friend who shared some insights on the modern-day marriage. She crossed over (to the dark side) eight years back and drew an analogy between the characters of the 2006 film, The Break-up and the stakeholders of her own marraiges, and tried to explain why she and hubby work as a couple, whilst Jennifer Aniston’s and Vince Vaughn’s characters, didn’t.

The man is a beer, football ‘n’ buddies kinda of guy, while the woman is happy to curl up in bed with a glass of wine and a book, post work. There are moments of supreme irritation, when the twain does not meet. But she and the hubby have worked out some ground rules.

For instance, they never go to bed without making up. Sometimes she tries to get away with it, but her hubby is staunch about resolving issues before hitting the sack.

They don’t always do stuff together. Sometimes, she heads out for a movie with friends while he’s working the playstation counters. She doesn’t get playstation, but their home has a room, which accommodates all his toys.

She pampers her guy every now and then, by springing on the surprise; maybe a candlelit dinner or a simple yet sweet gesture of affection. Sigh.

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Becoming Jane

2009
11.09

The Costa Coffee at Green Park sprung a couple of surprises. The fellow behind the counter who took the order communicated with his colleague rather efficiently, in sign language. As the latter prepared my takeaway, I walked towards another trooper who was whipping up a cappuccino. He motioned towards the sugar and the stirrer, his oriental features breaking into a smile. Then he communicated in sign language with the guy behind the counter, for the next order. It was a smooth operation, smoother than most in these parts.

On a different note, I watched Anne Hathaway sporting a somewhat awkward, somewhat quaint British accent in Becoming Jane. The movie gains momentum as it progresses. But all romantics be warned, the story ends on a rather heart wrenching note. Sigh.

What is most interesting though, are the similarities between the characters in Pride And Prejudice and Jane’s own life. Jane Austen’s mom is constantly fretting about her daughter’s marriage a la Elizabeth Bennet’s mom. On the other hand, Jane’s father is proud of his daughter’s literary prowess and agrees that she must marry for love, and not money or security, merely, a la Elizabeth Bennet’s father.

The wealthy Lady Gresham is a woman of means, pride and arrogance, as is the wealthy Lady Catherine De Burgh, a woman of means, pride and some arrogance. They say that Mr Darcy’s character was inspired by Jane’s real-life love interest. However, the former is a little uptight and wealthy, and the latter is a regular Don Juan who is poor as a church mouse.

Nevertheless, a heart wrenching, sweet film, about love and it’s complexities.

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Card party virgins

2009
10.16

In the spirit of the festive season, I lost a princely sum of Rs 140, in a “friendly” game of Teen Patti (three cards).

It was on the rooftop of a lovely Delhi bungalow, amidst diyas, scented candles, petals and potted plants. We munched on tortilla chips and cheese dip, and washed it down with white wine and rosé.

And so, for the price of seven parking parchees (receipts), I (and a couple more card party virgins) was oriented into the ‘card party’ culture, and became familiar with terms like “chaal”, “blind” and “show”.

Twas’ fun.

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In The Mountains

2009
09.19

I set out on a one-day trek to Triund, and guess what? I aborted the mission halfway, and suddenly remembered why I suck, at treks.

The UV rays of the sun beat down wildly, through the ozone layer, and bored into the skin on my face and arms. This cool weather is deceptive, making me forget to don a cap. 20 minutes into the trek I was alarmed by the sound of my own breathing, and on the trudge down, I thought my kneecaps would crack any moment.

But for every moment of agony, there were countless moments of ecstasy. The deodar trees were tall and strapping. The leaves on the trees were fresh mint green. Cakes of horse dung formed a trail all the way to the top of the mountain, while little streams found their way to the bottom. A bovine family of daddy, mommy and baby, munched on green, green grass, and pretty little purple and yellow flowers glistened in the sun.

We walked 14 km, and navigated a height of 5,300 m.

I told the guide Ashok — a wee 21-year old who attends tourism college and moonlights as a guide – to slow down so we could enjoy all the picturesque sites along the way. Baby Ashok was a quiet sort, but I drilled out a lot within those eight hours. He hails from Kangra and earns Rs 135 per day as a trekking guide. The one time he grew mildly verbose was when I inquired him about his religion. He said profoundly in Hindi,” A person’s religion is just for namesake. Being humane is a mark of a person’s true religion”. Touché!

We stopped for lunch at a lodge in the mountains where the view was breath taking, and my chewing on insipid fried rice and rubbery paranthas was interrupted by a male cow trying to hump a female, in vain. He seemed to have given up after the third attempt when an Alto cab honked them put of its way.

I returned to the hotel and sipped on hot chocolate, as it grew chillier. I could no longer see the valley on yonder from my windowsill; a curtain of mist hung right across. So, I stayed in my room and had the quirky, cynical, suicidal Esther Greenwood for company, the rest of the evening.

As I checked out of the hotel this morning a gaggle of Punjus invaded the hotel. They badgered the receptionist with questions about welcome drinks, and the like.

Oddly, one them, a guy whom I considered to be mildly attractive apologised to me for the din, and inquired about the hotel food. I gave him my review and headed out to Nick’s Italian Café.

I observed the international folks, and they seemed to comprise all sorts of oddballs, who were probably here for snorts ‘n’ giggles. The three garrulous women on the next table were talking so loudly I could not hear myself think.

So, I wandered far from the madding crowd and sat at the edge of the restaurant from where I could see the valley below. I realised then, that I was not here to socialise, shop or investigate all the local joints.

I was here for some unadulterated peace and quiet and to enjoy nature in its full bloom.

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A Slice Of Tibet

2009
09.17

I’m typing this post from an Internet café! I had forgotten the existence of these relics…and the reason I need to use one, is because I am currently on a mini sabbatical at Mcleod Ganj.

I boarded a Himachal Tourism bus at CP, a “deluxe” non-AC Volvo. A voluminous flute of black carbon monoxide sprang out of the bus as the driver turned on the engine, the start of a somewhat tedious bus journey (hated buses). The dust and the metal on Delhi roads consumed my nostrils for the next three or four hours. The road was rocky, but the air suspension in the bus was not completely nonexistent. Sigh of relief.

The bus halted at a resort called ‘Mirchi’ somewhere in the Haryana hinterland, and a joint family of locals kept looking at me with diapproval — single girl seated at a table at 10 pm. I was least bothered, and enjoyed the soup, even though the chef forgot to inject flavour into the recipe. That’s what happens with you order Chinese food in Haryana. 

This morning, I got off the bus and wandered around the streets looking for my hotel, and then decided to have breakfast at Nick’s. It’s a nice, squeaky clean place, and I ordered a a concoction of lemon, honey and ginger. The sun was shining, the trees were glistening, and the tea was comfortaing.

The service at the restaurant and all restaurants, here, is similar: the local folk move at a glacial pace (just like most people in Delhi).

The place reminds me a little of Goa, quaint, yet, a little commercial. Everyone is selling something; massages, trinkets, handbags, food, and Tibetan culture/ history. I felt happy and sad, simultaneously. Cheery, because the conifers are a site to behold and remind me of Christmas. Sad because the local folks seem so dependant on the tourists for their daily bread, those smiles can be pretty deceiving. Yet, it was an eye-opening experience about the history of Tibet, and one can see some very gory sights and documentaries at the Tibetan Museum.

I haven’t yet tasted any momos that take your breath away, like the ones served up by this tiny cart at Lajpatnagar.

A trek to Triund is on the anvil.

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Johnny Castle, dead. Sniff.

2009
09.15

In Class 8, I wanted to order a copy of Dirty Dancing from the local video library (VCR format!). My mother who paid the video tab did not approve; the title was suggestive, and not appropriate for a 13-year old. But to give her credit, she did not deny me the movie. She  screened it, first, by watching it herself!

Now, this could have worked against me. However, it passed muster because this particular copy was probably the most censored copy of DD in all of the Middle East!

So, I got to watch it, and till date it is one of my favourite films. When I mean ‘favourite’, I am talking about that category of films one can watch a million times.

I reviewed the Indian rip-off of Dirty Dancing titled Holiday, a very inferior, ill-conceived and shoddily made copy of its American prototype.

Today, I feel sad that Patrick Swayze is dead. I watched three of his films, Dirty Dancing, Ghost and City Of Joy, and loved him in every one of them, and it is not merely because I am a fan who digs brawny dudes who move like swans. He brought a certain sincerity and innocence that contrasted perfectly with his rugged looks, and gravelly baritone.

Sniff.

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Dilli Diary 2: Chivalry isn’t dead

2009
09.08

Just the other day, I suggested carpooling with a colleague, a sweet fella’, who sincerely drives three hours a day to work and back, along with some other colleagues. He nodded in agreement, but when I offered to chip in, he had a quizzical look in his eye. But it was settled, I would be carpooling.

In the next ten minutes, he walked up to another colleague (who happens to be a pal of mine) and inquired,” Whaa-t is ‘sheep ee-n’?” She in turn inquired in what context he heard the phrase. “I came across it on the Internet,” he told her, rather unconvincingly.

”It means to contribute,” she said.

The next time, I brought up the matter of chipping in, he nodded with a big smile. It’s a different matter though that he did not charge me a penny, even though I insisted. Yes, chivalry isn’t dead in Dilli, entirely.

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Dilli Diary 1: “Yes sir” & “Yes ma’am”

2009
09.07

In the past one week, I have finished reading eight essays dedicated to the capital and one book, which gave me some insight into the way of life in this city. Now, I am starting to see things in a very different light.

I remember my Class X teacher in school, balking at us if we referred to him as ‘sir’. “Have I received the knighthood?” he would demand to know. So, I sometimes addressed him as Mr so-and-so, but mostly never at all; it just seemed a little awkward. However since then, I have hardly referred to anyone as “sir”; it seems primitive, colonial, feudal.

17 years down the line, a twenty-something new recruit at work (in Delhi) recently referred to me as ‘Ma’am’, and I felt queasy.

Reminds me of the time when a twenty-something new recruit from Delhi referred to his editor and boss (in Mumbai) as “Ma’am”, and she could not stomach it. We did our best to get him to address her by her first name, but he would get very squeamish about addressing a “senior” by her first name, and could never bring himself to succumb to this casual media work culture. He got a different job, and we shall never know if this Dilli kid will shake off his feudal ways.

Reminds me of yet another instance, when a twenty-something new recruit from Delhi, referred to his boss, a very senior editor (in Mumbai) as “Sir”. Now, this senior editor’s attitude is so casual, that every now and then he poses random (sometimes scandalous) questions to his editorial staff to the effect of “If you had a chance, would you sleep with Shah Rukh Khan?”. No one would bat an eyelid, and would in fact, answer his questions in a matter-of-fact, nonchalant manner. So, when he was addressed as “Sir”, the editor scampered away in fright, and the kid did not know what hit him.

The “sir”, “ma’am” and “ma-ii-dam” culture is predominant in Delhi. In fact, once I was referred to as ‘Merrilji’! I could barely hold still, and was laughing raucously, inside.

Yes, things tend to be formal, and there’s a very clear class and hierarchical distinction, in every realm of life. For instance, a driver will refer to his employee as “Sir” or “Madam”, which is okay and applies to many parts of the world and country, but he in turn will often be referred to by his employer, as “driver”, which sounds absolutely terrible.

I know of this one family who refers to their servant as “Naukar” (servant) and he has been working for them for ONLY 20 years!

On a different note, in my apartment complex, we have a separate elevator for servants and drivers, and how do we know that? The notice next to it clearly states “Lift for drivers/ servants)”, which easily could have said “Employee lift” or something more subtle. Ironically, when the lift for residents broke down, everyone — and I mean everyone — was using the lift meant for the help.

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The story of a driver

2009
09.04

Inspired by Balram Halwai, a shamefully poor village boy-turned-entrepreneur (shameful for the Indian Government ie), in The White Tiger, I must share the humble tale of a college student-turned-cab driver-turned- automobile employee, right here in Noida.

Before the days of my wee Alto, I was dependent on sub-moronic autowallahs and private cab service drivers, who charged me a mini-fortune and tested my patience, with the constant haggling, extreme rudeness and lack of punctuality. I ought to have listened to my friend, a long-time resident of Delhi, who advised way back: when in Delhi you must get a car before you start even looking for a house!

Then came along V, a cab driver who arrived on time, one fine morning to take me to Delhi and back. He came through a well-recommended cab service. Alan joined me in two hour’s time, and we had a smooth travel experience. Next time round, we skipped the cab company and called V, directly, because as Alan pointed out to me, he was punctual, polite and he had a good stereo system in his wee Alto cab.

Whilst I completed my meetings in the vicinity, Alan treated V to a cup of coffee and a sandwich at Café Coffee Day, thus getting to know that he was a 22-year old college dropout, who now drove a cab because his father, a farmer by profession and the only earning member of the family was paralysed from the waist downwards, post an accident.

He also gauged that V was a bright kid, and it was an absolute shame that he didn’t have the opportunity we had. Also, his English was poor, and according to V this stood between him and a better paying, full-time job.

Unfortunately, the cab business is unpredictable. On some days there is no business and some days there are two or three gigs, of which he can max squeeze in one or two. So now, having to support a wife, a mother, a difficult younger brother who was very angry at the prospect of not being able to attend college due to the lack of funds and bed-ridden father, whose medical bills cost a pretty penny, life was reduced to a hand-to-mouth existence.

He aspired to be a policeman, but failed the test by literally a stone’s throw due to some misinformation; the shot-put round fell short by a few feet because the minimum distance required was a little less than what he had practiced for. And there are no second chances, unless one is willing shell out some money.

He shared his disillusionment with the Indian police authorities with us, over some veg pizza and coke, and we listened, empathetically. So, he gave up his police dreams and continued to drive us around regularly. One day he confessed that we were lucky for him; on the days when he was with us, he inevitably ended up with a second gig, minutes after he dropped us off.

He and Alan became fast friends and even indulged some guy talk (of course I wasn’t around during these intimate confidences). The latter compiled a CD of English music, everything from Snap to Buddha Bar, which V could play (and impress) for international clients, and otherwise. On some levels, I think he was fascinated by Alan’s personality, his liberal thoughts and unconventional family background, himself hailing from a conservative, traditional joint family. He told me one day,” Ma’am, maine iss thurahuh ka aadmi khabhi nahi millah (I have never met anyone like Alan).”

Then it was time for Alan to leave, and as we drove him to the airport, both V and I, were consumed by sadness to see him go, yet, happy that he was finally on his way to fulfilling his destiny. On the way home, V confessed that he may never seem him again, but he would listen to the CD and reminisce about the good times.

The story doesn’t end here. In fact, it’s probably just begun. Soon after Alan’s departure, I connected V with some friends who needed a cab service to pick up and drop them to work and back home. They cut a deal, which provides him a regular income.

Lady luck shone her light on him even further; he got a job with an automobile company in the quality check department. Now, he just rents out his car to the folks concerned and still managing to keep his full-time job.

But I doubt he’ll stay in quality check long. This boy should go places…sans committing any homicides.

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