In Transit

Someone said this about another’s writing; (loyal reader(s) please note my recent neglect of the ‘-‘) he writes in the only manner in which one should write, ecstatically.

Is that the only way one should write? Is it? No tell me, I absolutely demand an answer. Okay I am going to say whatever it is I want to say, since I presume this is already n t b ng re d n ore...

Hmm –

I think one should write if they have something interesting to say; not try and say anything in an interesting manner. But then that what are blogs for? Huh?

******

I am in transit, not just today as I wait in the unbearable heat of this slow yet chaotic city, coming from a lazier place going to a crazier one.

I am in transit in general. It is not something I put tremendous thought into, as much as something that I am constantly aware of. The longer I stay here, the closer I am to the new. This might appear to be almost a mathematical fact, but in realms not entirely ruled by the exactness of numbers, it is quite a discovery.

What does one do with an awkward amount of time in a new place? One might eat a Spanish open sandwich with ham scattered all over it, search for elegant lamps for one’s own room, look for music and literature, sip on a variety of iced liquids, fill the atmosphere with a gallon of dead smoke, and so on; but one might find that all this, even if pursued rather elaborately, can be done in a fraction of the time one has on one’s hand.

A traveler with legs as solid as pig iron; reads a yellow scroll which contains the daily state of the economy of a land he doesn’t belong to, he seems happy that the country expects a normal monsoon. Three sets of lovers; one is engaged in a passionate discussion – I hear, she-could-told me-no-no-bitch. There is irritation but not directed at one another. Another sits quietly, reading, enveloped in the comfort of knowing completely. And the third, the shiest, unsure, the newest and most awkward; the one that almost crawled in, holding onto one another, buys a tiny pastry, then proceeds to avoid the many empty tables below and seeks privacy upstairs. Three lonely women, sit together, yawning, crushing plastic glasses, forming ugly shapes with dirty water, staring into their tables, playing with their hair; they talk and giggle and give advice to one another. Almost four groups of office runaways, each of them share details of the one thing that binds them, work. They exchange the stories of politics, love, and treachery that fill their lives, a life made grand by their own pettiness.

I am reminded of my own glass house; my reckless commentary needs to be reigned in.

“The powers of a man’s mind are directly proportioned to the quantity of coffee he drinks.”

This has been plastered on the walls, surely with the intention of boosting the intake of caffeine by the sheep that enter this place. Fancy, textured paint and lamps with colored frosted glass, both of utmost ugliness, graphic renditions of the young and restless, details on the nature of the coffee beans used to make the brew, have also been unleashed on the world. I retaliate with what I found today on the back of a matchbox, “The difference between genius and stupidity is that stupidity has no limits.” At least this was positioned appropriately.

Are you done, Sir?

Umm?

Will you need anything else, Sir?

No, no thanks, not really…

Then may I request you to vacate this for… I apologize…

Oh? No, no problem, certainly.

And so I say a silent farewell to this eclectic bunch of people sitting in that room of hideous appearance. They remain convinced that they are drinking coffee made only from the finest handpicked Arabica beans, which amongst other things, are selected from exactly four legendary estates, and roasted separately under constant surveillance. If even a fraction of this were true their lives are probably grander than they know.

******

Unbearable heat, monstrous crowds, the smell of Goldflake, fish and sweat, yellow taxis, blue buses with wooden insides, trams that only slow down the city, the sweetest tongue, tea, groups of idle men playing carom, sipping tea and discussing politics, the worst most rash drivers I have seen in any city, women with the largest prettiest eyes. I have come to this city so often, but I have either been in transit or just attended long meetings inside the hotels and gone back. To discover a city you need to be excited about it, to be excited about a city it needs to be new to you or you need to live there for a while. This city is lost to me.

******

Some movies are intended to change your life, if not forever, at least for a while. Trouble is I watched two such films today, Into the Wild and An Inconvenient Truth. Hmm. Guess I have grown too old and lost too much innocence to allow a movie to truly move me. It hasn’t happened for a long time. There was a time when I’d allow anything to have a lasting impact on my life. Unfortunately, I didn’t watch enough movies back then, nor was I much into books.

So I guess if you do not have a cell phone or a wallet in your pockets, falling into a river is only a slight inconvenience, It seems to me that sometimes when we hear the stories of the lives of people we try extra hard to believe them. We tend to glorify and exaggerate. I am not saying this is true for Into the Wild, but it could be. When they show Christopher’s self portrait at the Magic Bus I couldn’t help but wonder, what if he was just a bum? Hmm also how did the parents ever agree to the movie? I don’t know at one point I did toy with the idea of leaving home like Chris did, but then I have no major grouse against anyone worthwhile, I mean I do hate a few people but they aren’t important, like my driver – he is truly evil. But imagine leaving a plum job and everything because you have a stupid driver, no one is going to make a movie on that! Plus where would I go to in India? It’s too hot, people do not give lifts, the railways are already full of ticketless travelers, and the countryside is full of Maoists, Naxals, cows, cow dung, and dacoits in general. And there are no cool hippies hanging around in small settlements with evenings where the prettiest young girls play the guitar and sing while the crowds get thoroughly sloshed. Tracy was pretty! Idiot, he should have just stayed there instead of going all the way to Alaska.

If an electoral process can result in Al Gore losing to George Bush then someone needs to think twice about the process. Bush once said he didn’t exactly know how many internets were out there. Al Gore on the other hand gave us An Inconvenient truth. It scares you to think that in 50 years all of this could end; the internets, you, me, and everything else. But somehow it seems inevitable that the situation will worsen till there is a sudden catastrophe as the documentary predicts. If we somehow survive that catastrophe then maybe we’ll be more serious about Global Warming. Till then brace yourself for some weird and wild weather.

******

Things are looking great now with some fine recent developments.

Alpha Beta Gaga

Feeling bummed about things, too, is an illusion. You feel bummed because you want to, but a time comes when you realize, the stupidity of it, the importance and loveliness of your own life, and that frankly being bummed for too long is a bit boring. Plus you end up taking a short trip to New Delhi, enjoying fabulous food, movies, alcohol, other stuff, and most importantly great company. Things fall into place; a little perspective, it seems, really works.

The Great Khali is coming to India; it is a significant development and a matter of immense national importance. Aaj Tak and India TV, till now have given loyal viewers deep insights into the life and mind of the Great Khali, the first Indian to enter the big bad FAKE world of the WWE, (I think I might be stabbed by a kid for this); for example his training schedule consists of three hours of weight training, morning and evening, every day. Maintaining his size requires a strict and intimidating daily dietary regimen: one gallon of milk, five chickens and two dozen eggs, along with chapattis, desi ghee, juice and fruit. His wife looks after him, drives him to the Gym, supervises his training and is jealous of all the female attention her husband gets. Please find attached a photograph of the man, the living legend, and an epitome of tremendous grace, immaculate good manners and breathtaking beauty, no wonder women can’t help but fall for him.

So rest assured that the concerned channels, the beacons of hope in the country and the sources of intelligent and thought provoking journalism are going to provide us with round the clock coverage of the ‘gentle’ giant’s every move, as he returns to the country where he was born and where he smashed stones for a living, before working as a bouncer and then for the police. God, how many kids are going to grow up to become bouncers because of this idiocy? Yes, no one wants to join the police, not even if the Great Khali himself is an ex-policeman. You have to thank years of cinematic slur hurled at the cops for this uninviting status enjoyed by our thullas. So brace yourself for a month of madness as the son of the soil returns home.

Oh, last night though, I sensed some signs of future controversy. Apparently The Great Khali backed out of a bout against The Big Show, when the latter showed him his fist; Aaj Tak lamented, “Mahabali Khali ne Desh ki Naak Kataiyee!!” India TV zoomed into the life of a regular East-Delhi based family caught in the midst of spectacular circumstances (Khali’s cowardice); the kids were completely shattered and found no meaning in life and had all refused dinner to express their remorse. The parents seemed quite proud of their kids. The journalist asked the parents whether they’d let the kids join wrestling; they said that they would be happy but that studies came first. Indian parents, they never change, not even when they are on TV, studies always come first. God save all of them, journalism, kids, parents, Khali, his wife and me.

What is wrong with Bollywood? I had the extreme fortune of watching the directorial debut of one of the greatest actors of the era that spanned the few weeks around which Omkara was released. Ajay Devgan. The movie in question is U, Me aur Hum. The film sheds a sensitive light on the life of three couples. The director wanted to do the right thing, and makes a conscious effort towards avoiding all clichés – one couple is in a bad marriage, the next one can’t keep their hands off each other, and the last and most important one has the wife suffering from Alzheimer. The lady, a waitress is wooed by the hero on a cruise ship. The fact that this happens on the cruise is purely incidental, of course all credit goes to the director for making the effort to select a setting where skin, songs and harsh light did not seem out of place. Most directors wouldn’t have bothered. But I guess everyone is completely thorough with their first work of art, in terms of research and everything.

What is it about Indian movies and light?? Why can’t we imagine any situation without it being flooded by the strongest light?

Well, I turned and twisted and fully enjoyed the whole process of being frisked, and even made Ah Ah sounds so that the security guy was the one blushing, not me, I even figured that filling one’s mouth completely with popcorn without biting them, and then pouring in Pepsi makes them melt into the gooiest yummiest thing. Oh and then I predicted things like the disease before hand, because the director was placing these stupid clues like the actress forgetting the time for an appointment and bringing Tequila shots instead of Vodka. And then I predicted the end too, much to the amazement of BB.

But I wasn’t too amused with my natural flair for understanding the thought behind such films, damn, what kind of movies will I make anyway?

I also watched Juno. And hereby declare my true and complete love for Ellen Philpotts-Page and the character she so beautifully and ably portrayed . I have a feeling she is very similar to the character in real life, it’s written in her voice. Hmm I wish I had found a similar girl while in school, I’d have turned out smarter and cool. But I am pretty certain no such girl was available, and even if by some incredible chance such a girl was available, I’d not be able to do anything. Or maybe over the space of four long years, I’d manage to talk to her once and tell her in the most complicated, nervous, convoluted manner that she should, well, umm, I don’t know… Just… Be… Bye…

Antique White, Silk Glow, White Moon, Pale Ivory, Windsor Cream, Almost Ivory, Ivory Ivory, Ivory, are all shades of White, or so Messrs Asian Paints would want us to believe. They look exactly the same, so do the three hundred other shades of White, I am sure nobody can tell the difference.

You’d need a superhero whose super power is the ability to tell the 81 different varieties of black found in a single strand of hair. We could call him The Palette. Of course, he is not going to have many kids as his fans, plus what is he going to do when the bad guy is dangling the girl from the rooftop? The Palette might be reduced to giving directions to Spiderman, “Eh Spidey, he is right behind the beam, the Ash Grey beam, oh no sorry, the Half-Silver Grey one. Oh? Oh! Oops, sorry…” So our friend might not be movie material, but he is the only person Asian Paints is catering to. Oh well there is another, my Dad. My father though is being pursued by Columbia Tri-Star and David Dhawan for film rights to his life.

Our new flat is receiving its first coat of color, and he has finally lost it. Every morning, he sits with tea, dry fruits and catalogues that have been borrowed from every paint store in the city. Then he worries, and frowns, and exclaims and takes the opinion of my mother, the dog, the maid, the maali, the paper-wallah, and an assortment of the most annoying neighbours. After which he selects colors which none of the above suggested.

Then he sits at the computer and in a virtual room provided by the evil people at Asian Paints, tries different combinations of colors he shortlisted. This process continues forever. He is the only person I know that uses a process of elimination that actually increases the number of shortlisted candidate-colors. So much so that after two days when the site crashed I have sufficient reason to believe that the cause was the immense stress my father put on their virtual resources. My father then proceeded to make a firm call to the Calcutta office of Messrs Asian Paints and registered his protest. Later he told me, looking sufficiently disgusted, that the lady was shocked that a customer actually used the complaint line.

Of course he doesn’t ask me for my opinion, because we always end up fighting like school kids and he wishes I had never come back home, and I yell that I had never wanted to.

My father was a professor, but he is interested in everything else but teaching. Retirement has offered him the time and opportunity to follow his true passions. These include, talking loudly on the phone to everyone in the world, giving expert opinion to experts, like telling the painters how to hold the brush or how much thinner to use, getting the bank passbooks up-to-date every day, worrying about the stock markets, and behaving in a manner that suggests that the market movement is determined by his own portfolio, watching all the Balaji Sitcoms, being more interested in them than my mother, and being excessively happy when any of the evil women get slapped or temporarily murdered, criticizing food, the weather, my job, my brother’s job, any corporate job, world politics, global warming, the younger generation, his father’s generation, his own generation, and generally being a bratty kid.

Okay, so he has decided, in his own words, to be a trend setter and to get the ceilings of our lovely new house painted in dark colors, while the walls receive coats of the lighter shade. So his room has an Oxford Blue ceiling supported by Coral Blue walls. The effect is like walking into a room that has been turned upside down, the ceiling seems too heavy and on the verge of collapsing because the walls appear excessively frail. I saved my room from this monstrosity, but he took evil advantage of my absence over the weekend and I returned only to find the ceiling over the dinning space colored in shimmering Indian Copper. A battle is expected tonight, my father against me, the dog, my mother, the maid and common sense. The outcome will determine the nature of our conversations over meals till the next paint job is required.

Ah, so such is life. Yeh thi khabre Aaj Tak, Intezaar kijiye agle baar tak.

Autumn Leaves

Memories are strange things, I don’t quite remember what I had for lunch yesterday, but I remember eighteen years ago as our bus climbed into Naini Tal and my father said, “Look, the lake!!” – I looked up at the mountains.

My uncle, my father’s younger brother was studying to be a doctor in England. His sons, my cousins, went to boarding school. My own brother went to school in Patna; I guess my father felt strange pressure to send me to a hostel, to give me the kind of education my cousins enjoyed, even though he would find it difficult to afford it.

I was five, we had moved in to a flat a year ago, living away from my grandparent’s home. Ma always said it was because her college was too far away from our ancestral house, but recently, I heard my father mention something about him preferring to sell rather than stay in a place he was asked to leave. Mama used to feed me lunch everyday, because my parents would be at college. I had khichdi most of the time, and she told me the same story each afternoon, about the wolf that threatened the old woman to give up her food or else he would wag his big tail.

Anyhow, when we moved in, I remember, my brother was writing a million entrance exams for engineering colleges. Ma would ask me to take life seriously and study like bhaiya, I was only five! I would ignore her, and run around the house like a mad child, hurt myself, play with the gods and goddesses from her tiny temple, throw my milk down the window, also the fruits, bug bhaiya, and so on. Bhaiya always sat in his room, facing the window, a girl sat in the balcony of the house opposite our apartment, facing my brother, I sat in front of the window in the adjacent room and made faces at the girl, Ma claimed and believed that only the girl would stare at bhaiya, and disturb her poor innocent child. Which is probably true; my brother was the purest variety of nerd I have ever seen, complete with a far from trendy (even for the early 90s) moustache and thick enormous spectacles that covered two thirds of his face. Of course now he is all fancy.

Eventually, my brother was going to leave for Surat for a course in computer engineering. I was fascinated by all the attention he was getting, all the clothes that were being bought for him, the bags, the visitors, the love – I couldn’t wait to be sent to boarding school.

It was to be nothing more than an experiment; my parents were convinced that I was an absolute bum - surely I wouldn’t make it through the entrance test. They decided to tie the exam with a holiday to Naini Tal. Plus I already had admission to the school bhaiya studied at, so it really was just a joy trip.

I was quite the sickly child, and even before we got to Barielly, my body lost out to the never-before-experienced levels of cold and I was down with fever. I slept through the remainder of the journey, wrapped in shawls and wearing a stupid monkey cap. So, in my defense, I was quite unwell and sleepy when I stumbled out of the bus into Naini Tal, and can’t be blamed for looking up at the mountains to search for the lake. Plus it was the first time I was seeing a lake. Anyway that evening I was bought a thick jacket to keep me from dying from the cold, allowed to eat as much cotton candy as I wanted and generally pampered and fussed over. My grand plan was already working.

I don’t think I gave the school much thought when I saw it; I was overwhelmed by the sight of so many new people and decided to hold on to Ma and not say a word. The test, hmm, it was in two parts, English and Mathematics. All I remember is that during the test a kid got up and started crying, “Mujeh mummy ki yaad aa rahi hai!” Stupid idiot, he made us all miss our mothers.

It was the 31st of Dec. 1990; I was excited about New Years Eve and everything, quite stupidly so, because I would certainly fall asleep before ten. Around noon, I was having lunch, or my mother was trying to get me to have it, the postman arrived with a brown envelope that contained in it eleven years of boarding school life. My father gave the postman ten rupees; and opened the letter. Ma was already crying; I was happy that she had forgotten about my lunch. Papa congratulated me, and then asked Ma not to cry, “Mere bhi pet main paani bhar gaya hai, but it’s for his future!” I was barely six, but I already had the gift for the inappropriate – “You don’t want to send me, to save your money??” My parents looked at me in disgust and I am sure were glad they were getting rid of me.

Anyway, I was immediately taken to my tutor’s house with a card and sweets to thank her. Now this Bengali lady lived in the block just opposite ours, and if I hadn’t been so young I would have protested against this visit. Her tuitions were absolutely useless; they consisted of her feeding me food, asking me to look at the milk and to yell when it began to boil, while she watered the plants, and converting the same five sentences from present to past to future back to past then to future tense till my head would spin. No, I don’t remember the five sentences. The mathematics was handled by her husband, he would sit and read the newspaper and ask me to write the tables, and then he would get up and ask random things like, “What is thirteen multiplied by six?” and if I took longer than three seconds to say something he would disappear into his room.

Twelve white shirts, vests, underpants and handkerchiefs; four towels, night suits, sheets, pillow cases, two each of black and sports shoes, a pair of slippers, two blazers in the school colors, four house ties, two college ties, four pullovers, three grey woolen trousers, two white and two olive green, six house shirts in yellow, six woolen shorts, six grey game shorts and two in white for special functions, two blankets and a quilt, a trunk with my name, house and Roll No. 35 (3+5 = 8, 2^3 = 8!! FUCK!!!!), keep all this, and a hold-all for the blankets and quilt, plus an air bag. Then there was the stationary and the toiletries. Ah, I was the king of the world – I could do no wrong, I was allowed to eat what I want, play for endless hours, engage Ma’s gods and goddesses in the fiercest of battles over my new trunk, watch TV, drink Pepsi till I was sick, every day someone would visit to say good bye and bring me some gift. I wondered why they would look at me with teary eyes, or why my parents seemed guilty about sending me there. On the final morning at home, I climbed onto my parent’s bed earlier than usual. All three of us spent inordinate time there, in silence. Till I pointed out that we might just miss the train. Great frenzy followed; for my father, catching trains is a huge deal. He plans out everything in immaculate detail, he was saying to Ma, “Remind me to tell the coolie to place the trunk with the latch facing inwards.” Oh yes, the size of the trunk was pre-decided by him so that we could slide it under the berth. In all this, I was walking around the house putting my toys in obscure locations, like I placed my GI Joe with the missing leg and arm on the fridge and told everyone that it must stay there till the next time I was home. And I remember the next time I was home, it was the first thing I looked for, but it wasn’t there. Hmpf…

In the train we met another kid going to join, Rishi – I had a friend even before I got there. There was this old retired Army officer that was travelling along side us, he was very impressed with me going to boarding school, as is the tendency for most army people. He asked me, “What do you play?” So I said I play with He-Man and the Masters of the Universe! I have the power!! The poor man’s disappointment was palpable; as for me, I didn’t know it yet, but this was an early sign of the illustrious sporting career that I was never going to have.

I knew where the lake was this time.

There is a photograph of me standing under the arch at the entrance of the school. I have the widest, wickedest smile, then there is another one – this time Ma is there too, except she doesn’t seem very cheerful. Walking to my dormitory, I saw that the entire school was full of crying children. I didn’t understand that, I asked my father and he said it was because they weren’t brave enough. Anyway, I couldn’t wait to get to my dormitory and select my bed and all the other things. It was only after I spent a semester there that I realized why everyone was crying; next time round I would join them with full fervor.

We met a few teachers; they all had fancy, foreign names. Hoffland, Neale, Lee, Samuel, Rozario. My parents asked them to take care of me, I thought their concern was a little fake, but that’s probably because all parents must be asking them to do the same thing. My father always said the worst part about dropping me to school was the walk from its gates down to the town. I guess this first time must have been the worst of all the walks he would take.

As for me, that first night was surprisingly silent, in the dormitory you could hear the tube-lights groan. I don’t know, I was too young to understand why my stomach felt strange, but it was probably because unconsciously I knew that new clothes, people, or a different way of life weren’t sufficient to compensate for what I left behind, plus the fact that it was going to be a long eleven years. I got into bed and noticed that the quilt had been pulled out from the side; I called out to the ‘dai’ asking her to tuck it for me. She said, sweetly enough “Do it yourself, aur mujeh dai nahin aaya didi bulate hain…” My heart sank a bit, I decided to let the quilt be, and fell asleep.

It’s tremendous, how, when you get down it, memories come back in a flood and with great detail. I don’t think I should get into what happened the next day. A blog needs to be fed regular normal sized posts, not one never ending saga of a meal. The following days, weeks, months and years made me the person I am. Life for me was a bit of everything, pain, glory, sadness, joy. Everyone tells you that people who go to boarding schools can manage on their own; I tell you it’s true. But the question to be asked is whether they’d want to or not.