Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXII

The day after

They are lovely decorations one day and heaps of rubbish the next. And there's only one cleaner

Green holly, red ribbons, silver stars, jingling bells. The picture's perfect. You are in high spirits. A smile on your face, a skip in your step, a nod for every passer-by, a hum in your voice. Basically, the Walt Disney version of a classic fairy tale.
Green holly, red ribbons, silver stars, jingling bells. All heaped on the floor. Some sorting to be done -- what needs to be junked and what needs to be stored for next year. Basically, the real picture, the day after.
Wintry morning. It's 7 am and my phone started doing rhythmical gyrations, keeping time with the ringing alarm. I woke up, my head still in a buzz. My throat had also gone a little sore with all that loud singing. We had missed out on a Christmas Eve party but had made it up on the D-day, actually night.
And after a few milliseconds of vagueness on that December 26 morning, the previous night's events flashed before my eyes. So where exactly had Shayan broken that wine glass of mine? I did not remember having gathered and disposed of the shards. 'Scrunch' -- I had just got off the bed and had stepped on some cookies on the floor. My heart let out a silent, agonising groan.
I was scared to leave the bedroom, scared of what clutter had been left around the house. Shiny gift wrappers (I actually love those kinds) lay around. So, like a good girl who has been taught nice, and economic, ways of life. I took each piece, flattened them, folded them and put them away in a bag, sans the cellotapes that were sticking around here and there.
The previous morning, I was decorating the place with carols as the background music. This morning, I had the husband's snores drifting towards me. I went and nudged him, and said in an irritatingly trilling voice, "Honey, wake up. See, the morning's so beautiful." My crooning sent him off to a deeper sleep. Or maybe he knew what was in store for him, and so he just turned to the other side and snored even louder.
I picked up soiled plates, empty wine bottles, the Christmas tree ornaments lying around, green and red ribbons entwined with leftover noodles. I picked out the tiny decorations from the heaps of rubbish and put them carefully back in a jewellery box in which I store such precious little things. By the time I had scrubbed and cleaned, the Christmas spirit had drained out of me.
So, when my husband came up slowly from behind, hugged me (up to this was fine and romantic) and said, "Sweetheart, can you make a nice, warm cup of tea", all I had left to give him was a chilly, icy look. And I think he got the message.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXI

Ca we have some healthy conversation, please?

The one on the operating table is actually fine, sleeping under the effect of anaesthesia. The one waiting outside -- that's the one in real trouble

Have you ever wondered how conversations are customised by the places they are held in? They are kind of like set breakfasts at restaurants. Observe closely and you will notice how ready-made they are, scripted to suit, not the occasion really, but the site.
The point I am trying to make here is simple. If you are in an old, decrepit house, you would be sharing scary ghost stories whose versions become more and more exaggerated with every telling, wouldn't you? Anxious mums discuss the difficulty of Chapter 16 in the science book while they wait near the school gate to collect their wards. As if they are the ones appearing for the exams all over again.
Happens. Automatically. Like a trigger has been pulled. But I figured out the worst place to be at when such overcooked, over-served conversations are being thrown at you, or are carried on in voices loud enough so that you definitely overhear them, is the nursing home. I used to think it's the haunting tales that spook me the most, but I guess I was wrong.
My husband underwent a three-hour-long surgery recently. Well, the time is of utmost importance here. It just translates into that many hours (and some more) of torture for me. I was terribly anxious about him, but now that I think of it, I feel he was chilling under in the air-conditioned OT and sleeping peacefully with a nice high of general anaesthesia.
No one seems to have anything cheerful to say in a hospital. The talk's either about diseases or mishaps. One of the old aunts who appeared to have emerged from the dead herself, and I do not know why she was even there during the operation, blabbered incessantly. "You never know with these surgeries. One nerve snipped, and you are ruined." That was directed at one uncle but I could, of course, hear.
"You know what happened to my neighbour? He lost his eye! The doctor cut the wrong nerve and poof, he was blind." She added in a malicious hiss, "For life!" Then she turned to me and gave me a totally fake smile, "Nothing to worry, okay?" I stopped short of slapping her.
I was also being assaulted by my grandma from another direction. I had been against this close-to-ninety-year-old visiting the place -- one, she was too old for this, and two, I knew this is what I would have to bear. "Make him gargle with lukewarm salt water four to five times a day. Four to five times a day would be good. Lukewarm. Not hot..." You get the drift.
The buzz refused to stop.
"General anaesthesia does not suit every one."
"I think they should have done this at my cousin's nursing home."
"Light yoga after the operation helps."
When the doctor finally came out and announced the husband was fine, the conversations stopped suddenly. Almost in tears, I ran to hug him. Yes, because I love my husband, of course. But yes, and don't share this with him, also because the doc had come and rescued me.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XX

In high spirits

It takes one party to shatter a carefully constructed image. It takes one drink to not care about it

It is past midnight. I hear a mouse scurrying by and turn around to see where it is scampering away. It stares at me with beads of eyes, its breaths short and fast, frightened of this stranger in the room. I used to be scared of this fur balls once upon a time, but after ‘Ratatouille’, I have made peace with them – I mean, I have learnt to tolerate them.
It is past midnight. The mouse scurries away once it has sensed that there is no imminent danger to its nocturnal escapades this night. I start to miss it – the soft taps of its paws, the swish of its fur scraping the furniture, a light, nearly inaudible thud where it falls on the rag which we call carpet. These sounds were keeping me company a moment before as I swim in the created delirium. A generous dose of weed and a stiff peg of vodka has set me afloat. I am “so high that I could almost see eternity” – I am, indeed, singing the song in full-throated ease, reckless in my adventure.
You may be wondering what has landed me, who is usually the careful-of-my-image kind of person, in this situation that can kill my character with the slow poison of malicious gossip that will do the rounds for months, getting more coloured with each version, if I am discovered. But do not worry. I have already been exposed and hence, I am not wasting time by caring any more.
This is how I have landed up with the glass in one hand and the cigarette in another. I had come home earlier than usual in the evening to get some things ready for the husband’s birthday the next day. I was about to keep the Black Label bottle in the bar cabinet when the gang of teens from our complex came in. “Didi.” Their sweetened chorus warned me immediately to be on guard, but as is the norm, my heart was melting already, and I was ready to give in to even murder.
“We are organising a party, but you have to tell our parents that you are invitng us. And didi, could you please give us one bottle of vodka? Pleeeeeeeease!” Before a split second, I was in. So I arranged for the chips and the snacks and the alcohol, they arranged for the weed and the music. There is a penthouse on our terrace. I escorted everyone there like a teacher.
I was leaving, honestly. But Sam, that’s Samir really, called out, “Didi, join us for one drink, c’mon.” I don’t quite know how many drinks went down and how loud the music got, but after a while, I found police tapping at the door. I came out of the smoky haze, smelling of every illicit thing. “What’s the trouble sir?”
Seeing a sari-clad lady probably made the officer rethink once before screaming out a threat. “Stop this music right now. And OUT all of you. Think how sad your parents will feel when they see you like this! Shame!”
I don’t why they bring parents into every little thing, but as if the word was an incantation, a few sets of parents arrived. If glares could kill, I would be dead but I am not and I am writing this. The teens were dragged out, the music stopped and a numbing hush fell. The dirty looks at me got dirtier as I stood there, cigarette in one hand, drink in the other.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XIX

Love pangs

Romanticism is beautiful in the pages of literature. But parents of 11-year-olds don't see it that way

'My deer deearest,
You take my love and this perfume. I love you. I and you can together eat icecreem. In my house, my mother can cook icecreem for me and you. You and I, in this biutifull world.
When I and you grow to college, we can marry like mother and father.
M'

"Who is this b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l girl?" I asked, half amused, half bored, spelling the word to see if Minti caught on. “Meenakshi. She has come first also,” the fat kid said with a pout.
"What did she say?"
"She say she will speak to madam." Was that a teardrop I saw glinting at the corner of his eye?
I suddenly felt sorry for the fellow. A bully who thought he owned the world, with no sense of romanticism, lesser sense of the language that the first girl probably excelled at, this boy's world had fallen into pieces when his first love, which he was confident would translate into marriage, had been mocked and thrown into the winds.
It was the first day of my lesson with him, as had been decided the week before with Sonia and Mahesh. After Minti's tearful mother thrust the letter and her boy into my hands and ran away, I wasn't quite sure which mess was I supposed to sort out first -- the appalling state of his communication skills in English or his tangled, hurt emotions. We were caught in this awkward silence when Minti opened his copy to an empty page and took out his pencil. I realised that he takes many tuitions and is used to the routine proceedings. I could see him tremble inside as a sigh rose and fell in his eyes.
I had a tough task at hand. But I had a plan. “Minti,” I said as softly and lovingly as I could, considering that till a day before I had hated the kid, “why don’t I read a few love letters to you? Famous ones? Then you can see how to express your feelings with flair. F-L-A-I-R, the word means something like talent or skill at something.”
The lesson had begun. Minti was not in a state to agree or disagree, engrossed as he was in self-pity and melancholia. I read from Keats and Byron. After a minute or two, I didn’t much care whether Minti was listening, or appreciating. I was on my own trip, absorbed in romanticism when suddenly, “Oh auntie! I can’t take dictation fast! Cannot also understand all words. Slow please. How will I give to Meenakshi if I cannot copy down the notes?”
He will approach the girl yet again! I was alarmed. To avoid an immediate calamity I told Mintu to take a few more lessons, get good at the language, and then we would decide on the next course of action.
Unfortunately, there could be no ‘few more lessons’. Mahesh walked in with a serious face that night. He did not speak to me and addressed my husband. “I feel sad that this has happened.” (What again?) “But I don’t think we can entrust Minti to your wife’s care any longer.” He looked at me with a sad expression, like I was a promising child gone haywire and as if the husband was my guardian who he sympathized with.
Annoyed, I asked, “Why? What’s wrong?”
“I though you will teach Minti some good behaviour. Instead, I feel embarrassed to say this,” and he turned to the husband again, “she is teaching him about dirty things like love letters and romance!” He walked away in a huff, and I stood there, appalled. “Good riddance,” the husband smiled at me and winked.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XVIII

Pry, pry again

When your friend entrusts you with the job of mending the ways of her pesky son, all you can expect in return is trouble

One evening, as I was returning from office, I heard Sonia shrieking in her shrill, almost ultrasonic, voice. Like the shameless and prying neighbour, who grows curiouser and curiouser as she grows older, I tried peeking through the windows of Sonia and Mahesh's apartment. I saw their mollycoddled 11-year-old son, fat spilling out of every inch of his body, sulking in a corner, with his face streaked black from dry tear stains.
I chuckled. Sonia still cradled her "poochie-koo", feeding him, tying his shoelaces, carrying his bag, making him sit on her lap and the fatso just about squeezed every ounce out of Mahesh and Sonia. If Mahesh dared say no to one demand, he threw a well-rehearsed tantrum and Sonia would glare at her husband for making her "chweet little chubby-wubby" cry. When she came to visit us with her son, he would just open our fridge and stuff his pockets with the chocolates and cheese I store while Sonia would look adoringly, like Yashoda smiling at the makhan-chor Krishna. So I chuckled to see Sonia in a fit over something Minti (that's what they call their precious pest) had done.
The wind made a the curtains flutter so that Minti caught me staring. I gave him an evil smile and, as he started howling again, slunk away.
Later that night, the doorbell sounded and I found Sonia and Mahesh standing there grabbing Minti by the scruff. My first reaction was intense fear, like when I used to feel at Minti's age when the neighbour auntie came complaining to mum. The little devil must have told on me.
But Sonia started sniffing as she plopped herself on the sofa. "Didi!" she wailed. Mahesh sat with a grave expression.
"What? What happened?"
"Didi, this girl in Minti's class has trapped my boy." That was something indeed! I was already loving it. The over-possessive mother was jealous and out to protect her cub. And hurt because Minti had dared to worship another female form. Sonia was the iconic saas in the making.
I wanted to hear the whole story. "Minti went and wrote love letter to her. In bad, bad English. (More on the bad English part later). He also has taken my brand new (I have never understood the use of 'brand', I mean, if it's new, it's new) Yves Saint Laurent perfume that Mahesh has been gifting to me to give to this girl." I could figure out from where Minti got his talent for English.
I was quite relishing this juicy gossip about the prodigal son, but good things don't last forever. Sonia had come to make a request -- that I take Minti under my wings. I had to teach him English, for one, and take his mind off 'distractions' (that's Mahesh's word) by 'giving him good education'.
It was a tele-serial moment. You know, how the camera pans from one face to another which have fixed expressions for five minutes, and no one speaks, the action does not move forward till the next episode. Minti and I stared at each other with frozen, icy looks. He was still cowering, and yet, he managed to give me a sly smile that clearly conveyed that by the coming week, he'd make sure that I'd be the one in trouble.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XVII

The big fight

There is no use screaming at a man for being the typical man. He has been trained that way. He just needs a new and patient instructor

A few days ago, the husband and I were having an argument. An overdone, banal squabble. I am not even sure I could label it as a tiff, since I had pulled a long face and was listing out my woes in a self-pitying voice while he just sat there stone-faced, staring at 'Bigg Boss'. This by itself became a matter of contention since "I hardly get the remote and am forced to gulp in football, cricket and reality shows (in that order) day and night, don't you ever wonder what I might like? Etc etc etc". (Well, I admit that I don't actually absolutely loathe them, especially the reality show bit, but during a fight, you have to hate whatever the other person likes, otherwise there isn't any fun.
But the argument had turned into a monologue -- mine -- and I just could not drag it any further and dropped it, for a while. My husband is an expert in this field. He offers no resistance, either sinking into a deadly silence which will make you cower and ultimately give in, or making the hurt-puppy face that will make you feel excessively guilty and, as you have guessed rightly, give in.
I may lose my calm every time I make tea and he snores away, or I hang clothes out to dry and he sits with a chilled beer, or I drop my office bag to rush into the kitchen and he sits watching movies on his laptop. But it never boils to a juicy, violent, lashing-out-with-words kind of a fight.
That particular day, I was losing my patience. We are a married couple. So where were the typical married couple arguments? If he doesn't shout back, how can I shout louder and get my point across? Seething and frustrated, I said something very mean to him, and ouch, did that hurt or what? He looked up at me with liquid eyes, wondering what he had done (if he had asked me I would have said NOT done, like the million tasks at home and outside that he doesn't share) to draw such a reaction from the otherwise usually okay wife.
He looked lost, not knowing where exactly he had gone wrong. He looked sorry, guilty, but without a clue about his crime. "I will do what you say." And then my heart melted. It's not his fault really. It's just the way he has always been taught to look at things, to be a man. He actually has been doing what has been told to him. He was told that it's okay to be a boy forever, to be loved, pampered, looked after. His job was just to be. There's a species called the woman whose job was to see to it that the machinery keeps running, that the clogs never get stuck, that the food mysteriously appears on the table on time, that his dirty laundry suddenly shines, that when the tea gets cold a steaming cup arrives in its place. The only hitch is, the story in his book of life reads very different from mine. Well, I'll help him rework and rewrite it. Slowly, but surely.

A writer's life: Anjum Hasan

I sat sipping coffee and opposite me was the delicate-looking lady, with a smile that reminds me of the Mona Lisa, petite but firm, her personality exuding creativity and confidence. “This looks a little strange,” she said, her eyes sparkling with impish laughter as her glistening green lime soda arrived. Anjum Hasan, an acclaimed name in the Indian literary map, was taking a little time out just before the launch of her second novel Neti, Neti by Roli Books at the Crossword last week.
An author’s life gets busy as the time of the launch of a book nears. “I am still trying to figure out the business aspect of a book. It isn’t really enough, especially nowadays, to just write a book!” she said as she settled down.
Neti, Neti picks up from where ‘Lunatic in my Head’, Anjum’s first novel, left off the character of Sophie Das. Although Sophie, like her creator, has travelled from the picturesque and smaller city of Shillong to the rapidly-transforming and busy world of Bangalore, Anjum would like to keep the parallel only till there.
The writer said, “I am the creator. I can’t be the character. I mean, Sophie is not writing the story, is she? I have always been conscious of the fact that it’s a different person, and think of what her, not my, responses would be.” She added, “I am definitely more ambitious than Sophie.”
Well, for this ambitious writer, it is important to be read, and that is one of the reasons why she cannot give as much time to poetry as she does to fiction. “There are not enough readers at all. There are less for poetry. I feel there are so many things I want to say that can be said better in fiction and that will be read by more people. Poetry is something you do more for yourself.” Also, since fiction is all-consuming, she gets back to poetry only occasionally.
A writer’s task is an arduous one. Anjum has spent four years with the Sophie of Neti, Neti and the moment her final draft was ready, she began sketching her next work. She said, “Most of a writer’s life consists of the unglamorous, lonely and often very hard process of just sitting down and writing day after day. I think when you start out as a writer you’re conscious of the importance of regimentation but after some years it becomes part of you. Like Don Delillo says, at some point ‘…discipline no longer seemed something outside me that urged the reluctant body into the room… Discipline is inseparable from what I do.’” Her Swedish writer husband Zac O’ Yeah is the first critic of her works and she has reached that level of trust with him to take even the negative feedback from him in the right spirit.
But no writer goes without that famous, or infamous, block. “When I get blocked I step back and look at what I’m doing. What am I trying to achieve in a particular scene or with a particular character? That often does the trick — asking oneself questions about motivations. Writing is a lot about psychology — you need to dig deep and then you’ll strike gold.”
Anjum does go deep. She relishes describing minute details. In Neti, Neti, you will find Sophie’s imaginative and fantasy world, her sense of unbelonging, her shrinking choices, her love for the baby Mani that reveals her sensitivity as vivid as her more “functional, but endearing” boyfriend Swami and his love for cars. Bangalore, which is more than just a neutral background in the story, and the fast-rising middle class with brittle ideologies also come alive in every detail.
Although writing occupies the better part of her life, Anjum takes time off when she can. She likes to walk in the open, anywhere green and without traffic, and to cook simple meals at the end of a working day. We hope that the Bangalore caught in the web of evolution that she captures in Neti, Neti will have enough open spaces to offer her.

[A recent story on Anjum after the release of her second novel Neti, Neti]

Band of brothers

Who could have imagined? That too in these days of distortions on electric guitars or mixing and making entire scores on a PC. But Anurag Kashyap and Amit Trivedi thought it possible. Music director Trivedi created the cult song 'Emosanal Atyachar' in Dev D with the help of brass bands, a struggling breed of musicians. The song was performed by BandMaster Rangeela and Rasila and fired music charts all over the country. It created even more ripples as people were taken by surprise -- the usually only-wedding-procession musicians who are just supposed to make you dance while remaining obscure were star performers.
But the real story is this: not everyone gets to feature in Bollywood, although music from Hindi films has been a hot favourite with almost all bands for ever since one can remember, and survival is a battle. Ask Babu of the Chamundeshwari Brass Band and he says with a faraway, forlorn look in his eyes, "My father was also a musician with a band, so you can say I have been attached indirectly to the profession for the last 50 years. Back then, there was so much respect for bands. Now the glory days are over." He has been playing the trumpet with brass bands for the past decade.
The band is thirty years old and now has its premises near Sepings Road. Its small room is brightly painted in orange and blue, colours which match those of the dazzling livery. Babu and his band members are very fond of their uniforms -- they have two sets for the year -- and it is quite interesting to watch them deck up. This ritual begins with the jacket with jazzy golden zari. Then come special trousers, a bulky belt, sparkling cap and a boot lookalike that just needs to be wrapped around the leg and fixed with Velcro to complete the ensemble.
The band members, instruments and dresses jostle for space in that tiny space. Manjunath, whose family owns the band, says, "Business is fine only during season, like the marriage season during November to January." Babu pipes in enthusiastically, "And during Ganapathi festival, we have work continuously for 20 days! We are around 40 members, but during the season, we bring many more from suburbs." But his excitement dims as he adds that six months of the year are barren.
Yet, their eyes light up when they show us their instruments which include trumpets, various kinds of drums, clarinet. They play "new hits" like 'Mauja hi mauja', 'Jhoom barabar' and songs from DDLJ or Hum Apke Hain Kaun are all-time favourites.
For such bands which earn much less than Rs 10,000 a show, it is difficult to purchase or even maintain these instruments. Also, they need a "master" to teach them music, and the learning process can take more than a year, sometimes even two.
One of Bangalore's oldest brass bands the New Bharat Brass Band, set up in 1949 by J Swamy and now run by his son S Ramesh Kumar. The city has around a score of such bands, and the story is virtually the same everywhere. These artistes join us at weddings, at felicitations, at launches and even at death, always there but never really visible.

[A story about brass bands that I wrote a few months back]

Speaking to the modern Chanda

Under the glow of the neon, she looked radiant, almost luminous. Before trooping into the greenroom, we had been drawing a mental picture of this Indian girl of French origin, who speaks fluently in Tamil and is making great headway with her Hindi, wondering what this famous lady would be like. After all, Kalki Koechlin has made many heads turn with her portrayal of Chandramukhi in Anurag Kashyap's 'Dev D'. But once she greeted us with a smile, her unassuming yet vibrant persona made our trepidations vanish. Casually dressed in a pair of jeans and a black tee, she was hastily clearing the sofa of the props, costumes, bags, make-up kits to make room for us to sit and have a chat.
Kalki was recently in the city with Anurag Kashyap's stage production Skeleton Woman, co-written and performed by her and Prashant Prakash, presented by Scullers at Kyra.
Kalki has been actively involved in theatre since 2002, when she went to the University of London to study the stage craft. "I was part of a group called Theatre of Relativity in London, but there, it is still the big-budget traditional musicals make the standard theatre and that is limiting to what they call fringe theatre. You really struggle, financially too, if you experiment. In India, there is more scope for doing new kinds of work," she said.
So Kalki, who loves to explore new stuff (and hates the winters abroad), was drawn back to India. She is an intuitive and focused actor, and the 'Skeleton Woman' came alive with her expressiveness and Prashant's emotive performance. One would wonder what made Kalki, whose passion lies in acting, take up the pen to script, with Prashant, this modern drama based on the original Inuit folk tale. "It happened by mistake, I think!" she laughed. "Actually, I find writing therapeutic, although I have written short stories and poems only for myself before. This story just stuck in my head and I started writing." In fact, she mentioned in the passing that she and beau Anurag are writing together.
Stage is where her heart lies, where she wants to come back again and again, but as for her career, it definitely is Bollywood calling. "In Hindi cinema, all the films I have so far been offered are alternative. They are great, but I would love to do in mainstream, commercial Bollywood movies! Everyone seems to think I am a serious actor only. But why should I say no to a big commercial film?" The only commercial movies she has been offered so far are in Telugu, which she had to decline because of the language barrier.
Kalki's foreign looks have been a hindrance sometimes. "I often get offers for roles of the foreign face girl. To some level, I think Bollywood still has that bias. So I have to be patient," Kalki said.
The actor has busy days ahead. She wants to do a play written by Kaizad Gustad called 'Lesson Zero' which has "a snappy, interesting script". And she has films like Bijoy Nambiar's 'Shaitan' and Anurag Kashyap's 'Happy Ending' (which Mr Kashyap has said was written for her) lined up.
"It's not like that!" (Did we see a hint of a blush there?) "He had the idea, it's a role that he saw me fit to do. It wasn't like he wrote it FOR me. There's this girl from England and her dad's Indian. She comes back to look for her dad, that's the story. That's why it suited me. It makes sense, I mean, it feels good, I mean... We are so enthusiastic to work together." We certainly wish a happily ever after to this talented pair who love to think, and live, out of their cultural boxes.

(An interview with Kalki Koechlin I did a few months ago)

The original steak holders

From an experiment that started as an attempt to make the Peace Corps feel more comfortable in the city, The Only Place has grown to become a culture with Bangaloreans

Bangalore was a quiet city then, content in itself, where life ambled along in its sluggish pace. Those were the days when two-way traffic was allowed on Brigade Road, and yet, one could cross the street unhurried, un-harried. Those were the days when Haji Sulaiman Ebrahim Sait sat in his cosy little shop at the Mota Arcade site, sewing impeccable suits for the airforce and armed forces with his sons.
Back then, tourists were a rare sight here, but the Peace Corps would troop into the city, and Ebrahim Sait's son, Haji Haroon Sulaiman Sait, would sit and watch them from their textiles shop. Haroon could understand that it was a bit of a struggle for the foreigners to get accustomed to the food and lodging here. For sometime, he had been feeling that the father's shop did not need so many hands, and with the Peace Corps and other foreigners (Danes, Swedes, Germans, Americans) often seen in the city, he had an idea. Haroon converted a bungalow they had on Brigade Road into a guest house, offering decent accommodation and simple English food -- omelette and toast for breakfast, stews and baked dishes for lunch and dinner -- to them.
Those are the beginnings of The Only Place, the steak house that is much loved and has become a habit with city dwellers, now nestled on Museum Road. Shoaib, Haroon's son, who heads the business now, said, "It was 1965. The guest house started and my grandmother, who was a great cook, would prepare the food for the foreigners."
Eating at the place was a communal affair, with the guests coming together for meals, and so became the cooking. Haroon would ask them about the kind of food they ate and preferred, fetch the ingredients from the market himself and often, the boarders would cook their native dishes while Haroon stood and watched. As his expertise grew, so did his menu. Shoaib said, "Iraqui soldiers also came in. They got their suits stitched at my grandfather's and had their meals at my father's. Thus, even Middle Eastern influences crept into our cooking." Steaks, pasta, spaghetti, pizzas, burgers -- names that sounded exotic and enticing were in Haroon's kitchen within a few years and in early 1970s there were cooks he was training, and city dwellers who also wanted to be a part of this new food movement.
Haroon threw his doors open to all. Shoaib, an electronics engineer by profession who has been a part of the computer revolution, also joined him in the business. "We would run on losses because my father would give food for free. Saturdays used to be barbeque days. He would roast a whole calf or sheep and feed everyone on the house. It used to be a social gathering more than anything else."
This restaurant, tucked away in a corner at the back of where now stands Mota Arcade, became a place where people would come to escape from the world, to meet and socialise. "So many love stories have begun here," said Shoaib, with a nostalgic look in his eyes. "In fact, guess who we used to see at the very beginning of his career. Prasad Bidappa would sit at the steps right in front and get the models ready with make-up there."
But on Christmas, 1987, they had to walk out of the premises -- 161, Brigade Road. The place was demolished with Mota Arcade coming up there. And suddenly, the original steak house of the city, the meeting place of people, was lost. But the many for whom The Only Place was exactly what it's name suggests, would not have it that way.
And back it came, on Museum Road yes, but with the old benches and tables (which used to be black and white because "paint was too expensive to afford) and tiled roof for that old world charm.
They still hand roll their pasta and pizza like in the olden days. Shoaib still has the pizza bases he had to get made from scratch from sheet aluminium, and the menu still has old favourites like steak and eggs (from Haroon's kitchen) and Shoaib's touches like the Whopper. In fact, they still have their forty-year-old menu card too, except that it is no longer Rs 5 for a steak.
We lost Haroon recently, but his legacy lives on, in Shoaib, in the great food and in the tradition he has left the city with.

[This was one of my articles for the space we call 'Down Memory Lane' in Expresso, The New Indian Express, Bangalore]

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XVI

Charity begins at home for sure

It is easy to gather a few people, organise a show and label it a charity event

The phone rang. I am tired of its insistent rings. I keep changing the ringtone, but it takes me only two days to get bored of the tune. Earlier, I used to set my favourite songs as the alert for incoming calls. I had hoped that those melodies would help me keep my calm when the mobile rang, endlessly. Unfortunately, I had to quickly change my strategy since I began losing my special tunes to boredom, irritation even -- that happens when you get a minimum of three dozen calls, and that, on a lean day. Then I began choosing those popular but not-so-interesting songs. That way, I had nothing to lose, and had a huge variety to choose from; I needed at least twenty a month. And when any kind of phone sound began irking me and driving me up the wall, I tried putting it on the vibrator-silent mode. So that the phone began doing an angry "Gnnnn gnnnn gnnn..." and I jumped every time at the sudden growl.
Well, so I don't have a particularly amicable relationship with my cellphone at present. That afternoon, as I struggled with my writing and edition and messed up life, stuck the iPod in my ears to block phone sounds and the gnawing thoughts in my brain, glued as I was at my office desk, the phone rang. My instant reaction, "Nooooooo... Don't you get it? I don't want to talk!" Reluctantly, I looked at it. 'Society Secy' it flashed. Damn. Now what's wrong? "Hello?" (I wonder why I still have the question mark tone in my voice when I know who's on the other side. Maybe years of good ol' landline handling.)
"Beta, you have to do one thing."
I am always being ordered. No "please", "can you", "thank you" for me. "Yes Mr Nair, what do I HAVE to do?" He did not notice the edge and sarcasm there. Sigh.
"Yes. My wife is having a charity at the society. Please take an article." It took me 15 precious minutes to explain I can't suddenly take an article on a random (I did not use the word) event by random people. In the end I agreed on two things -- I will take a listing and I will be present at the charity. Not just present. Take part in it.
I had not really paid attention to the details. The D-day came and I saw a few stray cats and dogs chained (stringed really) to the gate. Latika auntie's charity for street animals. I looked at the poor, scrawny creatures. They looked more tortured here than on the roads. My assignment: Cook "good" (auntie emphasised on it) food for the animals. I don't have much faith in my culinary skills, but I guessed the animals wouldn't really mind.
The highlight of the event was a fashion show. There was a donation box to extract money from innocent people who were being forced to watch aunties trailing down the ramp. The money was supposed to go to the strays. At the end came Latika auntie, in a heavily embroidered sari and four-inch heels. As she gloated on "successful charity by kind souls" (meaning her), and I wanted to throw up on her face, plonk broke the ramp, and down went Latika. There were some shouts, lots of confusion and stifled giggles. I looked at the donation box. There was only one way that this charity collection was going for sure -- Latika auntie's personal doctor's expenses.

Music chooses you: An interview with Sona Mohapatra

The sultry-voiced diva can hold you in a trance. Her music has a strangely enigmatic quality about it, a quality that one would be tempted to call hypnotic, even intoxicating. Sona Mohapatra is emerging as one of the new-age artistes who are taking India's non-film and rock music scenes to new horizons.
Sona the engineer and MBA chose to leave her lucrative job as an FMCG manager to sing her dulcet tunes full-time. She says, "You don't choose music, music chooses you." As you pause, mulling over this much-used explanation, she adds, "I was always doing music. (She has trained in Hindustani classical for over 12 years.) But I realised that I had to devote myself completely to it and not try to juggle both. There is no escape button."
So began her journey and she has been singing strains of rock, folk, Sufi, balancing and experimenting with the genres. "My music is fusion but its bedrock is essentially Indian. I believe in soul music. Instead of strict adherence to genres, my music is an absorption of different cultures. I imbibe as I move on. I think there is good music and bad music. I just want to be part of good music, music that is timeless."
Her first album was eponymous and her second album 'RAAT/DIN' is in the making. Sona has found a unique way of releasing the songs from it though. "Instead of cribbing about free downloads and all, I think we should use new media." So, the first single from 'RAAT/DIN', Diljale, was launched via Nokia Digital Music Store, and a new song will come there every two months.
But there is one song of hers you could not have missed. Remember 'Paas Aao' from the Close Up ad? That is a part of Sona's upcoming single actually, and the singer has sung all the 13 language versions (including Kannada). She also has another Kannada connection, in a funny sort of a way. "My first single 'Bolo Na' has a Kannada version. Actually, it was just ripped, but when they came to Sony, the company told me about it. So now, you have a Chitra version and a Sona version in Kannada," she laughs.
She has had her stints in Bollywood too, like a duet with Shreya Ghosal under Vishal-Shekhar and more, but playback singing does not enthuse her as much as non-film music, and especially live performances. "I love to face my audience," the artiste says.
The singer has recently been a part of MTV Rock On and you will catch her performing on the show today (November 16) with Palash Sen. She praises the show effusively, calling it a "refreshing change". "I am glad that MTV is back to concentrating on music so intensively. India is waking up to live shows, where magic can happen impromptu, and a show like this helps."
Sona has been wowed by the number of talented bass players that Rock On has discovered, and has even taken one of them, Keshav, on board. Although she is very impressed by the instrumentalists, she has a slight regret. She says, "There is But although dressing up and being a 'performer' as they say is more of your individuality and personality in my opinion – I mean, to each his own -- I do believe that a lead singer needs to be the frontrunner and to hold the stage together. This is the area where Rock On has lacked."
Rock On, album, live shows, and a collaboration in London and a project with a French DJ on dance music in the offing -- Sona is busy creating original expressions and genuine music.

(A hacked version of this interview appeared in Expresso, The New Indian Express on November 16, 2009)

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XV

Just taking orders

Corporate slavery extends beyond the boardroom. The puny employee is the property of the boss' entire family


I was sweating under the scorching sun. It was late October and the Kolkata weather was under the impression that it was still time for summer. Easy-going as the city is, even seasons change at their own sweet time, lingering on, sauntering along. This meant that even in late October, I was stopping every five minutes under every tiny shade that I found. I was already struggling with half-a-dozen packets, and I warily glanced at the list - still at least a dozen more things to go.
I could have easily relaxed in the air-conditioned indoors, sipping on a Mickey Mouse (yes, I admit, I still love the cola float) and watched a 70’s Bollywood melodrama. The seminar I had gone to attend and the other bits of work that I had to do had concluded that morning and I wasn't due back in Bangalore till the next day. A whole afternoon and evening were there at my disposal, to be wasted away as I wished. Wasted it certainly was, but definitely not in my dream-come-true sort of a way.
Just before I was to board my flight from Bangalore to the City of Joy, I had received a phone call. A dreaded phone call. Ritu, my Bengali boss' wife, was on the line. She had bugged me enough for the last two days and I gave my phone the worst scowl I could manage. That was as sweet as revenge was going to get for me since, I definitely could not make nasty faces at her in person. "Hi Ritu," I chimed like a tinkling bell. "Yes. Listen. I forgot to mention kashundi (a special kind of mustard sauce made in Bengal). And Riddhi (my boss' pampered, molly-coddled terror of a daughter) wants Kolhapuri chappals. Make sure they are fashionable though."
She was just adding to the list of things she had already asked me-the-fawning-slave to get. Being ordered about like that hurt, but the "make sure they are fashionable" bit hurt even more. What did she think? Just because I am an inconsequential junior for her husband, doesn't mean I don't have good taste. Well, I at least know better than to wear a sari with a pair of sporty ballerinas. Hmpf!
But the reality was, it was a late October, and I was running from one end of the city to the other, under the merciless sun, ticking off items on that list, for my boss' wife. Mishti doi (sweetened curd) HAD to be from Mithai, but kachoris should come from Ganguram's. It seemed only Nokur could make sandesh -- that too had to be filled with jaggery, which by itself was an insane demand at that time of the year. Dhakai sari from RMCA Basak and men's kurtas (for the witch's beloved husband) from Amar Kutir. She ensured that the shops on opposite poles! I felt like I was on some freaky reality TV show on a goofy treasure hunt.
When I returned to the city, every item on the list ticked, guess what Ritu said? Not a "Thank you darling" but, "Oh no! Why did you get this brand? I knew at least ONE thing had to go wrong!"

Observation, through someone else's eyes

Passing judgements. That's common to every one, irrespective of their social, political, religious leanings or standing. It is one of the easiest arts to master, a luxurious indulgence of what one presumes to be his or her 'intelligent' observations and an unwelcome prying into someone else's life.
So, I mostly stay indoors, walled in by the one-room and excuse-of-a-kitchen apartment. When I have to leave, I speed across the lobby, hop on to my scooter and dash off, which act is seen as an un-feminine and ill-mannered behaviour by the judgemental neighbours. Propriety demands that I exchange some banal talks with them, smile at them whenever we are led by circumstances to meet in the hallway, pay all the elders, irrespective of whether they deserve it or not, my obeisance.
I loathe the courtesies, and have always avoided them, on principle. Had I been a man, maybe I would have been excused these 'lapses' (men are supposed to be free birds and they sometimes just live on their own terms, in their own world, so what). But a woman is supposed to be a slave to the rule book that was laid down mostly to subjugate them and make sure that they remained where the men or rather, the part of society that had more clout, wanted them to stay.
So when I zip off on my scooter without bothering with the niceties, I can here the disapproving murmurs following me. About how I have not 'turned out right' and how my parents must be so sad to have a daughter (a 'daughter' is the key word) like me. The days I wear shorts and stroll around, the neighbourhood ladies curse me (actually curse). It reminds me of tales when women were termed as 'witches', luring men to their doom. Seems like my legs, which, mind you, like me are quite 'un-feminine', would entice the men -- husbands and sons et all -- and lead them down the road to perdition.
When I go home, relatives roll their eyes on the freedom I have got. The fact that I take my own decisions, that I wear pants, that I decide which man I stay with and which one I boot (instead of the other way round) are signs of my having gone haywire. Too liberated, I hear them say. Fighting for it, every step, is how I see it.

Politicians and Twitter

WEB WONDERS


As Shashi Tharoor calls politician to board the Twitter bandwagon, we take a look at the politicians who are already tweeting

In all probability, it was Barack Obama. Before he walked into the White House, he showed the world how. And one of the hows was his sweeping campaigns in the cyber media, including the power of tweets. Obama's verified account on Twitter has 2,454,937 followers, much more than can perhaps gather at any one meet.
While the US president settled down in his office and people stopped being wowed by the great online phenomenon, came the Shashi Tharoor controversy. Two fateful words -- 'cattle class' -- hurled the Minister of State for External Affairs and MP from the Trivandrum constituency, Kerala into trouble, with accusations and counter-accusations coming from several quarters. That also showed how public the domain of networking sites, like Twitter, is and how it can lay bare a personality and give a peek into his or her life.
Despite the unplesantness of the incident, Tharoor, on Thursday, said that he would like more Indian politicians to use the platform of Twitter to connect to people. His only trepidation is that the unseemly incident that he was caught in might discourage others to join the portal.
We aren't sure how many will take Tharoor's advice, but we decided to take a look some of the politicians who are already tech-savvy and sending tweets across the web. What is interesting is that there are a few from namma Karnataka. Youth Congress president for Karnataka, and serving his third term in the State Legislature, Krishna Byre Gowda has a Twitter page with close to 300 followers, and when he is not around to tweet, his office staff take care to keep all of them informed. But you will be mistaken if you assume it is just the young who know how to work wit the web, and of course, make the web work for them.
Former chief minister of Karnataka, SM Krishna's, is there on Twitter too. He may not be very frequent, but he has over 5,000 followers tracking him on the site. If you want to find him, his user name is SMKrishnaCong. Captain Gopinath's Twitter page is interesting, but predictable, with the green kite (that he had used as his symbol) used as the background theme. Did you say you don't quite remember him? He was the Independent candidate in the recent elections, and although he lost, his campaign for bringing a change is still on and Twitter has regular updates.
Rajeev Chandrasekhar, an Independent MP in Rajya Sabha, representing Karnataka and the Bangalore Urban district, is very active on the internet, with his website, and of course, tweets. Whether in Dharwad (as his recent tweet informs) or in namma Bengaluru, you will always know what he is up to.
One name that cannot be left out from any list in which he can possibly feature is Narendra Modi (BJP). This man may evoke mixed reactions from many, but one cannot deny this shrewd politician, who always arouses curiosity and has a strong base of loyalists, his charisma. With around 4,000 followers, his Twitter account is something to look out for.
Karnataka politician Rajeev Gowda, a member of the Congres and also a professor at IIMB, politicians like Suresh Kalmadi (Congress), VK Malhotra (BJP) and a few others have discovered the wonders of the web and the treats of tweeting. Like Tharoor, we hope that others board this bus soon.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XIV

Show me the money!

When it's the festive season, people whom you have never met before appear on your doorstep for baksheesh

It was one of the rare Sunday holidays I had got. It had come after such a long time that I wasn't quite sure of how to handle it. I felt like I had stumbled upon a long-lost crush, and a surge of emotions had rushed back, leaving me staring at him like a shy and awkward teen, fiddling with her dress, fumbling for words, the longing evident in her eyes although she tried hard to act cool and hide it.
Coming back to the heart of the matter, the long-awaited Sunday had arrived, finally, and for me, it was like a time-bomb was ticking away. Every second was bringing me closer to the closure. I quickly drew up a list of things I had to cram into the day. I had even woken up at 6 am to make sure I had a few extra hours; lying in bed for long would have been such a waste anyway.
I started ticking of items on the list. Start the day with green (great as an anti-oxidant and for a glowing skin): check. Read the morning newspaper at a leisurely pace, with lulling music in the background: check. Take a hot shower with bath salts and.... ting tong! Aaargh. Absolutely no sense of timing, whoever it was. It was the sweeper, with his paan-stained, nearly toothless smile. "Madamji, Diwali bonus."
It was eight in the morning on a perfectly blissful holiday for heaven's sake. "Jaggu, you never come before 11 or 12 to collect the trash," I rebuked while rifling through my purse for a fifty-rupee note. I was a little annoyed, but the rebuke came out like an indulgent admonition, and made his smile wider, especially when he saw the money in my hand. Well, I can never do better than that. One has to keep everyone happy after all.
After a steamy (don't get any wrong ideas) shower, I slipped on my soft, pink slippers and was tending to myself with some foreign creams when the doorbell went off again. It had started to sound similar to RGV's effect in 'Bhoot'. This time, it was the guard of the locality. I figured out he was the guard from his uniform, stick and whistle. He just stood there, hand extended.
The series continued throjavascript:void(0)
Publish Postugh the day. I was accosted on my way to the market and back, I was hounded when I was taking a quiet evening stroll. The day was turning out to be a horror movie with a psycho angle -- all I could see was hands, and more hands, slowly approaching me from all possible directions, with haunting voices echoing around, "chanda, baksheesh, bonus..."
The last bell rang late in the evening. I dragged myself. Four fat kids in festive outfits stood at the doorway. "Aunty, chanda please, for laddoos." I was baffled. Four over-healthy, rich, spoilt brats, who would do well to go without the laddoos shamelessly standing there. What I felt like was slamming the door. What I did was give them the last bill I had in my purse.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XIII

Love in the time of festivities

It is one thing to enjoy a Mills and Boon story, and quite another to be a part of it

When Rinku wore the pink lehenga and tripped softly down the stairs, her anklets tinkling in anticipation, she had left Ronnie enthralled. The flame from the diyas she was decorating the quadrangle with flickered on her face, making her look delicate, almost fragile as if she was herself the evanescent moment. And I glanced at Ronnie; his heart was taking a thousand pictures.
Festivities are a beautiful time to fall in love. Lights, colour, passion -- the world seems to become screened with a veil of romance, the real becomes the ethereal. Naturally, you get intoxicated. Amour, the greatest intoxicant.
So it was beautiful to see Ronnie and Rinku's fleeting glances and watch their fairy tale unfold with sparklers, diyas, little light bulbs, and gorgeously dressed people as the backdrop. It was perfect. Like living in an ad film. I smiled to myself when I saw Rinku making special efforts to help Manju aunty bring trays of food or light the candles or get her a glass of water when she started puffing, which was after almost every three diyas she placed. Don't you see it? Manju aunty happens to be the paramour's mother. This meant Rinku's scores soared. Ronnie just melted.
I hardly remember how, while I was enjoying the sweet, live Mills and Boon, I became a character in the story. Perhaps it was when Rinku's eyes sparkled, her voice quivered and she shivered as she grasped my hand, "You can't tell ANYBODY. And make sure you cover up for me when my mum asks."
Here, I will digress a bit and tell you about Rinku's mum. Mrs Bhasin: extremely haughty, proud of her daughter's good looks, fiercely protective of her, and ambitious to the extent that she really believes in fairy tales -- that Rinku will definitely bag a prince charming in the likes of Aditya Mittal.
Back to the story. "I kissed him. It was wonderful." Wow! I laughed. Don't ask me what elicited such an inappropriate response. But I quickly said the standard lines, "I am happy for you, but go slow, and, um, I am very happy for you, but make sure this is what both of you want. I am there for you." And then immediately I felt burdened. Why can't I just stay off these matters? Why do I need to do the conventionally 'right' thing -- be the confidante, the adviser, the helper, the listener?
After a few trysts of me taking Rinku out on the pretext of shopping so that she could meet Ronnie, both mums smelt a rat. So guess who they came for help and advice? Yours truly. They hated each other, and the complaint was standard.
"The boy lured my lovely daughter, for sure."
"The girl's mother must have taught her to trap my beta, sniff sniff." I had given her coffee and all my tissues so that she would stop sniffing into her pallu and wiping her hands on my sofa. And they both told me the same thing, "You are young. Please ask them what is happening. They like you. They will tell you." I nearly bit my nails off.
But the worst was yet to come. One afternoon, while Manju aunty sniffed, and Mrs Bhasin rang the bell and froze me with icy looks when her eyes fell on her opponent on my sofa, Ronnie and Rinku burst in screaming, "Di, we need your help again!"
I wanted to do an Amélie right there, just melt into a splash of water and be gone.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XII

No comic relief

I don't know what's worse -- the laughter shows popping up on every channel or the comedians we meet every day

Life's one big laugh. A joke. I mean in a very literal sense. As I sit down to dinner with my husband, ready with my outpourings of how a debate at office went out of hand, how I lost my cool and then remembered I was supposed to be in the good books and stopped right there, a roar of made-to-order laughter would swoop in through the window and hit us pretty hard. The clockwork precision of the choric laughter, beginning and ending on cue, shattering the tired silence would be followed by a cackling voice, and then the laughter again, all in cyclical succession.
The sounds drift to us from the neighbour's television set and although we cannot make out the words, we know one or the other of those laughter shows with the sickeningly sick jokes are on. I would stare in dismay. This could mean only one thing -- the next day I would have to tolerate a chuckling Mrs Nair as she re-narrated those supposedly 'humorous' anecdotes. I would have to cringe and smile as she chortles and gurgles.
I have an uncanny knack of bumping into such people, whose idea of humour is just some corny and cheesy lines. Or maybe we all find them, lurking about everywhere, offices, supermarkets, parties, waiting to pounce on you with the kind of one-liner that you hear and then, after a five-second pause, realise it was meant to make you laugh.
When Mrs Nair accosts me on the stairs as I am dragging myself to my apartment, thinking of what to cook for dinner, she would be spilliing with energy. "What do you look so tired for? Listen to this, and you will forget all work... hee hee... This husband comes and says, wife, wife, come to bed please..." I manage a "Ha ha... hmmm, ahem... well..."
By the time she is on her fourth joke, I am lost. The nightmares of office come back to haunt me. "Hey," this very senior man (who thinks he is a cool dude) would start off. And you would know what's coming. His creepy sense of fun! "You don't have time for people like us nowadays. Me, myself and meri tanhai, heh heh heh heh!" or something like, "The pen is pain, ho ho ho..." Does he cackle loudly or what! It reverberates through you, making your teeth chatter into a laugh. He would stand there wheezing, while I furtively look for an escape route, only to bump into another self-proclaimed comedian. Life is, indeed, a big laugh.

One more night...

When I had first named my blog Memory's canvas, I had partly done it because I am by nature always nostalgic, as in habitually, but I had also done it because it sounded cool (to me), it evoked Tagore (and I am the quintessential Bangali who tries to entwine Tagore, Ray and Ritwik Ghatak in almost every facet of her life) and it was convenient.
But when you look through the album of memories, you understand how every cell in your body, yes and I mean every biological cell in your body, is just a bundle of the past. And how every one of them throbs with the pain of yearning. An utter impracticality of trying to run back to the bygone, hoping to recreate those drops of moments somehow. Why do we, why do I, keep doing it in full knowledge that it just won't happen?
The night when we had all laughed and sung and cursed and gorged on experimental food. How can it be that there will never be a repeat telecast of it? How do I accept that the guitar chords will not be played again? That perhaps some of the encounters I have had in life are just closed chapters?
I am not a people person. And yet, it is them that I miss. I long to cry. To break down. To gather the courage and tell the supreme controller of time, "What I wouldn't give up to relive that just one more time, just one more time god!"
But then would I really give up something? I doubt it of myself. Very very doubtful. I am so selfish that I have it all planned for the future, and how the heck do you suppose I could tear and throw a leaf out of that and put a past leaf in place instead?
But the laughter still rings, it rings till it gets louder and louder and louder -- the unbearably loud silent scream.

Chetan Bhagat interview

I did the interview on October 6, 2009, just before Chetan Bhagat's '2 States' was released.

He started writing in class five, but only because his school didn't leave him much of a choice. When his class teacher announced that they were starting a school magazine in which everyone had to write, Chetan Bhagat came up with a joke. "I was forced to write! It was an assignment. But when the magazine was published and I saw my name in print, I thought, this is something man!" Thus, the class five boy felt the excitement of writing and Chetan, even after doing what a "good, Indian, middle-class boy does -- go to IIT and IIM", took up the pen, with the joke transforming into a streak of humour and enjoyable light-heartedness that charecterise all his books.
This popular and prolific writer's fourth books, '2 States: The Story of My Marriage' will be on the stands this week. This story is a page out of the author's life -- about a Punjabi man marrying a Tamil girl, about the hurdles, about how marriage, especially in India is a wedding of families. Chetan says, "Indians love stories about love and marriage, they never get bored with them. But you know what, I am scared. The question is how well have I disguised things, since the book is about people who are so close to me. The feelings are honest, of course, as always." He did drop a few things on the insistence of his wife and hopes his in-laws don't disown him after reading it. "My life is about to change for sure after this," he adds with a chuckle.
His candidness, ease, and an honest perception about who he is would warm anyone towards him. He calls himself an entertainer and feels that through books like his, reading has become entertainment, and books are making a comeback like the way radio was reinvented. But there is genuine amazement on his face when he ponders over how he has shot up the popularity curve. Four books and three movies based on the first three -- 'Hello' (released), 'Three Idiots' (with Aamir Khan, to be released shortly) and one based on 'Three Mistakes of My Life' is being directed by Rock On! director Abhishek Kapoor. "I never pictured myself here," says Chetan with disbelief still in his voice, "Only after Five Point... was published did I realise I have become this pop culture and youth icon, as people put it. Yes, aftter the book though, I felt if its simplicity and my fun style of liking has been liked by X number of people, then it can reach out to more and more."
While there pre-bookings for '2 States' is reaching frenzied levels, Chetan is contemplating taking a break from books to write a film script. He also wants to have more control over the movies based on his books from now on. "I have a mixed reaction towards Hello. thatI appreciate the fact that it was made, but I felt it seemed fake on many levels. On the other hand, I visited IIMB for the shooting of Three Idiots and saw Aamir doing ten takes for that one perfect shot."
He quickly adds, "I am nowhere close to being a perfectionist though. I feel nature made everything a little flawed, and I like it that way. I don't even like working super-hard." This from a man who was balancing a high-paying corporate job and his writing career till a few months ago. He regrets that it cost him a bit of his life and health, but feels that his education and corporate training gave made him a true professional.
Now, this full-time writer and house husband is just glad to be home and writing, and hoping that '2 States' will be the biggest one till now.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XI

Weighty issues

Physical fitness at the cost of mental well-being -- not the most alluring of options

The utter unremarkability of my life having hit me during one session of chit chat I was having across balconies with the newly-arrived bride in the apartment next door on a Saturday afternoon as my husband enjoyed a siesta inside, I decided it was time for a re-evaluation. After we had had a few banal discussions about what both of us cooked and which particular vendor sold overpriced potatoes, I tried to launch a more philosophical, and broader, topic. Life.
"Don't you think we are always preoccupied with petty things in our lives? We are so constricted by domestic duties or office politics. [In her case, only the home front though]." I was almost speaking to myself, "We don't do anything worthwhile, really, with our lives. [She was twirling her dupatta end and looking coquettishly at all and sundry, like a perky new bahu]. Don't you think time is running out, too fast?"
"I know!!" She suddenly jumped up, almost as if it was her Eureka moment. "Why don't we both join the gym, ha?" Wow, where did that come from?
Sheila, aka Mrs Sheila Rahul Dixit, thought slimming while gyrating to some robust musical numbers would bring that yet-to-be-discovered purpose in my life. "Oh didi [yes, I am old enough to be the typical older sister icon], it will be so much fun. Then you will think that you are doing something." She forgot to add the 'worthwhile' at the end of her sentence.
So the didi trooped behind her the next morning, and found herself trapped among bulky aunties and their all-too-obedient bahuranis at the local gym. It was a ghastly sight, and I refuse to be politically correct.
I had imagined at least a hunk of a trainer and instead found an an uncouth, short and sweaty man shouting, "Do woan, thwo, thiree, phor..." I had imagined slim beauties who I can bitch about (more since I secretly admired their perfect shapes). Instead, there were older women in salwars and their husband's tees, maybe because they couldn't find a size that fits them, puffing, heaving, sweating and then finally shouting to me, "Just come and pull me up please." That at least saved me the trouble of lifting weights. Or even, change the music na beta.
The usual issues of husbands, neighbours, cooking, television, children and grandchildren did the rounds. Inane. Prosaic. Maddening! Physical fitness had gone for a toss, my mental well-being was also being threatened.
I walked out. I seriously needed a reconnaissance, of my own life.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes X

Lost in a crowd

I fought to define womanhood. Then broke the definition myself

Womanhood. How we fight to define it. How we struggle for its rights and freedom. Once, in the dead of the night, I went to the extent of shouting at god knows what decible to explain to one of the husband's friends how girls, more often than make a 'forced choice' rather than a 'voluntary choice' and can't even tell the difference between the two because, well, society has conditioned them to things that they think are natural, but are not, and... I think by this time, you have also been confused by the train of words and thoughts just like the friend was.
His look said, "Woman, what is this gibberish that you think is intellectual s**t?" I glared. These men think that women are all just 'Sex and the City' -- clothes, restaurants, make-up, fluff, idiocy and men.
Next day, still fuming and saluting the woman's true spirit and the insensitivity of the society and all that the world brings under one term -- 'feminism' -- I stood in front of the dresser. Sindoor in place, bindi, gold jewellery and one of the most gorgeous saris from my trousseau. Not one detail out of place. My bedecked self could draw no pointed looks, or sardonic comments from the aunties at the puja pandal. Yes, I was doing what I did best. Follow the dictates of society. Literally. Meaning, the society or complex I live in.
The heels hurt me and stuck into the muddy grounds, courtesy the night before's downpour. I thought of the very recent heated argument and my passionate outpouring. I looked at the more recent me-the-conformist, eager to please the genteel clan gathered before Ma Durga.
As Shibesh and his wife approached me and the husband, all four of us eyeing each other with a touch of animosity and apprehension at who had turned out better (as if that mattered), with our manufactured smiles. And then started the ramble. Ramble for me, but for them, their whole worlds, their purpose of life. A "How much is this sari for?" followed by "Only ten thousand." Or titters over someone's slightly loose kameez. Fifty-year-old Sujata auntie pouted and said in an icky girly tone, "What Mr Sen, that other day I waved at you at meeting, and you did not even look at me? What should I do to get attention from you?"
As I sat there and sighed, I understood, 'womanhood' can't have one definition. And I suddenly understood the look in my friend's eyes and felt it was all for the best that the debate had been washed away with the rains.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes IX

On the run

Honesty is a difficult virtue to keep playing at

It was a heady feeling -- the kind you get when you have bunked college for the first time, or have had the illicit sip of vodka as a teenager. It was just the kind of thrill you experience when you go out there, be reckless and do the thing that you absolutely fear getting caught for. Believe me, I was relishing every moment of it.
Except that, at the few odd moments when truth dawned on me, I thought it was weird. I am of the ripe old age of twenty-seven, and this little escapade, wasn't it too girly? I mean, at twenty-seven, don't you any which way call your own shots? There should be no need for an adventure such as this for an adult woman like me! Am I not the master (mistress to be politically correct) of my own life or what? The questions buzzed around in my head in between Tequila shots. And for a fraction of a second, only a fraction but one that was damaging enough, I remembered my father-in-law's face.
Well, remembered isn't the right way of putting it. It wasn't an expression I had seen already that my mind conjured up, but rather one that I would see, once, as and when, I returned home.
I had called him with my heart rate escalating every second, "Papa, you see, I mean... I will be late." A grave tone asked me, "How late?" "You know, you see, I don't know." And before the next question, I said in one breath, "See, my boss, as in the super boss, he's called a meeting. AFTER the edition. At night. Late. And then, I will have to wait for the office cab. That will be late. [Too many 'lates' were making their way into my sentences.] I will come. [What was that? Reassurance about the return of the prodigal daughter-in-law?]. You please have dinner, food is in the fridge, just warm them in the microwave, just..." the voice trailed off, but I had done it. Fibbed to the visiting father-in-law while my heart raced in fear. Of being caught.
Then we were off, to a drinking party, the image of myself the sweet, obedient daughter-in-law crumbling with every gulp. I had lied. Successfully. But years of being 'good' was giving me a pretty bad guilt trip, which, of course, I had to drown in the drinks. But after a few pegs, I thought, as long as he has the 'boss' to blame, who cares?

Mrs Goody Two Shoes VIII

On the prowl

Being a chaperone can be quite a challenge

The groom was there to see HER. SHE was the one batting her eyelids and trying to hook a rich, bulky, greasy software guy, or more like trying to hook his car and flat and money. So what was I doing there, in a multi-thousand-rupee georgette sari, stilettos and even a specially done au naturel look?
This was Latika auntie's daughter, all of twenty-six and eager to fall into the arms of her prince charming, which included whoever would wed her and bed her. Nothing wrong with that, of course. It was her life and if she could get a man who was interested in her dark magenta lipstick, almost gooey with being overdone, or her endless blabber about the kind of cuts that suit her "lissome", as she chooses to see it, or her bulging-at-the-sides, as I choose to see it, figure, then it was fine by me.
The hitch was while she was on her full-time mission of getting hitched, I was tagging along, like an old chaperone. Latika auntie had been teary-eyed, "No boy is understanding the worth of my sweet little beautiphool baby. Listen, if you go with her, like this sister, they will know how well-cultured my baby is." The baby, in the meantime, was trying hard to get into a dress that was bursting at the seams.
“Poor dress,” I was lost in my thoughts, while Latika auntie looked upon me as this paragon of Victorian morals, staring expectantly for a reply. “Oh ... yes... you were saying... oh yes...umm,” I spluttered. “So what was my role again?” my mind was adrift again trying to figure out what was being asked of me. But those many yes’es had already been read as a positive by Latika auntie. “Thank you, thaaaank you, beta. So tomorrow, wear an expensive sari, and go with her to the cafe, tell the boy about...,” a barrage of instructions assailed me. Well, I needed them for sure, never having attended one of these pre-nuptial rituals of getting the ‘boy’ and the ‘girl’ to meet. And since it would be insensitive on my part to get out of the pickle I was in, I found myself at the cafe on a sultry afternoon, wearing a heavy sari and stilletos, listening to:
“You know, I like chocolate ice cream sooo much!” [How WOULD he know, this was the first ever meeting!!!]
“That‘s sweet.”
Giggle giggle...
“Do you like Hindi films?” [She is right out of one, are you blind or what?
I sipped on the coffee, stared at the love birds, and heard the screaming in me head grow louder with every sweet nothing they whispered.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes VII

Be fashionable, please

Sometimes, it is irritating to sip the best of wines when you would rather be having hot chocolate

It was Sunday morning, and I strolled into a glamorous modern hotel, dressed semi-formally in a white crochet blouse and beige trousers, my heels going clickety clack on the marble floor. I hadn't missed a detail, including the pair of sunglasses that complimented my oval face and a sedate but classy clutch bag.
My husband had been invited for a special brunch being hosted for their 'esteemed' customers. This automatically included me since the wife probably is supposed to tag along anyway and I had to dress, and act, my part. The part of a connoisseur of food and drinks, which was fine for I quite like being that. The part of the elegantly fashionable (not just in dress, but in conversation as well) spouse of the husband who hobnobs with those in the higher echelons of society -- that was an irritant, yes. But it was the part where I had to become the practised socialiser that was irking me the most.
I finished the customary greetings with the men in Armani and the women in Chanel who are always kind enough to welcome us with pretty smiles. Their cordial demeanours do please me, and I know perfectly well that the whole system is one of bartering politeness, a no-harm-meant-no-harm-done kind of a structure. My only problem -- I feel lost within the many etiquettes of that structure. Sometimes, I even start choking on the usual pleasantries that come as garnishing to the food that is being served. I mean, here I am, who goes to office wearing jeans and chappals, and there I was, dragged into a manicured, social drama being played between over-animated men and their noodle-strapped wives.
At the back of my mind, aVoice was buzzing, interrupted by the overtly nice Me talking with the elite crowd:
Voice: "Give them a light hug and air kisses, first... Hey, who the hell wants to do even that to almost strangers?"
Me: "Oh, Mrs Mehta, you don't look a day older than 30!"
Voice: "Clink the wine glass, only CLINK, don't break... I wish I was in pajamas curled up with a glass of hot chocolate."
Me: "The dumplings are delectable. Please pay my compliments to Chef X."
Voice: "Now, now, don't overdo the refinement act... Who cares anyway.. Oh, maybe the husband does.."
When the buzzing got louder than the empty conversation that was floating around the table, I knew that soon my chaotic mesh feelings with dollops of awkwardness and disgust will become palpable.
So finally I decided to act the part of the damsel in distress and purred in my husband's ears, "Darling, I am feeling a little giddy. I don't mean to be rude, but I think it's because it is getting a touch stuffy in here. Can you take me out for some fresh air, please?" If you ask what happened, it worked.

The Drama Queen

An interview with Lilette Dubey

"Theatre is a cultural habit that takes time to develop. It isn't highly developed in India, but spaces like NCPA, Prithvi, Ranga Shankara are big propellants in helping the habit grow."
-- Lilette Dubey

She has been romancing the stage for over three decades, "Thirty-five years, I think, yes, definitely," she says, and has charmed audiences with her screen presence. Lilette Dubey is the lady who has wowed us with both her striking performance and her looks, ageing gracefully as she has.
"I started doing theatre when I was in college. I was in Delhi and I was part of the theatre that was happening in places like Lady Shriram College. I did some, what I would call semi-professional theatre back then. But the bug had bitten me and it has been my most enduring passion," Lilette says.She is bringing her directorial venture, Mahesh Dattani's 'Brief Candle', to town in support of the India Foundation for the Arts on September 6 at Chowdiah Memorial Hall.
Lilette, an actress at heart, became part of the television and film fraternities around ten years back with serials like 'Raahein' and 'Aur Phir Ek Din'. With the films 'Bawandar' and 'Zubeidaa', she had etched an indelible mark in filmdom as well, with around 30 films to her credit.
But Lilette feels that for an actor, there is no other place than theatre. "Film is a very visual medium in which the vision of the director dominates. Also, since it is a commercial medium, a lot of external factors determine how it will turn out." The immediacy with the audience, the freedom of choice and the suspension of disbelief, using which actors can virtually convince the audience of anything, draw Lilette to drama.
The actress says she was drawn to direction because she wanted "full creative licence to do the kind of work I wanted to do". Whether it is experimental theatre or the traditional form, Lilette looks for original content. "The production should be context-driven and I feel the theme should explore relationships at some level," she says. Even Sammy, that was based on Mahatma Gandhi, was more an exploration of his mind, rather than his life, Lilette adds.
She founded a theatre company, the Theatre Action Group, in Delhi. "We wanted to find a distinct voice for Indian theatre in English," she says. The group will turn twenty in early 2011, and Lilette has big plans for the birthday celebration, which includes staging their best and most-loved productions at the end of next year.
Right now, she is deeply absorbed in shooting 'Pankh', being directed by Sudipto Chattopadhyay. "It is a deep, dark and disturbing film and I love being a part of it." She is also busy with "a bunch of other commercial films", including 'I Am 24' whose shoot has recently concluded. She is also planning a new stage production in another seven months and is looking for something fresh for that.
Acting and directing have been done. One would wonder if she will take up the pen next. "I enjoy writing very much, and my writing will have to be fiction. Honestly, I've never thought of writing a play because it is a very complex craft. The simplest play, I would think, is more complex than the most interesting film. But yes, I have contemplated direction in films," Lilette replies. The fans will surely be waiting for that.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes VI

When they come calling

Entertaining relatives is a game that you have to play by the rules

All this sweet talk about how they are lucky to have you in their family, how you are the daughter that they had always waited for -- it is all hogwash, patronising guff oozing with a sugary syrup that makes you go green with sickness. It is just a customary ritual that the relatives from the other side observe, perhaps out of habit, and the emptiness of the words as they tumble out one after another, tripping on each other in an effort to sound genuine, can leave you staring in amazement.
What astounds me more is when I smile back, with all the well-practised artifices of a veteran actress. A touch of coyness dripping with gratitude for having been allowed a place in the family tree, I say, "I am the fortunate one here to have found a family like you." The hollow sounding phrase hurts my ears, but it seems to please them a lot, well, at least, on the surface it does. They pat my cheeks lightly with the air that only aunts-in-law could have cultivated over centuries, a slight condescension and the kind of pitiful affection one would generally show a stray that comes wagging its tails behind you. You just take it under your shelter because you can afford to, and it seems, they have obliged me by taking me under the wings of their family.
In return, you have to make the right moves. Especially when they come calling. One afternoon, an aunt dropped in for lunch. It was a hot, summer afternoon, the kind where you just get plain lazy. But my day turned into a series of errands. Warm the food, lay the table (with perfection) -- which I wouldn't have done if I was left to myself, preferring to eat sandwiches while lying on the couch -- followed by serve the food, clean the table, give her a change of comfortable clothes, draw the curtains so that the room became dark enough for her to sleep, switch on the AC the moment she uttered, "Oh, what a hot..." No, it wasn't quite like she was pushing me to do it. No. She just took all of it for granted. If you are the daughter-in-law of the house, you do all that, and more. Yes, more. You massage her feet as she falls asleep because, "I had such a tiring walk. My feel are killing me."
Not that she did all that to torture me. It is an integral part of the whole act and since I have an almost lead role in the drama, I had to play along.
Sometimes, I just wonder at the futility of it all. It is all such a big sham. You can't pick and choose your family, and most of the times, you don't have the freedom to sift people who surround you. But sometimes, I wish they would not kill me, and my reputation, for being honest. I just wish I could scream for once, "Just let me be! I don't want to entertain aunt A, although I don't quite mind aunt B, and, given a choice, I would rather just be with myself."

Where nonsense makes sense

I sat and listened to a dialogue between a mature adult and her very young audience. A dialogue in gibberish. Riddled with meaninglessness for the mature, 'sensible' adult. And then I realised that 30-odd toddlers, hovering around the age bracket of one-and-a-half and three, were sitting mesmerised and responding instinctively to those absurd noises. It made me wonder whether those young, impressionable minds may not have a much better understanding of intuitive communication, something the process of growing up has robbed us of.
The tiny tots were watching a play.
They were at Ranga Shankara, not creating a ruckus, only pottering about once in a while for a better view of actors, Jule Kracht and Jörg Fischer. Did you just say, a theatre performance for 20-month-olds, that too something that holds their attention, is inconceivable? Not quite.
Ask the members of Schnawwl Theatre, a German group who brought 'The Great Lalula' to town as part of Ranga Shankara and Britannia's AHA! children's theatre festival, and they will tell you.
Anne from Schnawwl says that even the "very small ones" have the right to take part in what is aesthetic and cultural in society and so, they thought of making the theatre experience more inclusive, reaching out to toddlers. 'The Great Lalula', directed by Marcela Herrera and Nicole Libnau, involved intense research for two years before such theatre could take shape. The members visited kindergartens to study child behaviour. They had to understand infant psychology and "find themes and games toddlers are interested in and then, create a theatre pedagogic and an artwork theatre production".
Using Christian Morgenstern's 100-year-old nonsense poem, Schnawwl came up with a unique theatrical experience for little ones. "This poem has a good sound that great for theatre. The research also involved work with Dadaist artists to know about languages," says Anne.
The kids get to sit on the stage, and can almost touch the funnily, very colourfully dressed actors. And when the artistes start speaking a lingo that only they can fathom -- mumbles, laughter, jabber, weird noises and wordplay -- their day is made.
When the actors went "Bifzi, bafzi, hulalemi... laloooooooolaa...", one could hear tiny voices in the auditorium, making conversation on similar terms with them. As they repeated phrases, sang and frolicked about, the toddlers became part of the action. "La, Lu," they responded.
"The play evokes curiosity about words, how they sound, what colour they are and how to play with them. 'Theatre From the Very Beginning' project is not only about addressing a very young audience but also about rediscovering theatre in its original form," say the directors.
The only props are utensils, sand and a bucket, and the music the artistes make out of them -- 'choo choo' of a train, tunes to which they sing 'lalula', background score et all -- can get anyone hooked. For the kids, it is the universe they love to be in, represented in a more glorified way.
Anne says, "There are two different sides of our project. One, creating a professional play for toddlers and second, developing games and theatre pedagogic for and with toddlers - little presentations in a warm and known atmosphere can take place too."
I asked two-year-old Aliya, who was busy playing with the props, about her experience. "Naaaice!" When she looked up with imploring eyes to ask, "No popcorn?" I realised how important it was for them to have come to an experience removed from the usual television and movie-going ones. It was 'naaaice', when, forgetting the popcorn, she turned back and said, "Lalu!!"

Shatarupa Chaudhuri
shatarupa@epmltd.com

Mrs Goody Two Shoes V

Battling the brochures

I salute the salesmanship of my colleagues. And I envy their ability to make some extra money, that too, at my cost

I had had to cook a thousand dishes for the guests who were coming in the evening, skip breakfast in the process, wear crumpled clothes and, after this morning saga of bedlam, barely managed to reach office on time. There were a million, zillion things on my mind, not least of them being how to keep the Boss happy (for yet another day, trust me, it is quite a daily challenge). I was just catching my breath and leafing through my daily planner to see where all in the city my job I needed me to be during the day. So, it wasn't the best of times to be accosted by the mini businessmen (and women) who seem to be omnipresent in office premises across sectors, and who somehow manage to find time out of their regular office schedule to make that extra dough.
Rupali, a senior in the reporting section, swooped in on me. "Look at these gorgeous little sparklers hon'." I cringed. It was nine in the morning. I was starving. In another 20 minutes I had to drive miles for an interview. It took a good ten-second pause before I could turn around and fathom what she was talking about. "Great range of colours, and 10% discount for my special customers."
If you still haven't inferred what the fuss was all about, it was a lipstick range from one of those companies -- Avon, Oriflame, Amway -- which prefer to build an army of representatives to beleaguer innocents like me instead making their products sit pretty on some supermarket shelf. And the business acumen of the soldiers, of whom Rupali is one, would be exemplary for any small-scale industry model.
"Uh, Rupali, I am somewhat hard pressed for time now, so if we could talk about this later?"
"Oh come on! Just take one look. These babies are so gorgeous (she needs more adjectives) they'll make you drool." It is just appalling how everyone wants instant gratification, kind of like it is merely an extension of instant coffee. She thrust the booklet at my face, and left with a "Just mark which ones you want, I'll get them tomorrow." How presumptuous! I hadn't even committed to anything.
Truth be told, I did not need to commit. They just know their war is won the moment they have slyly slipped the brochures into my hands. I am not avaricious, no. But, either to please the battalion of seniors or to act like the benefactor of the whining bundle of juniors, I have bought everything from Tupperware glasses, bowls, bottles to orange lipsticks and green nail shades. So, I am a 'special customer' all right, beguiled every time, and, at the end of the day, staring in horror at the pile of junk that just keeps getting bigger.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes IV

So much for being polite

Some female rituals can be quite frightening -- kitty parties, for example

It was my first time. I was stepping into uncharted territory and I was super conscious about doing things right. I had been wondering the whole of last week if I fit into the demographics at all or not, but nonetheless, as in the many other things, I had already made the commitment and been dragged into the orgy of pink lipsticks and heavy jewellery, of chiffons and silks.
I blame my extremely good upbringing for this. I mean, for the fact that I had landed myself in this mess of all things I propose to stand against. What had conspired was simple. The bell rang one evening and Mrs Bhasin made an entry with aplomb. We looked such an anti-thesis to each other -- she in her over-dressed plumpness, a thick fog of perfume hanging around, and me looking like a scraggly alley cat, lying on the sofa like a recluse munching on a leftover piece of chocolate, devouring Ralph Fiennes in the '92 version of 'Wuthering Heights'.
Mrs Bhasin's conversations never have introductions, her questions are mostly rhetorical. She swooped in on me, "You don't have any friends, no? Nothing to do in the evenings? Oh ho, why I hadn't thought of that before?" "That's not really true and I don't see why you have to even bother thinking about that," is what I had hoped I could say, but instead, I gave her that well-remembered Puss in Boots look from 'Shrek'.
"You have to, have to come this Saturday evening to my kitty party. I have organised a big thing, you know? And I am taking out my best dinner set also!" she was full of glee. I so wanted to get her out of the house, and because of my erstwhile mentioned upbringing, the "Of course" just slipped out.
That Saturday, I was in the sets of one of the Ekta Kapoor serials. Or something grander. The ladies were dressed to kill (you would die if you actually saw the heavy coating of foundation, matching bag-shoe-sari-eyeshadow).
Shriek: "Ooooh! Mr Bhasin is soooo romantic. He gave you heart-shaped diamond locket for birthday?"
Gloating: "New shoes, Latika? But I have told my husband's (no name taking and all) big brother to get me Manolos."
Drawl: "I am so bored with the Mercedes, I'm going in for an Audi this month."
They made it all sound like grocery, and I couldn't, of course. Their only other topic was Hindi serials, in which I couldn't participate, of course.So, at the end of the ritual, my head was in a tizzy. Clueless in a gang of raving females, with no diamonds or Audis in sight of my life for miles, I was being smothered. I think I even muttered in a very filmy fashion, "Mein kaun hoon? Mein kahan hoon?"

Mrs Goody Two Shoes - III

Living in adland

My eyes fill up with tears when these ads show the wives washing, cleaning, caring all day. How well they know my life. Except I can't do all that with their robotic smiles

7 a.m. Lights, camera, action. I wake up, slip on my milk white silk gown, run my fingers through my hair in this indolent, sensuous sort of way, and head for the bathroom for the early morning beautification process.
Cut to Scene II. My lustrous hair is tied neatly in a bun and I splash water on my face in slow motion, and then look up in all splendour, smiling at the mirror as if to brighten up the whole world.
Scene III. I have strolled into the kitchen with my gown swishing in an early morning breeze. A ray of sunlight falls angularly on my face as I put the water on boil, dip Tetley green tea in it and then, with the tray in my hand, lovingly wake up my husband with a mint-fresh kiss. I smile at the world (again) and say, "I make sure that my husband begins his day in a healthy way. Do you?"

7 a.m. The alarm goes off. I am all groggy but there's no way out. There's no real Tetley in my kitchen, I look a mess from last night's movie marathon and drinking binge (yes, I do that, although the neighbours don't quite know), I feel pretty much like scum, the sun actually never peeps through my tiny kitchen window... but my life still feels like an ad film.
Come on, we know the kinds. It is a world where shiny, happy wives wear lipstick at home, are dressed in their wardrobe best and are running around to make sure the husband stays healthy and happy. When the husband fails to run the race in the son's school, it is time to change the oil she uses, of course. (Or was it the sugar? Or the cereal?). Then comes sorting and cleaning piles of laundry, making sure that the cuffs and collars of the husbands are squeaky clean (is that an expression the wife is allowed to use with reference to clothing?) or vacuuming and cooking.
And I stare at them with bewilderment. How do these guys know my life so well? When I'd rather be manicuring my nails, I am stirring the soup. Then I am scurrying to wash, dry, iron, arrange in neat stacks.
After all this, chachiji next door gives the husband a sympathetic look, throws me a lovingly admonishing look, "Look at the boy [she calls him a BOY for heaven's sake... ugh!]. He's looking so dry [chachiji, that's because he isn't drunk] and thin [you mean, not overweight, right?]. Feed him properly beta."
That's not where it ends. She has a dose intended specifically for me. "And you look so dark. What is that, a pimple? Arrey apply some cream-shreem. How haggard you look beside this young boy."
My temper had hit the skies by then. "Sure chachiji, I will do that," I give a saccharine smile. And loathe myself for doing that.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes - II

Adjust maadi with canines and felines

There is only so much one can do for them. Alley cats and the stray dogs, but can one go any further than that?


In our home, we had eighteen windows and four doors on the groundfloor. And as happens in houses with a dozen people living there and dozen more walking in and out daily, those windows and doors were never shut. So along with the dozen visitors came in the alley cats and the stray pups who gradually overpowered our senses and usurped our lives. These smooth operators used only heavy doses of emotional atyachaar so that the items on the top of shopping lists changed from sausages for me to fish for the cats and meat for the dogs, the first morning chore became mixing a huge bowl of chapatis with milk (full of cream), and every outing was planned around their convenience.
I have invested my emotions and time in them, adored them, been blinded in love. So no one, no animal rights activists, no ardent dog lovers or cat followers, NO ONE, can ever say that I do not know how to adjust maadi with these animals around. Well, but one must accept that I am human, and even if they say I have a big heart and am a kind soul, there is no way I could shower my love unquestioningly on the universal set of animals.
I mean, when this (senior) colleague of mine would passionately show me images she has downloaded ("I have chosen the very best ones" and oh, that gleam in her eyes) of snakes, she was testing my patience, my courage, my being-grossed-out quotient. No offence to charmed-by-snakes people, but I was traumatised by those images hours after there had been a slide show of the reptiles in the office which I had to politely watch.
Well, as I was saying, I do tolerate dogs and cats. And one day, I got talking to generous, rotund Latika auntie in our complex, who loves feeding all around her, which would include us and the large family of strays right outside the gate (who get double treats since the food she brings us also mostly go to them). So as we were having a 'conversation', she manipulated me into her ritual of giving breakfast, lunch and dinner to the animals. My grocery list now included four liters of milk instead of two, 2 kg of meat instead of one and so on and so forth. I began living with it. Until, one morning... "Beta, bring some bananas and apples also na." "Vegetarian canines and felines?" I wondered in my drowsy, fuzzy mind. "Look who I have brought. Are they not beautiful cows?" Hold it, HOLD it! I didn't bargain for this! Fresh fruits for my morning salad, being chewed by cows as they put their heads through my balcony railings. And in return, they turned their backs, liberally sprinkled their 'holy water' right outside my home (with some sprays hitting me) and left without so much as a thank you...