In Memory of the Woman Who Loved Sweets

Mornings in our home started with Mini – scraggly stray tomcat we had adopted from somewhere – tapping on the kitchen door, and thakuma making a concoction of mashed bread, milk, and water (only a little) for him. This was accompanied by thakuma’s threats “I won’t give you anything to eat from tomorrow” or “you dirty cat, I will throw you out”. Mini was unruffled.
Because she knew, none of those words mattered. Thakuma would come downstairs early next morning, lay out the food on a plastic milk packet, and make sure Mini finished the last morsel.

Then she launched into the garden, with her flower basket, plucking flowers for puja. I loved watching her sweep the puja room with water in a tiny bucket, and then lay out the flowers diligently for every deity. But we actually waited for the next bit – the long meditation she used to plunge into. That meant, we could raid her cupboard for the extremely tempting mint and orange toffees she used to store. Well, she knew, of course. We couldn’t blame Mini of the fast emptying glass jars. But she never said anything. She just made sure the jar got refilled.

I cannot think of anyone else telling us the story of Alibaba and the Forty Thieves in a more colourful manner than her. Chiching phak”, she said very sweetly. I liked my lunch a little better on the days it was accompanied with this story. I do not know of any other thakuma running around the courtyard and playing “lock and key” with her grandchildren. I wonder how many thakumas are caught redhanded at the sweet shop, mouth stuffed with roshogolla, when her diabetes report had, yet again, warned her to stay away from sugar.

This winter, my visit home will be different. There will be no more dressing up for wedding parties half an hour earlier than I need to because thakuma would want to see me all decked up and chat about the sari before I leave. I wouldn’t be watching Bama Khyapa while she very nearly dozes off in front of the TV. I won’t even need to wake up on time to run upstairs before her morning siesta begins.

Things change. But memories don’t. Love, certainly, doesn’t. And I love you, thakuma.

[Thakuma passed away on November 20,2010.]

Chill

Just made myself a vodka - a dash of lemon, a broken green chilli, just the way I like it. Nothing to romanticise. It's just to beat the cold that's creeping up through my toes, and settling down on my nose tip. It's not exactly as I had pictured such a night as a teen. Then, there would be a soft-glow neon light and Chopin, I would be in something silky, skimpy - certainly not in blue socks and cheetah pajamas - and my job would be way better. I guess dreams (the day kinds) come true in a warped way. The two things that are same are the glass of vodka and the slight tipsy-typing on the comp. Except that, back then, I was penning (read typing) a story, a classic. In reality, I am still not in bed because the sheets will be so cold that I'm scared, and because, for the third day in a row I had dinner alone.
Which should also be fine, because in that beautiful imaginative picture, too, I was on my own. As of now, I don't fancy that so much as I did in my head. So, a little while ago, I stood out on the balcony, feeling all mystical staring out at the fog blanket. Got bitten by a few mosquitos, and froze. Decided that fog looks sexy in Wuthering Heights and Harry Potter. And faraway flickering flames lit by someone trying his best to beat the cold - they look awesome, spellbinding - just would've been better without the smoke drift.
To be honest, I love it all. The smoke that chokes me, the chill that scares me, the fog that can cause traffic delays, the icy bedsheets (not so much the mosquitos). Together, they make a crazy mosaic of life. Soft wool, socks with five toes, hot chocolate, dashing in and out of the shower, tracking the dropping temperature graph, sudden peek of the sun usualy once a week, an odd drizzle that sends the mercury zipping down even more.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXVII

Waka waka… whew it’s over!

Off-the-field action gets as exciting, and as tiring, as the real game

It’s all quiet on the home front. Suddenly the remote control lies abandoned, a little lost, and confused about what is expected of it now. The husband and the brother-in-law look equally lost, hovering around a bit aimlessly. There is a sudden lull and a few beer cans are chilling in the refrigerator, untouched. I wonder if something has gone amiss, and although I put up a “yes-I-TOTALLY-understand” kind of glum face, the moment I turn my back to them in the kitchen, I am smiling and humming a happy tune. Albeit softly. But humming nonetheless.
The curtains are down on one of the most spectacular sporting events of the world, which features some of the best-looking men of the world, and yes, the world has changed since. After a month of planning our days and nights around FIFA World Cup 2010, our lives suddenly seem goalless. Umm… you have to excuse the obvious pun. Tell me, who wouldn’t be tempted, and who can avoid talking in soccer lingo after an intensive crash course on everything from corner kicks to the Cruyff turn?
What did you think? My life was untouched by the “Beautiful” Game? My life was thrown out of gear, massacred, hijacked. I began noticing the little things in the first week itself.

Me: “Listen, we have to go for groceries today, in the evening.”
Husband (in dramatic, exclamatory tone, indicating I had said something sacrilegious): “Uh… What? I mean, how?”

Me: “We have to go meet Rina and Sumit at Khan Market for…”
Husband (in a soft but incredulous tone, indicating I was a poor looney woman): “How darling, just tell me how?”

Me (on a Saturday evening): “Hon’, can we go for a movie tonight?”
Husband: “WHAT?” (I think you know THAT tone.)

So I knew, mornings are all work, and evenings, all play. And with play came the appendages. I had to sever ties with my television. I had to almost sever ties with the husband (almost because I had to be at his beck and call.) The boys littered the sitting room with beer cans and bottles till the wee hours; I woke up to the stale beer smell and started gathering up the empty containers and the leftovers of the snacks that I had to serve them like a good little wife should. Well, these, you will say, are part and parcel. What else should I expect during the WORLD CUP?
I know! And I am not complaining! I, too, love the game! I am not an airhead who doesn’t follow sports; I follow, when I want to. But then there was more. Somebody got a free Jabulani. So of course we had to rush to that person’s house. So what if you have come back tired and sweaty from work and hadn’t had time to change and have to wake up early next morning?
Somebody supports the same team as your husband does. So of course you have to pack yourself up and journey halfway across town for two hours to watch a 90-minute match and then drag yourself back with a grouchy husband because the team lost.
Some people support a rival team, so the group piles themselves at our home because the match “gets more interesting” when people break out in fights, with a shower of expletives (I got to learn some very interesting ones, I think some of them got coined there) raining around.
These, as you say, are repeat telecast at every tournament. I was living with them, resignedly. Football fever kept rising and one early morning, 6 a.m. it was, I found the husband all awake. I got worried. Something must be terribly wrong! Or was I hallucinating? Was the clock running right? It was. "Hey, could you make some tea? For all of us?" Okay, so whatever grogginess I had was gone. "All of us?"
"Yeah, the football team," he said casually as if it's the most natural thing that happens to us every morning.
In our drawing room were lined up about twelve boys -- age ranging from ten to forty. All in sneakers and shorts displaying not so appealing legs. I thought to myself, "You guys are no Forlan or Messi or Villa or Casillas or..." Ahhhh, now THOSE are men.
Anyway, I fed them tea and toast, and a friend generously said, "Why don't you come and watch? You may even join us," he winked at someone random. WTF! He thinks I can't play or what? Ego bruised, I trooped out with them to prove a point. World female footballers are thousand times better than their Indian male counterparts.
On the field. "The ball's gone out of the line, can you please fetch it?"
"I am really thirsty. Can you go make us some lemonade?"
"Shanky's got a bad cut. Run and get the Dettol. Hurry!"
"Just stand at the sidelines and kick the ball in when it rolls that way." [Pause] "You can kick, right?"
That was all my participation in the "match".
And then, BAM! I was lying on the ground. "Oops, sorry, happens. Don't worry boys, she'll be fine." Taking a hit from a muddy, smelly football isn't my idea of enjoying the game, and much as I love the adrenalin-rushing, minimal adverts game, I think I won't miss it so much for another four years.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXVI

"JUNIOR! Run! Fetch!"

If you are somewhere near the bottom of the stairs... well, heaven save you!

Hierarchy. A word that seniors love to drop in here and there. And just about everywhere. “Don’t worry, we don’t believe in hierarchy in this organization.” Or something like, “The hierarchy is just like steps. You can always climb up, and always reach the one at the top.” Or even, “We are all friends here. What’s hierarchy?” In the guise of assuring us that there is no pecking order, they make sure the word hierarchy is drilled into us. So that we never forget where we stand, and never dare to cross over.
So I never questioned my role and ‘their’ preoccupations during – photo shoots, tours, assignments, food reviews. So when my boss brought her 10-year-old son, seven-year-old nephew, and 80-year-old aunt to a dinner that was supposed to be for media only, and then started ordering specific food for her guests because “Bittu does not like chicken” and “aunt cannot digest mutton”, I dared not even think that it was improper. But one day, when I took my mum to one small lunch, she hauled me up at office. “since when have we started taking family to business lunches? Have you ever seen any of us doing it?” “Umm…” But she was rattling off in one breath, “Don’t you think you should ask me, who’s hierarchically above you, for permission at least? You cannot breach…” So that is how it is.
Then came my first photo shoot. Don’t get me shot. I wasn’t the lucky one to be wearing great clothes and brilliant make-up. I was the one who carried the juice to the model, got yelled at if the proper outfits did not arrive on time, if the weather was hot and the soup was cold. Anything that anyone else may have been responsible for did not count. They had to glare or shout at me. For my first shoot I was up at 4 am. I had to pick up my boss, then the senior photographer, and another colleague, who was, fortunately, at par with me, hierarchically.
I reached my boss’ home at 4.30 am. Someone shouted from the window, “She’s getting ready.” The clock ticked, 10 minutes, 20, half an hour, 45 minutes. My phone had started ringing. ‘Senior photographer calling’, it screamed at me. “Yes sir. We are on our way sir. Actually sir (please note, sir is like the necessary punctuation marks when you are speaking to the man with the expensive camera), I am waiting outside ma’am’s home.” I desperately wanted to add, that witch had not even called me in for a cup of tea. My emotions dug a grave for themselves and dived in when Mr Sir shouted, “Why are you waiting outside? Don’t you have a responsibility? Get in there and drag her out if you have to.” “But sir…”
Somehow, we reached our destination, 300km away from the city, more or less on schedule. From then to sundown, I was on my toes, getting breakfast, fetching the towel for the model, taking the sweaty towel back, and every kind of job possible. The junior photographer had to oblige to everyone’s whims and whines.
What were the bosses doing all the while? My ‘ma’am’ had brought her manicurist along. She had also booked herself in a bungalow, for the afternoon lunch and siesta. She needs to look beautiful, doesn’t she? And the photographer sir – well, he had cocktails ready and was “briefing” the model throughout, sitting by her all day, under the shade of the fancy umbrella.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXV

Can I take your order, please?

Waitressing has been added to the "skill set" on my resume

When I had asked my team of about thirty people if I could bring coffee for anybody, I was being nice. And I had thought that this bunch of ‘adults’ would know that. Have they not learnt to read the tone of politeness for the sake of politeness? I was actually heading off to CCD in the ten-minute break I had got since I was super bored with my office canteen’s version of the hot beverage. So I asked, “Guys, anyone needs anything?”
“You’re going? Cool! Sweetie, can you please get me a latte? And a brownie? Oh, and it would be reeeeeally nice if you could get a box of cookies too. (Turning to her best friend) You know, I had promised my daughter I will bring a box for her, but never got time. (Turning to me) That’s all.” This was one of the seniors. ‘That’s all’? It sounded like a monthly grocery list to me. All I could do is bite my tongue. I had asked for it after all.
I got up from my seat all grumpy faced. Almost out of the door and I heard a scream, “Stop, stop!” I thought someone wanted to come with me. A smile of relief had just started to make an appearance, when, “Just get me a mocha…” Well, there’s no point in listing the items.
Straddled with more orders, I arrived at CCD. After rattling on the long list, I was asked to wait for “at least half an hour for your order ma’am”. So my ten-minute break extended, and not to half an hour but forty minutes. I came back, precariously balancing coffees and sandwiches and cakes. My boss gave me a nasty look, “We come here to work, not to party.” His mood worsened when he realized that there was all this food with nothing for him. His thunderous look suggested I was going to have a very unpleasant time. Quickly, I handed him the sandwich I had bought for myself.
“I got this for you, sir.”
“Is that chicken?”
I froze. He was a vegetarian. “Um, well…” my mind was racing, it had to find a good excuse, “It is soya, actually, made into a paste.” He was gullible enough, or perhaps greedy enough, to fall for it.
My day was somewhat saved. But I hadn’t seen what was coming. My boss came to think it my job role entailed buying food for him, at least whenever I went out for food, or even a cup of tea in the canteen. In the initial days, he would add a please at the end of his demanding tone. The please vanished gradually, and even specific instructions went away. By the end of a week it was, “Get me something.” And by the end of two, it was just a look.
The seniors took his cue too. They would not even wait for me to go somewhere, but blatantly order. “Girl, get some butter chicken and rotis for lunch, okay?” was the first instruction I would receive in the morning. It went on and on. They even told me what I should cook at home and bring.
So now, I am the official waitress-cum-bearer-cum-cook in the office. And no, I do not get extra pay for it.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXIV

Fever pitch

I fall sick. I need care. And he gets all the attention!

All the work that I was doing (or the very thought of them) in the maid’s absence got to me, and finally, the thermometer declared it was time I took some good rest. My temperature was quite in tune with the weather outside, but in a way, I was quite glad that the mercury had risen. Fever always translates into two things – holiday and pampering. At least, with my mum and dad around, that was the story of my life. One little sneeze and they ran to me with chicken soup and ginger tea, and tucked me in with new comics. This kind of royal treatment lasted even when I was in university.
So that Friday I happily jumped into bed, pulled a light blanket over me, made a puppy face and looked at the husband with sad eyes. “I don’t think I can manage to go to work today. I’ve got fever,” I said in a whisper. “What? You aren’t going? Wow! Lucky girl!” Naturally, I was shocked by this response. It took me a few seconds only to flare up. “You think I enjoy this?” I roared. Well, I did but what right had he to know that? He was tamed in an instant. “You must be feeling so bad. Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon.”
With that, he was out. No asking me what I needed -- whether he should brew a cup of tea for me, or get me a glass of water even. So basically I had to fend for myself. I scraped a salad lunch for myself with leftover vegetables. When the husband returned, he came in with a huge box, and a huge smile. “I’ve got biryani. You don’t have to cook.” My face fell. Biryani in this condition? He saw my face, and promptly added, “I mean, for me and James. Did I not tell you he’s coming over? It’s Friday after all.”
I had no words left. I was missing mum. I stayed awake most of the night, with alternating cold and heat waves. My whining woke up the husband a number of times. Once, or maybe twice, he asked if I was all right. By the time I could tell him I would be grateful if he could fetch me an aspirin with lukewarm water, he was asleep.
Next morning, Bhasin auntie came for a visit. Hearing about my illness, she patted my husband on his head. As if he was a kindergarten kid. “Oh son, you must be feeling so sad. Have you had anything to eat? You must have stayed awake all night. How can a man manage if the woman of the house lies down? I will send you food beta.”
My husband caught my glare and quickly said bye to her. From then on, we had a stream of visitors during the whole day, asking how my husband was doing. They brought all kinds of food, absolutely unfit for a patient. I may have recovered faster, but my temper, and my temperature, hit the roof. I packed a suitcase, and went off to my parents’ house. The first question my mum posed to me was, “But with you here, how will he manage? I feel so sorry for poor boy.”
Aaaaaaaargh!!!

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXIII

Terms and conditions

I haven't been to a more taxing interview. Ever.

For the first few days after my maid left me, and left me with an inferiority complex, I went into mourning. So down was I that I started overeating – pizzas, ice creams, chips, chocolates, biryani, and pasta were only some of the things I was gorging on. I blame it all on the blues and not on my lethargy for stepping into the kitchen; ask any psychiatrist and he’ll tell you how thousands of people globally go on a food binge as a reaction to depression.
I wasn’t unhappy with the food, and I don’t think the husband was either. Actually, it often got quite romantic as we were going out for dinner almost every other night (never mind the bickering about where to go and what to eat that preceded the outing). Or we were ordering in food and watching movies together. Needless to say, we were watching it only after a quarrel on which one to see.
To quote the oft-repeated and hence tiring phrase penned by Charles Dickens, it was indeed the best of times and the worst of times for us. We were gradually learning to deal with the emptiness that the maid had left behind, resigned to our fate. I even cooked a few dishes on a weekend.
And they started coming, in hordes. The doorbell rang incessantly. Jobseekers. When the first one arrived, we were elated. We greeted her like a long-lost friend. We were having our morning tea, so I decided to offer her a cup too before getting into the terms and conditions and then sealing the contract. I had foolishly thought that we would strike gold at the first shot.
As I handed her the tea, she turned to me and tabled her first demand, “I eat cream biscuit with tea. Four.” Thankfully I had a few remaining orange cream biscuits in my larder. I fished them out, but I had only three. “I will keep them in stock from tomorrow,” I said, thinking she would definitely join from the next day.
“I will join from next week. I need a week’s rest.” My husband and I exchanged glances; we could sense trouble. I was about to tell her our requirements, when she began rattling off her terms.
“I cook only two dishes a day. Every 15 days I take leave for three days. I will come at six in the evening, if you are not here, I can’t wait. I take bonus once a year. I…” We had to beg her to stop and after that, there was no point in us telling her what we wanted. It was clear we did not want her. Bonus?
It was virtually the same with the dozen others who came. They interrogated us as if we were criminals; they questioned us as if we were appearing for a job interview. Their queries were varied.
“What do you do for a living?”
“Do you plan to have kids soon?”
“How many days a year do you go for holidays?”
“Do you know that from now on maids will take one-month leave every year?”
I guess, we will do fine on our own, for sometime at least.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXII

Better job offer, for my maid

She was the one ditching me, and I was the one standing with my head hanging in shame

It’s been a month now that my evening schedule is somewhat like this: climb four flights of stairs, have a quick wash, rush to the kitchen, put the kettle on boil, start cleaning utensils while you gulp down the tea and burn your throat, start cooking, then wash the soiled utensils yet again, sweep and mop, dust and dump…. I think I have bored you enough with this tedious description, but what to do, that’s how my life is at the moment – tedious.
My maid was on one of her disappearing sprees, or so I thought, four weeks’ back. On the fifth day of her absence, I could sense there could not be good news at the end of this. I felt giddy with joy when she did return after a week. It was short-lived of course. “Didi, I won’t come to work from tomorrow.” She announced this without a jot of regret or remorse. “Why? What happened?” For a moment I even felt pity for her, thinking she may be in some sort of trouble; perhaps one, or all, of her five children were unwell, or maybe her husband in an extra-foul mood, maybe… I had already cooked up a number of ghastly possibilities that she could be going through.
But the look she gave me was condescending. “You see that bungalow opposite?” How could I not see the ‘bungalow opposite’? It isn’t a bungalow, it’s a mansion. They have five guard dogs for heaven’s sake. “Yes,” I murmured. “I am going to work there from now on. They will give me Rs 5,000,” a two-second loaded pause, “for the same work I do here. They have seven big cars. They also have lift inside house. (This to emphasise that our apartment does not have one.) My husband will be their guard.” She had swollen twice her size with pride. She raised an eyebrow and smiled at me, as if to say, “Unke paas gari he, bungla he, tumhare paas kya he?” This is an old Bollywood film clichéd, legendary dialogue. But the thought of it hurt, quite bad.
And I stood there as if I had done her some wrong by asking her to work for a small fry like me. Her monthly salary at my home was Rs 1,000. Quite a hike she had got! After she just left, leaving the room filled with the smell of her cheap perfume and haughty air, I thought to myself, “Hrmphf… Their house is ten times bigger than ours. You’ll get arthritis sweeping and mopping every day. They have ten people at home and receive hundreds of guests. Your hands will go from coarse to coarser washing utensils. Good for you!” But what was the use. I hadn’t been able to throw those words at her face. At least that would have made me feel we were even. Instead, I had meekly let her treat me like a doormat and leave.
In fact, she had won by a huge margin over me. She had got a huge raise. (I have to tell my boss that.) She had made me feel puny when it was she who should be feeling sorry for ditching me. To top it all, she had left me with piles of housework to do. I just slumped on my almost flattened bean bag. I needed a good cry.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXI

Little packet of trouble

I smile at my neighbour's two-year-old thinking she will be a stressbuster. All she does is add to my miseries

Has it ever happened to you? You come back from work late in the evening, somehow drag yourself up the four flights of stairs since the lift refuses to cooperate, and then… and then you catch a glimpse of your neighbour’s two-year-old. She is a sweet little doll, really, and she turns to you with the most adorable look in her beady eyes and giggles like a brook suddenly. Her gurgling laughter hits you like a refreshing gust of breeze and, even after the grey day you’ve had at office, you manage a tired smile. “Helloooo chweetheart,” you croon with babytalk.
And that is it. You have invited your own nemesis, with a red carpet welcome. The baby looks at you and holds her arms out. What do you do? Ignore her? Of course not! I mean, you can’t. There’s no escape, because her mother is also looking at you and saying, “Oh, she is so fond of you! You looove your auntie, no baby? You want to go with auntie?” By this time, the warning bells have started jangling in my head. I can sense rapid signals of confusion like an erratic seismograph shooting through my head. While I grope in the deep recesses of my mind to find a plausible excuse, my husband comes and calls. “Hey princess (don’t mistake it, the loving address is not meant for me, but for the baby). Come with us.” My last hope is that she will not be in the mood to leave her mum, but it looks like she is as tired of her mother as the mother is of her.
The mother almost pushes her towards us. "Go baby. Uncle and auntie are calling you so lovingly." Whatever second thoughts Guddi (that's "princess's" real name) may be having melt into oblivion, and she walks towards us in her yet-to-be-steady steps. Shoulders slouching, I follow her inside our apartment.
Her being there would be fine, only if it is just being there. But it’s not. I have to cook – as in, cut vegetables, ready the meat, prepare the spices and then cook. But she drags me out and almost starts sobbing if I ignore her, which I can’t risk. Her mother will instantly spread stories about how I tortured her child around the apartment complex. I sit by her as she bores me with her vaccination card and some old bills, which I have no idea why she is carrying in her toy pouch.
There’s a Hindi movie showing on TV. I change the channel to a news programme and she screams her lungs out. Then, she sits on the remote with the excruciatingly painful Sunny Deol movie on. At my wit’s, and patience’s, end, I have a brainwave. I knock on my neighbour’s door and ask her, politely, and as if I am overtly concerned about Guddi, “Isn’t it past her dinner time? Poor thing, she must be feeling sleepy and tired. Should I bring her over?”
Promptly comes the mother’s reply, “Little Guddi, will you like to eat with auntie? Will you feel bad if I bring you home now? Do you want to stay a little longer with uncle and auntie?” To which questions Guddi keeps nodding a ‘yes’, vigorously. I stand there, flummoxed, and stranded with a two-year-old who’s more than a handful, and who’s now tugging at my skirt, shouting, “Auntieeeeee, Guddi eating!”

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXX

The day the driver drove me nuts

You know the times when you employ someone’s services? And then end up asking yourself why you ever did it?

I was sitting at the edge of the bed, trying not to slip and fall. I had nudged and pushed the clothes and books aside to create just enough space for me. As I sat there sorting out the pile, humming to myself, I heard a creak and a groan. I slowly looked up, and saw the mountain of clothes falling over me. Before I could run for my dear delicate life, I fell on the floor, submerged under a huge heap and gasping for breath. My arms flailing, I tried to call for help but the more I tried, the more the clothes seemed to weigh down upon me. It grew darker around me and I could hear or see nothing. Then it felt like I was being pelted with bricks. I wanted to scream, my throat was dry. Who would want to throw bricks at me in my own home? With the last remaining shreds of sanity that I had left, I realized those were the books pouring down on me. I lost my strength, and just lay there, sweating and out of breath.
After a little while I woke up from this nightmare, still sweating, only to find the mound clothes and books still intact, with me lying on the floor. Must’ve slept off, I though to myself and then moaned. Still so much work left! We were moving houses, not miles away but to a better (a.k.a. more expensive) flat in the same complex. But things had to be packed nevertheless. The movers and packers were on their way. Or so they were telling me from ten in the morning. The clock had ticked to one and there was no sign of them. I kept calling them, and explaining the directions, but somehow, these talented folks had mastered the art of losing their way. Madam, we are at CV Raman Nagar, they would say and I patiently sketched with my words the next seven kilometers for them. After 20 minutes, my phone rang again and I heard the same droning voice telling me they had managed to travel seven kilometers all right, in the opposite direction.
And yet, the gooey politeness from my voice refused to disappear. I spoke to the driver as if I was speaking to a kindergarten kid who is a slow learner and needs my love and support. “Don’t worry,” I told him. What was I saying? Why would HE have to worry? I was the one stuck! “Just stop for a while and ask somebody the way to Fraser Town. Once you reach Fraser Town, call me and I will tell you the directions.” Yes madam, he said every time I gave him some instruction. And then calmly did his own thing, which was to ignore it and get lost. Worse, half the time he could not even tell me where he was.
So finally, when they did give me a landmark, I went to pick them up. Yes, I took an auto, paid one-and-a-half in the afternoon, went to the place, hopped on to the truck with the packers and came home. Guess what I did when we reached. I made tea and toast for them and served them in my drawing room! Well, it was three in the afternoon after all. And then the driver tells me, “What madam, where you staying? Whole day going round. Give me 150 rupees at least.”

[NOTE: Don't get excited by the 'XXX' in the title]

Thus far and no farther

How far is the society willing to stretch our liberty? How accepting is it of deviance and defiance?

A certain someone wrote a certain something that irked a certain section and caused a certain amount of trouble. I have to observe caution here since every, and any, word that I write can bring the RAF down. Vagueness of the strict order is the rule of the day and expression of free thoughts may cost a life; not mine or yours maybe, but a certain someone else's. Which is tragic enough and is leading me to be circumspect about the content of this here column.
I think I can be bold enough and mention that it was a lady who wrote the article. I mean, if I am questioned who and what I am mentioning I can always deny their conclusion. The article infuriated some dogmatic people. After all, she had dared to doubt and decry a tradition that many feel has been ordained by the superpower, or at least is symbolical of what the power would want from the subjects and loyalists as a mark of respect, modesty, humility. Worse, she had rekindled some already existent stories and legends about a mighty entity.
Such audacity was, of course, not to be tolerated, especially by men, since patriarchy is not used to being defied. Some days have passed since the incident and now, it is not important who she is or what she wrote. What matters is the the reaction that any deviance evokes. Authority, in any form or in any place, is so power hungry and insecure that it responds violently if a judgment is passed against it.
I was amazed at how insensitive and intolerant we have become, so much so that we cannot let a person speak out his or her mind. They could have called for a healthy debate, weighed the pros and cons, admitted that they may have had room for some error in a custom even if it has been followed for ages. Or they could have even laughed her off, called her a mad woman. But they wreaked vengeance. They were spewing venom to kill liberty and opinions.
I plead to them to have a more open and accommodating spirit. I plead people to cross over to the other side of the fence and see the other's point of view. Like, I had a big fight with a friend on this article. He was adamant in his belief that the writer of the aforementioned article had no right in making a conclusive statement that denounced a practice. After all, he said, many women seem to be comfortable with it, so what is her problem? Also, why did she spreas stories about some revered being?
I have a few objections to this stance. One, it is difficult for him to cross over to the weaker side and understand a woman's trauma and struggle. That is not an offence; he is not at fault for being a man and not having experienced a woman's perspective. Two, the writer has as much right to make a claim as the proponents of the values she was objecting to. I agree that people may disagree with her, but that cannot take away her prerogative to own a cause she believes in and is willing to stand up for. Three, her convictions may have raised a storm but without tremors great changes would not come. Four, she was merely reiterating the tales that already exist, not making up some of her own.
If anyone differs with me, I respect his or her thoughts. I just hope that we can discuss the issue in a civilised manner rather than let our egotistical fanaticism get the better of our sense and sensibility.

[After an article by Taslima Nasreen on burqa tradition, Express offices in Karnataka districts and Mangalore were vandalised. Two civilians died because of police firing. The RAF and police guarded our Bangalore office for days. And we sat wondering if it was worth all this.]

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXIX

A vacation of chores

You don't know people till you stay together. The same goes for friends

It was a beautiful spring morning and the sun was not too warm. My husband and I were in good spirits. We were on vacation. It was a lucky break we had got. Some holiday had fallen on Friday and we had clubbed a few extra days with the long weekend, making good use of it by visiting some friends in Mumbai. Would you believe it if I told you that till then I had not seen India's busiest and most vibrant city till then?
So, the thought of exploring an unknown place and of getting together with old friends got me really excited. We arrived at Mumbai on Friday evening. Our friends (they are a married couple, Rishabh and Rumi) had even come to fetch us from the airport. We were seeing one another after five years and there were shrieks of delight as we hugged each other and opened the floodgates of all the little trivia and tidbits that somehow we had not been able to exchange over the long, long-distance phone calls.
As we bundled into the taxi, Rumi shot, "Hey, you'll see the way to our house now, right? So next time please come from the airport by yourselves. I hate travelling in this traffic such a long way." Stunned for a while, I managed to smile weakly, more embarrassed than angry, since these were really my friends and I couldn't figure out how my husband would feel about that sudden declaration.
But that passed in the rush of life that was all around us. We reached their home, hungry for dinner. They served us piping hot food. Leftovers. A little of this, a bit of that and we had to decide among ourselves who would get what, the portions being too small to share. Well, Rishabh and Rumi are busy professionals, they wouldn't have had time to cook for us, I reasoned with myself. "Thank you for the delicious dinner," I still said, after which Rumi made me do the dishes with her as her 'bai' would not be in the next day.
The following morning was a fresh start. The four of us went out on a city tour, hogged pao bhaji, lazed on the beach and although my husband and I had to shell out all the money at all the places, it was fun. We were about to head home when Rishabh told us that they had a party to attend and could not be home that night. We, my husband and I, stood there expectantly, like little children waiting to be invited to the party too. That didn't happen. Not that we didn't have fun by ourselves, with dinner at a fancy restaurant with a sea view. But their going away made us feel betrayed.
Of course, like a good little girl, I woke up early to make tea for them when they returned just after dawn break. I even fixed breakfast for all of us. The next few days, I was cooking and cleaning and scrubbing at their place as they went about their work and other commitments. In between my chores, my husband and I would go around Mumbai.
On the last day, I said, "I'll leave a thank you note." "Thank you? After this?" my husband could not fathom my 'generosity'. "Well, they let us stay at their place after all," I tried to reason. "Hotels let you stay too! You write thank you notes to them for all their hospitality?" he shot back, exasperated. "No, but we pay them money." With this, we looked at each other and silently agreed that we would settle for the thank you card.

Clipped wings

While I was throwing my teen tantrums, fighting with my father to let me have an expensive pair of boots and ignoring my mother's warnings about my 'cool' boyfriend, another life was quietly evolving under our roof. I pitied her sometimes for working as a house help at the tender age of 12. We sometimes chatted as she swept the floor of my room and she looked wonder-eyed at my books while I chewed on my pen carelessly. She was awed by me, my clothes, my trinkets, my school uniform. I casually talked to her in my free time, smiled when she paid me a compliment and gave away my old dresses, made redundant by my boredom, to her.
No, it would not be fair to me if I say I felt superior to her. I liked her and thought she was a very sweet girl. It's just that I was too preoccupied with my upper-middle class life and quest for my liberty to say and do and live as I pleased to notice how free I actually was and how helplessly bound to her fate and her living conditions she was.
Her name was Sumita. Her family lived in extremely poor conditions. Her father was the operator of one merry-go-round that he travelled with in villages and fairs. Her mother also worked as a maidservant in some houses. Between them, they could barely feed and clothe themselves and their three children. Sometimes, I later learnt, the breakfast she had at our house would be Sumita's only meal during the day.
I now remember her liquid eyes, smiling through the adversity. She was always happy, cheerful. I used to get bogged down and debated or rebelled against a teacher's disciplinary strategies or my parents' orders or being told to behave in a certain way because I am a girl. Yes, I have hated adhering to strictures always. But I now realise, I should have been fighting her battles instead of selfishly asking for more leeway when I already had a lot of it.
When she turned 13, her mother announced to us that Sumita could not work at our house any longer. I was happy. I thought the girl would finally get a break. By that time, I was going to college and I had become even more resistant to any form of authority. Sumita, on the other hand, had become meeker, her smile still there, but with a shadow of sadness. Coming back to her mother, she came and announced that she was getting Sumita married. I was shocked, even more so when I was told that the groom was forty years old and had a wife and a kid.
This is an average story with most poor families in India. But I guess I had thought that Sumita and her folks were 'city' people and would not opt for child marriage. I was acting like the "if they don't have bread let them have cake" queen. They were too poor to take care of Sumita for a few more years and this marriage would mean food and clothes for her. Even Sumita seemed to have acceded. I tried reasoning with her and her mother. I tried rebelling with my parents, as if they had a right over Sumita. Actually, my parents also tried their bit. The result was Sumita was not allowed to come to our house from the next day.
But she did return after a month for a brief period. This marriage had collapsed because the dowry was unreasonable. Sumita's mother warned her not to speak with me too much in fear of me putting ideas into her head. I think she knew her poverty too well to get ideas any way. Some time later, there was another marriage proposal, this time from a 42-year-old bachelor. Dowry was arranged. Sumita went away, resigned to her fate.
I have not seen her since. Now I look back and regret that I never did anything for her, so full I was of myself.

Don't worry about my socks and shoes

I don't dress the way I do to prove a point. I do it because that's the only way I know

I wear socks to office. I alternate between two pairs of shoes. One is an oversized pair of canvas shoes which I had bought because I fell in love with them, and because they were priced at Rs 300, unlike the Rs 3,000 sneakers that my colleagues wear with labels bearing Nike, Adidas and Reebok. The other is a once-blue, now-grey pair of floaters. I have to admit that it is a Nike original, but then, that is because I got it as a gift from my uncle four years ago.
Perhaps sometimes, my socks, and even shoes, reek of a stale odour. When I sniff the air and detect that unmistakable smell floating around, I take care to air out the pair and change the socks. But that is who I am; that is how I am most comfortable. It may even be one of the many reasons I am in the profession I am in. My workplace does not dictate a dress code and I am glad I did not end up behind one of the corporate doors.
Sometimes I need to visit swanky places to meet people for work-related purposes and I don't feel awkward to walk in wearing a lumpy sweatshirt and one of the faithful pairs of shoes (just that I make sure there are no unpleasant smells). I don't do all this to make a statement or stand out from the rest or show the world that I don't give a fig for general notions of fashion. I do this because this is who I am. If I could love heels and nail polished toes and finger-nails, I would go for it. It's just that I don't love them.
Remember Andy Sachs from Devil Wears Prada, the Andy Sachs prior to the predictable transformation? Well, I may have the temerity to proclaim myself the Andy Sachs of the purview of my world. I cannot tell the difference between the belts and I don't care that I can't, if you know know what I mean. Some people, actually most people, get me wrong. They think I am scoffing at their preoccupation with style and beauty. They feel that I am so haughty that I think I am above and beyond fashion and deliberately under-dress to show the world that there is no reason for me to become part of the mainstream society.
I plead not guilty. In fact, sometimes, I am even in awe of the girls who manage to handle all those colours in those boxes and tubes, the trinkets that glimmer and shine, clothes that sometimes flow and sometimes cling. But still people refuse to understand. In office, I hear the girls titter behind my back about my appearance. They become vituperative and make ask themselves, 'What does she think of herself?'
One day, I thought I will wear Kolhapuri chappals to office. I thought this would at least end the hours of tension that the girls go through on my account. They looked at my 'un-pedicured' feet and laughed. They stared at my semi-dirty toenails and cringed. In the end they said, "What does she think she is doing, trying to be like us?" So, it is back to canvas and worn-out floaters, my friends.

Book review: Madonna of Mumbai Cats

Short takes on everyday life

Sadiqua Peerbhoy's short story collection, Madonna of the Mumbai Cats, has Mumbai as its protagonist

The simple becomes poignant and feelings and thoughts hidden in deep recesses of the human mind surface, page after page, in Sadiqua Peerbhoy's recently published short story collection, Madonna of the Mumbai Cats. Bangalore-based advertising professional, Sadiqua revisits the Mumbai, or Bombay, of her childhood and adolescent days through the twelve stories in the collection and in each, the Maximum City comes alive as a protagonist.
But it is easy to step beyond the city and feel the universal scope of the stories and their characters, who are trying to negotiate life through situations and dilemmas. Within the few pages of every short story, Sadiqua has penned vivid character sketches -- all ordinary people but made interesting with Sadiqua's sensitivity.
Whether it is the teen through whose eyes we see the world in the story that has given the book its title or the young woman scheming to win love in 'Writing to the Dead' or the man who has lost his mother and discovers her anew in her death, the people in her stories are entwined in moments that any one of us could be caught in. But the beauty of Sadiqua's treatment of these normal subjects is that she makes them rise beyond the prosaic, diving into the psychological depths that ordinary people plunge into in their everyday lives.
Sadiqua's lucid, controlled prose, pregnant with emotions, and her first-person narrative style in most of the stories, give the stories a more evocative character. In the story 'Beginnings and Ends', she uses a double narrative technique, in which we hear the the voices of two characters in the first person alternately. One is that of an elderly woman, the other is of an 'idiot boy' and flipping between the two very different personas gives the story an added flavour.
Sadiqua's professional background requires her to be concise and this practice of restraint has made her comfortable with the medium of short story and she has done justice to the genre. There are some editorial fallacies that the publishers, Har-Anand, should have paid more attention to.

Shatarupa Chaudhuri
shatarupa@expressbuzz.com

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXVIII

Living a nightmare

For the four days she was with me, she held me on a leash and took advantage of my kindness

So there we were, Queeny and me, the most incompatible of companions. The husband had slunk into the shadows, overpowered by the presence of a dog who was the monarch of all it surveyed. It was four days of trauma for me and four days of malicious fun for Queeny as her mistress, Mrs Mehrotra, partied away in Goa.
Queeny's eyes had been so sorrowful as she bid Mrs Mehrotra goodbye that even I had almost bought the act. The moment Mrs Mehrotra's car zipped out of our front gate, she tilted her head towards me and I saw it again, that evil glint she had given me when she had first heard she would be our house guest for a while.
I pulled at her leash. She did not budge. I tugged one more time. She growled under her breath. Cautiously, I bent a little and patted her head. She snarled and snapped at my fingers. I felt like giving her one tight slap, except that our guard was watching and he is a big tell-tale. His voice oozing with sarcasm, he told me, "Madam, it is clear that you have never handled such a good breed of dog. It's okay, I understand. Usually, middle class people don't have such dogs. Anyway, she does not like walking all the time. Carry her upstairs."
I felt like I would blow my lid. Gritting my teeth, I lifted that pesky little creature.
I remembered how I had crooned "they are so cute, I wish I could just cuddle them" while watching the spa-going, diamond-wearing little pups in Beverly Hills Chihuahua. I had stared wonder-eyed as these dogs went through their schedules and appointments, parties and preening sessions. Their rosters of a week's fun and activities were way longer than my year-long plans. Yes, the movie had been fun to watch. Living in it wasn't quite the same though I thought as I cradled her in my arms. I held her like a baby, with all gentleness, in mortal fear of the invisible Mrs Mehrotra -- she had warned me sweetly, "Make sure you take proper care of her."
As these words buzzed through my head, I felt a trickle down my elbow. That dog had peed on me! Just a few drops, which infuriated me even more since I knew she had done it deliberately. I kicked my front door open and was about to throw her down when those words returned to haunt me again. I placed her on a cushion I had kept for her on the floor of the living room and ran to the bathroom to have a shower.
I came back. She was gone. I was so frightened. I cursed myself. How could I have left the door open? I ran downstairs and seeing me panic, the guard sensed something was wrong. "What happened madam? Queeny is okay, no?"
"Yes yes. Why should she be not okay?" He was so annoying. I ran around for a while and confused about what to do, ran back upstairs. There she was, covered in mud and filth. Covered in mud and filth and on my prized cream-laced bed. I stifled a cry. She had had her adventures in the garden and grabbed the choicest spot in my home. I went to the kitchen. She had overturned my milk carton and rummaged through the dustbin.
The nightmare that begun went on. I would take her to the spa and she would escape from my grip to roll in the mud. I would feed her, she would go and steal from the next door neighbours. I do not know how I survived through the days. But I still tried to be nice. But that ungrateful dog tricked me on the last day again. I bathed her and dressed her nicely as we waited for Mrs Mehrotra's return. I took my eyes off for one moment and she overturned the dustbin, rubbed herself in the waste and presented herself with a meek, docile, lost expression in front of her mistress. Mrs Mehrotra nearly fainted. So did I.

The frenzy that is Khan

It is a wonder how one man and his one film can occupy so much airtime

It was such a huge gimmick that it took a bomb blast and the gruesome end of innocent lives to take the attention away. Till Pune's German Bakery shattered almost to smithereens and the media got a fresh excitement, the news channels were having a fairly easy time. There was only one story that they had to really report on for nearly 36 hours (or was it more?). One movie, one controversy, one man, one name. I think by now, I know the statistics by heart -- how many screens in how many halls are showing 'My Name Is Khan', how many people have queued up for it, how many policemen are standing in exactly what positions to protect the King of India, the Khan of all Khans.
SRK, I am sure is thanking the Sena, secretly or away from the media glare. His friend Mr Karan Johar is thanking his stars. Both Mr Khan and Mr Johar are thanking their fans profusely. And I know that last bit because this piece of information kept flashing under the 'Breaking News' ticker of our esteemed channels. I understand the television media's predicament. The need to churn out content 24/7 puts pressures on any producer. So, if one man gives the viewers enough cud to chew on for a day and a half, they undoubtedly owe him a big chunk of their news space. SRK was making news on one side. But news channels were 'making' more, sensationalising, adding a little spice to the story their rivals reported a few seconds ago and dishing it out to the innocent public.
I was laughing when I sat and watched one regional news channel from Kolkata. The news reporter held a grave expression and was shouting in all urgency (have you ever wondered how they mostly shout and never talk?). Looking at the way he sweated and made an earnest effort to report the news from the 'on-field location', it seemed like he was comparing himself to a war reporter.
He asked his camera person to zoom in on the police deployed, the barricades and talked of the undercurrent of tension. The lane they were showing looked quiet enough for ten in the morning. For a moment I was taken in by the whole drama. A riot broke out there or what? "Here I am, standing in front of XYZ movie hall, where My Name is Khan is being screened..." I just had to switch off.
They were making SRK, a millionnaire or, I don't know, perhaps a billionnaire, the biggest martyr of all for one protest that one Shiv Sena made! A controversy bloated out of proportion has given this man millions worth of free publicity. Perhaps the tickets would not even have sold so much without that. And him a martyr? Give me a break!
There are few businessmen as shrewd as this man is. Fewer still who have such a keen sense on how to sell himself to all the bidders at such mighty high prices. Don't get me wrong, and SRK fans, don't get offended (if you slander me, I won't have a media backing) because I respect the man for that. I think we have a lot to learn from him. After all, who can even dream of having thousands bathing his or her photo with milk and risking their very lives to queue up for hours and buy tickets for his or her film?

AREA WATCH BANGALORE: NAGAVARAPALYA

JAM PACKED

Nagavarapalya is a chaotic mess gasping for breathing space

A pedestrian would, in all likelihood, feel humbled by the elegance of the row of genteel homes on either side of the road. The houses with classy wooden gates, trellises of roses and bougainvilleas, porches under which stand high-end cars and architectural panache seems to have eyes following you as you try to tread softly on the footpaths so as not to disturb those grand residences standing in aristrocratic silence.
Take the right just before Big Bazaar on Old Madras Road and you will have entered this pretty, picturesque, quiet world of Nagavarapalya. Follow the footpath for a while, and it will transform into uneven or broken stone slabs. Follow it further, and, by the time you reach the prime area of Nagavarapalya Main Road, it would have disappeared. Disappeared is perhaps not the appropriate word; taken over by hawkers and by the awnings of the permanent shops is more correct.
Also, unlike the first quarter where the emptiness on the road seems almost unnatural, here you will have to jostle with pedestrians and vehicles at the same time. The lanes and bylanes become even more crowded, claustrophobic nearly as they become narrower, most of them broken and ill-maintained, with shops, houses and institutions squeezed into the available space.
Teachers in the Government Kannada Higher Primary School, which has about 300 students said that although the school is running well, with no dearth of food, water and electricity for the kids, the lack of a playground confines the students in the concrete building. This school, that is near the Anjaneya Temple, is surrounded by buildings on three sides with almost no room in between.
But surprisingly, people still find space for construction here. Beautiful homes and residential complexes are being built amid houses that look almost like ghettoes. Some of the roads are in poor condition because of the multiple constructions going on around.
Raghunath, a resident who also owns a shop in the Krishnappa Building (the main market on Nagavarapalya Main Road), has other complains. He said, "Garbage gets piled up on the road next to the building. The vegetable and fish vendors just throw the rubbish here. The BBMP truck does not do a good job of cleaning. Moreover, it comes during peak traffic hours, around 9 or 10 am, and blocks traffic for an hour. Another problem is parking. People just come and park in front of our shops and leave their vehicles here for hours."
When approached, even Lt Col MG Thimmaya, the estate manager of the DRDO Township (which is right next to Nagavarapalya), agreed about the garbage and traffic woes. He said, "The vendors have occupied the footpaths and they sit right next to my compound wall. It is a security threat to DRDO." He added that the road becomes main road choked due to traffic since most of its width has been eaten up by shops and vendors.
But the picture is not all bleak here. Nagavarapalya may be bursting at its seamsa and look a bit messy, but if you adjust to these, it is a convenient place to stay. The innumerable shops (old style and not supermarkets) ensure that you get everything within five minutes of your reach, be it daily provisions, medical help, small eateries like Hotel Chirag, tailors or even things like 'sound and light' stores. Priya, a resident, said, "There is no problem of water or electricity. Big Bazaar and Old Madras Road are close by." At least, it is bustling with life if not with some much-needed order.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXVII

Mid-life masti

While the fat woman went off to Goa, hips swaying, I was left stranded with her 'baby'

Mrs Mehrotra was all packed. Two suitcases and a very 80s, cherry red vanity case (with her lipstick and nail paint to match it) stood in the lobby as her driver got the Accent out of the garage. The clacking heels and the sudden gush of perfume smell announced that her ladyship had finally come down from her flat after a two-hour make-up session in front of her dressing table. She was off to Goa with her kitty party club, those 'ooooh' and 'aaaaaah' ladies.
Two suitcases for a four-day trip, I rolled my eyes while talking to myself in my mind. The vanity case was right out of a cheesy movie with a cheesier airhostess as the heroine. "Oh darling, sho shweet of you to see me off," Mrs Mehrotra trilled. I quickly snapped out of my musings, looked up and displayed my teeth in a frozen grin, that is until I realised she was addressing Queeny. Did I not introduce you to Queeny? The Mehrotra woman will chop me to pieces and feed my bones to that bitch (every kind of pun intended) if she knew I forgot about her.
Queeny: the most ill-mannered, ill-tempered, spoilt, high-handed female dog ever. Queeny: the dog who pisses everywhere except her mistress' home. Queeny: the cunning shrew, who would steal from you and act all innocent in front of Mehrotra. Queeny: the one I, her temporary guardian, was holding on a leash right then while the 65-year-old went off to chill out on the sunny beaches.
The week before she had called me to see her shopping. I had thought, poor widow (Mr Mehrotra had passed away ten years back), she needs someone to share her little joys. I had expected saris and salwar-kameez sets, demure even if not classy (class was beyond Mrs Mehrotra.) But I gulped when I saw what I saw. Skinfit slacks in shiny colours, tube tops, flowery bikinis. The picture of her flabby tummy and not-so-appealing buttocks in the bikinis flashed through my mind. I tried to shoo the image away.
"Look at you, all skin and bones. Men will drool and fall when they see all this mutton (ahem, she meant her physical self) in these clothes. Just let me hit the beach baby!" She sounded so excited that I nodded along, praising each of the XXL items, bored to death by the end of it, but smiling in encouragement still.
As I slowly edged away, having spent nearly three hours with her, she said she had just one "tinsie-winsie" favour to ask from me. "Look after my Queeny while I am away. She is such a good little girl. SHe will miss her mommy..." I suddenly realised what she was actually asking of me. "What?" I stood there helplessly. "Come on, you can't do this much for your Mehrotra auntie? Anyway Queeny is a jewel." Jewel she is indeed, I thought, as I caught the evil glint in her yes. Was she smiling at my predicament? Was I hallucinating? I was petrified of that dog and I whimpered a "yes auntie, of course auntie", almost as if Queeny was holding me at gun point. For the terror of a time I had with her, you have to come back to this column next week.

Go wild

If looks don't bother you then you can go and have a hearty meal at Wild Spice

If you have a fetish for luxury with a taste for the genteel way of life, this place is not meant for you. But if you are not finicky about where exactly you are sitting down to eat, as long as the food tastes good, then you can walk into Wild Spice on Residency Road.
At first glance, the place looks downright shady. After peering for a while in the dark interiors you will notice the coir mat carpets have gathered dust of years, the paint is peeling off, the walls have become a bit greasy. The nonchalance of the waiters will greet you as they thump glasses of water on the table and thrust the plastic-coated menu cards into your hands.
But the chairs and tables are clean enough for you to settle down comfortably. There are three things that will work up your appetite -- smells wafting from the kitchen, the list of dishes on the menu, and, best of all, the pricing. Combinations like the really spicy Coorg pork curry with sinfully fattening ghee rice, or the akki roti-egg-Coorg pork curry plate come within a price slab of Rs 80 to Rs 100.
There are many varieties in fish, chicken and pork here and they are all quite mouth-watering. You can also have a meal with roti, a vegetable, two Coorgi sambhars, a meat dish of your choice and a sweet. Wash it all down with a ginger lemon soda or some other juice at a price point of about Rs 20. This place is more than just affordable where two people can be well-fed with Rs 200.

Heritage house

One step beyond the gates and you will have stepped into a world where time has frozen. You may half expect to see women in gowns and men in tailcoats stroll past you as you walk through this idyllic sanctuary in the heart of Bangalore. Not unusual at a place so steeped in history and so rich in tradition. The heritage of the Bangalore Club has been carefully guarded and kept alive by its members through the ages. While showing me around the prim and green premises, Colonel KD Murthy (Retd), the CEO and Secretary of Bangalore Club, said, "This is like an oasis amidst the concrete jungle. The members, some of whom are third and fourth generations, have jealously guarded this treasure."

The then…
When India’s map had the Kingdom of Mysore instead of Karnataka, and South India came under the jurisdiction of the Madras Presidency, a British resident had been posted in Bangalore to look after affairs in this region. The Main Clubhouse, which is about 150 years old, one sees in the Bangalore Club was his home, and the other buildings, quarters he used. Around 1863, the resident moved to the now SBI on St Marks Road. But it was not immediately that the British could convert the premises into a club for their exclusive use. In fact, it did not even belong to the British for a while. A local trader bought and owned the property in between.
Then, British troops began to be stationed in the city and they requested for permission to use the premises, which was, of course, granted. They formed a racket (an older version of squash) club, and so, an informal club for the British soldiers functioned from 1863 to 1868, the latter year being the formal inauguration of the Bangalore United Services, or BUS as it was popularly called, Club. BUS Club was meant only for the British.
Colonel Murthy recalls, “Back then, the club stretched to Agram on one side and Cubbon Park on the other. It was sprawling and they even had a polo ground. Now the area is about 13 acres.” But the decorum in those years disallowed women, children and servants to enter the Main Clubhouse, the colonel said while showing me around this grand old building. He pointed out old swords and guns that hang on the walls, the exquisitely maintained rooms with a regal air and the men’s bar where women are still not allowed, maintaining the tradition.
But women and children were not kept from enjoying the refreshing luxuries of the club. Colonel Murthy showed me the Annexe that stands opposite the clubhouse, a walk across a passage beautifully shaded by creepers. The Annexe had a ballroom, which is still unchanged, wooden floor, chandeliers et al. The Annexe has been renamed Brigadier Hill Annexe.
“Brigadier Hill was the commandent of the MEG during partition. When the government disbanded all British clubs during Independence and retained only the Officer’s Mess, the brigadier wrote to the government not to dissolve the BUS, only to reorganise it. Thus was formed the Bangalore Club. Brigadier Hill, who opted to stay back and serve the Indian Army, was the longest serving president from 1943 to 1963,” said Colonel Murthy.

The now…
While the club has held on to its rich inheritance of culture, customs, sports and practices, it has moved forward with times, and we mean in its social actions. Bangalore Club is more than just recreation and aesthetics. It is about responsibility, about which not many are aware. What Colonel Murthy showed me was truly an eye-opener and inspiration. The club has taken up practices which helps man as well as his environment.
“There is not a single incandescent light in our premises. Everything is CFL and we are gradually introducing LED lights as well, which will take a little time as LED is expensive,” Colonel Murthy said, showing me the street and room lights. Like incandescent lights, the club has done away with all geysers too, getting warm water only through solar heaters.
And water does not go to a waste here. The laundry water is recycled and used in gardens, rain water (which falls on the ground and the roofs) is harvested through the many recharge wells, through which the water seeps and directly increases the ground water level of the entire area. In fact, even waste does not go to waste here. The club has tied up with the NGO Sahas to sort garbage (from the source itself) into biodegradable and non-biodegradable. While the non-biodegradable waste goes for recycling, the degradable refuse is further sorted and turned into organic manure in a converter in the club’s own backyard. Plastic has been nearly banned here as the club asks members to bring their own bags for shopping. If they don’t the club uses only a specially manufactured degradable version of polythene. The club also recycles e-waste and tetrapacks that members bring.
In another initiative, the club has appointed a teacher to tutor their ball boys, three of whom will appear for the SSLC in private this year. And the elderly are being given computer lessons, which would help them access e-bills and save paper.
The club looks much like it used to in the movie ‘Passage to India’, based on EM Forster’s novel. But what is a lesson for us all is the quiet and responsible progress that it has enshrined in itself.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXVI

Finishing school disaster

Some people just don't have it. No matter how hard they try, etiquettes just elude them

I was never very high on etiquettes. Don't get me wrong. It's not like I was trying to break the norms and the shackles of conventional codes of behaviour. I was doing no such thing. I admit that I loathed pretty much everything that the finishing school rule book had to say. But then, I had to live by the book, didn't I? That fetched me comments like, 'what a well brought-up child' or 'she is growing up to be a lovely young woman'.
But such remarks came my way only occasionally. As I said, I was never too good with niceties. Perhaps my true self was a bit troublesome to control. As a child I hadn't become efficient enough in acting and pretending. I tried very hard though. Like, I would hold the door ajar for some nasty distant-relative aunt and even hold her sweaty palms to haul her up the stairs of our house as she was a little too fat (I called her a big fat hen behind her back and she heard, as I said, I was not too good at the act) to climb without effort.
And, as I held the door and she had barely squeezed in, I thought she had made it through the gap and let go of the door and it slammed on her bum. I told you, I was not too good at the act. So, no matter how hard I tried, I slipped and failed. But I never gave up learning. At five-star hotels, I dropped forks. At classy congregations at the elite clubs, I pronounced English words incorrectly, and that, in an effort to sound like BBC. At classical concerts, I asked aloud who was 'that guy' singing.
But I trudged on and gradually, I thught, I had minimised the number of faux pas. I even learnt to wear heels without tripping and people began considering me as quite a prudish, classy lady. Mission accomplished!
Then came a luncheon invite with a retired colonel. That too with one of those foreign-returned aunts. We sat at a garden table on a very primmed lawn, the colonel impressive, and gaunt, in his crisp jacket and tie. The servant brought shandy for the ladies. And I was so parched (for a drink) that I just took my glass right off the tray before the servant could place it, the proper way, on the coasters on the table.
The colonel, being a gentleman, had to overlook his lady guest's utter lack of education. My aunt pinched me under the table. And I said, 'whoa'. Actually, I nearly yelled it. The colonel cringed, the aunt glared, I apologised. Profusely. We went inside for lunch and I was already a little heady with the shandy, the summer breeze, the intoxicating smell of garden flowers. I was loving it, as they would say.
We were seated at the table, happy and all set to satisfy my famished self. Then it dawned on me. I was Vivian. From Pretty Woman people. Of course, not one jot as prety as Julia, but I was her. I had no freaking idea of what the food was, or how to use my spoons (if they could be so called) or when to use them. After a little struggle, with the servants smirking at my predicament, I just dug my fingers into the food-like thing. I was helpless, but they were unforgiving.
A servant walked up and offered to clear my plate and show me to the restroom. Which was also all right. But as I got up, I saw him struggling with my plate and glass and bowl and whatever, and, out of old habit (remember?) held the door open for him. I could hear silent shrieks from every one. That was an absolute disgrace of a conduct. I had broken all idioms, all ethics, all hierarchis that had been carefully constructed by man over centuries. I had breached the border. After a few more strained moments of politeness, we were expelled from the house, never to return again.

Let down your hair, girl!

In our country, rape of the lock is a reality and not a mock-heroic narrative poem

Hair is a big issue. And I had kind of realised that as early as my initial school years. How it happened was through a wedding, or actually through the many events that the led up to that gala marriage and added the finishing touch to it. They (there is no need for specifications, it is always 'they' since it involves just about anybody, even random people) were in a frenzied search for a bride for my uncle. No, I refuse to believe they were looking for a wife for him. It must have been just a bride they wanted, a dool-like creature they could dress up and put up for some kind of exhibition. I was just five, but I had that much sense to figure this out.
They needed her to have big, beautiful eyes, wanted her to be taller then 5 ft, but shorter than 5 ft 4 inches. She had be an awesome cook, adjusting, well-educated but not ever dreaming of working and there was more to the list. So every time we went to some girl's place, I would tag along since the whole family went and they had no one to dump me on. Some of the girls almost natched the catalogue of requirement, and yet got rejected. I soon figured out why. The hair. They measured height, of course, but they measured the length of the hair too. How foolish of me not to have noticed that before.
The hair needed to reach up to the girl's buttocks (pardon my use of language all you sensitive, well-mannered people). Anything less had labels -- extra smart, outgoing, too fashionable for good, modern, disrespectful and even a witch. I had actually liked a girl with the then popular bob cut, and when I expressed my opinion my aunts almost cried and said I was already a lost cause.
They finally found a Rapunzel. At the end of all the ceremonies, they had just one last rite. The bride was made to wash her husband's feet and wipe it with her hair. I had been shocked, but I was a child and gradually outgrew it. I had long enough hair to tie two plaits to school. Then I stepped into teenage and by then, some of the old-schoolers had grown weaker and I was any way not the kind anyone could control.
One day, I cropped my hair. Short enough to make me look like a boy. I returned home on my bicycle, whistling and happy. There were guests at my place and from a distance I could hear the chatter and the laughter. As I approached and the whistling reached their ears, they went quieter. They saw a glimpse of me through the fluttering curtains, and a stony silence fell on the house.
My mother ordered me inside and after the guests had left, a resounding slap fell on my cheek. She cried and told my father she had no idea what crime she had committed inher past life to bear a devil like me. All over the hair. Well, mostly the hair.
In a country like ours, hair is something that invites looks, comments, hoots, but most of all 'traditions'. In the name of tradition, you can make girls use their well-looked after tresses to clean the feet of men. The logic defies me. The ritual disgusts me. The followers of it astound me. I am just glad I still have super short hair. My style, and social, statement.

One in a millennium: Chasing the sun

Bangaloreans spent the day of the solar ecplipse in two ways -- either staring at the sun or locked up indoors

Some people may have cruised all the way to the Maldives to watch the sun play peekaboo, but Bangaloreans who could not get to the most coveted destinations, like Dhanushkodi, are not ruing the fact that they had to stay in the city. City dwellers also got to see the sun sliding slowly behind a shadow and form a perfect, picturesque crescent.
Archana Surendran, a third-year student, just grabbed an old X-ray plate and stood on her terrace. "I watched the sun every few minutes from 12.30 pm to around 1.30 pm. I loved seeing the slow change. What I found more beautiful was the colour of the sky. It was a different shade of blue."
Archana's mother, who was keeping her company, actually pointed out an interesting sight. "Look at the shadows of the leaves of the trees on the walls and the road. They are all crescent or ringlet-shaped, and not actual leaf-shaped. Just like the sun!"
We spoke to a student, Mayukh Agarwal, from VIT who is visiting Bangalore for his holidays. The youngster was all excited. "I am actually from Delhi. But I am so glad that I am in the South right now, because otherwise I would not have been able to see this so nicely," he said, adding, "See, I am doing it properly too. My friend got me eclipse glasses."
Bangalore Planetarium was abuzz, with people from all walks of life and all age-groups gathering to watch this one in a millennium event. Some had even bunked office to be there.
While most were awed by this spectacular celestial show, there were some who did not find it so fascinating. Malathi, a middle-aged lady, had finished breakfast early and had to work in her office all day on an empty stomach. "I can't eat during the eclipse. I will go home, take a shower, cook fresh food and then eat."
What is interesting is that, it isn't just the older generation who are still clinging on to superstitions. Fashion designer Ramesh Dembla had to stay indoors, "thanks to my dear mother". He laughed and said, "To be honest, I watched the eclipse on TV. I was supposed to bathe only after 4 pm. So, the whole day I was on Facebook, and the treadmill while my mother was at prayers and puja. In fact, she told me not to eat, but I secretly grabbed a bite. Let's see how she reacts to that!"
Safala is a young employee of Logica and she stayed indoors all day, preferring to work from home from within her carefully shut doors and windows. She did not eat the whole day. "I will wash myself and eat after three." Even some restaurants, like the Upahara in Cox Town, shut their doors, only to reopen around 4 pm after a puja.
Crusaders of practical, scientific thinking made an attempt to break the myths and fears. At National College Basavanagudi, around 2 pm, many people were seen distributing and eating puffed rice during eclipse. This was done to to make the public more aware about the fact that there is no harm in eating during eclipse.

[Published in Expresso, The New Indian Express on January 16, 2010]

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXV

Not the sunny side up

I will remember this eclipse for sure. For all the wrong reasons

This has to be about the eclipse. There is no other way it can be. And by this time, I am so done with the whole 'the-longest-one-in-the-millennium' line that all the excitement by scientific communities and the fawning over the sun by laymen is irking me to no end. Switch on the television and you hear the same droning sound on every news channel, "We are getting you live pictures from... And we have a special guest from some scientific organisation... Do not see the eclipse with your naked eyes..."
You try to take an auto to office and eclipse intrudes again, "Madam, 15 rupees extra." You ask, your eyes having already popped out of their sockets, "Why?" "Sun eclipse madam." And you scream, "WHAT??" I mean, what bizarre kind of excuse is that? The driver acted as if he was a martyr doing me a favour, risking the danger of the eclipse to take me to office. I kept thinking, he should be the one thanking me since I was the only passenger he would have got with the streets nearly empty. Eclipse, of course.
In the morning, when I just was not prepared to get out of bed, there was a knock on my door. My 50-year-old neighbour's 80-year-old father-in-law had a plate of flowers, incense and sweets. He walked in coolly, after having shoved a sweet into my yet unbrushed mouth.
"You cannot eat anything after this till 3 o' clock. I will empty your fridge because after the eclipse you must cook fresh food and have that." My senses were still not awake and I could not figure out what was happening. He took the incense around all our rooms, driving whatever he though was impure or evil away.
In between, he looked at my book shelves, ran a finger on them, looked at the spot of dust on his fingertip, and gave me an equally dirty look. He went to the guest room, saw the clothes heaped on the bed, got scandalised by my lingerie peeking out from underneath and shot a disgusted expression at me. This is MY house. "I LIKE living like this," my brain screamed. My lips said nothing.
Then, all of a sudden, he ordered in a solemn voice, like he was passing on a family secret to me. "Go and have a bath. Before Rahu swallows the sun." (Rahu indeed!) Then looking at my nearly bare legs (I was wearing shorts), he muttered, "Modern. Bah! No sense of tradition." He turned, "Just go!" Eclipse, of course.
I still don't have any idea why I was actually listening to him, but by the time I had showered, he had cleared my fridge of the food I had planned to eat before leaving for office. I had once tried to pop some biscuits but Jalal auntie spotted me through the window and shouted at me. "You have no respect for elders and tradition. Has your mother not taught you this much? Stop eating!" Tradition? Respect? My mother? What's the connection? Eclipse, of course.
I rushed to office, angry and hungry. So hungry that I was eager for the office idli and coffee. I ran up. A poster screamed at my face in bold letters. 'CANTEEN IS CLOSED FOR ECLPISE. WILL OPEN AT 4 PM.' How could I expect anything otherwise? It was out to eat me. What? Eclipse, of course.

Let there be kites

We negotiated a few narrow, crowded alleyways, dodged tempos and two-wheelers, cows and cars simultaneously with the expertise of video game junkies, while asking people, "Gaalipata?" After a while, we located some of the old shops in the city dedicated to kites, and more kites. Once we had found them, we knew it was well worth the effort.
Makar Sankranthi without the sky being dotted with at least some kites is unthinkable. "A cosmopolitan city like Bangalore has two sides. A traditional event like Makar Sankranthi often gets sidelined. But then, you have people from different parts of the country for whom flying kites on the day is a must," said Pradeep, who is from Gujarat and was buying kites to fly with his son and nephew.
Mohammad Ibrahim, who has been selling kites from his shop in Kumbarpet for the last 30 years, had laid out a colourful fare of various sizes for Pradeep to pick from. "I have designs on kite paper, glitter paper and plastic material. Most of them come from Gujarat, Mumbai and Kolkata."
Mohammad has kept his prices low. "People have to buy them, you see," he said. The shiny, around 2-ft long kites with many patterns and frills are around Rs 15. "Demand has stayed almost same all these years. It picks up a little during Sankranthi," added the shopowner.
As we stood admiring the imports from other cities, two middle-aged men arrived with a pile of the flying wonders. Arif and Wajid, kitemakers from Bangalore, had brought kites that they make from recycled wrappers -- some were made with Marie biscuit packets, others from CCD cookie packs, all sold at just 30 paise a piece. Although the art that has been in their families since their grandfathers' time is dwindling, they, and some others like them who are all from Tannery Road, have stuck to their profession. Their versions may be smaller, but are surely innovative.
But this breed of men are now rare in Bangalore. Narayan, who sells kites in Mavalli, said that nowadays he gets no kites of local make. The proprietor of Altaf Kites, which has been there in Shivajinagar for 50 years, lamented, "Labour has become costlier here. So, we get colourful kites from Jaipur, sturdy ones from Bareilly, and also from Ahmedabad, Mumbai, Kolkata and China. But yes, the manja is made in a Bangalore factory and sent across India."
After the colourful spread, especially at Altaf Kites (anything from Batman to butterflies, 30 cm to 3 ft), we sure hope that more people come back to this slowly dying sport and drape the sky in rainbow colours on Sankranthi.

[Published in Expresso, The New Indian Express on 13.01.2010]

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXIV

Not quite on the wanted list


What do you do when someone clings on to you? Run


"Didi, can I sit beside you please? I want to see how you write."
"Umm... sure, why not?"
I have to admit that I am totally averse to someone staring while I am writing. Although some, even if just a handful, would eventually read the rapid-fire words I type on my computer screen, sometimes doing it so mechanically that I can even doze off while at the task, I don't like it a bit if someone sees it during the process of creation. I feel violated, like someone is encroaching upon my private space.
But I made this one exception. Since the intruder was a junior, just starting out in the professional jungle, I thought it was my moral responsibility to take her under my wings and give her some invaluable guidance.
So she sat there, and after almost every few lines, she had a question. Which was all right since she was there to learn, wasn’t she? But after a few further lines, the questions were gradually metamorphosing into comments.
“You know what, I once wrote a travel piece like this (excuse me!) and I would never put that line like that” or “Don’t you think that’s too poetic?” followed promptly by “Oh, that sounds so dry!”
See, I don’t shout, usually. I try not to be rude, or should I say, honest, putting in a lot of hard work and sweat to be this Mother India prototype and balance and juggle and act to be on everyone’s good books. But even I, the epitome of saintliness, draw a line. With every increment in her familiarity, my jaws hardened, my expression turned from patronising to distant to stony.
Before an eruption though, she had to leave, and I tried to forgive her. She was but a puny, inexperienced nobody. The problem was, she returned, every day and began feeding on my mothering instincts, clinging on to me like a leech.
I was her “role model”, so she would go with me everywhere, to the canteen for a coffee, latching on if I went out for a story, sometimes even waiting in the office till I finished work and tagging along with me saying “I stay only a kilometer from your house" (trust my luck). So, being the 'elder', I had to drop her home first, almost every other day, and throughout the auto ride, I had to listen to her sagas of boyfriends, achievements, illnesses – the last especially for my benefit so that she could go "such a headache", or "I couldn’t sleep all night" any time I assigned her some work. Also, so that she could drain every ounce of my sympathy from me.
The danger signal beeped really loud the day she asked me, "What are you doing this weekend?" "Not too sure. Guess I will go out with my husband." "Oh, okay, I had thought you and I were going out," she said with a pout and an attitude as if I was breaking a vow.
Saturday morning, and I woke up with a smile. I was lazing on the rocking chair with a book, when the bell jangled. There she was. I froze on the spot. "You, what… wow.. how..?" I was stammering as if in an interview."
"I thought you said you wouldn’t be home," her cold stare was killing me, “Anyway, I was just passing, so just thought will check (check what, if I had lied?). Gotta go now, since you are ‘busy’ and all.” The sarcasm oozed out like pus from her mouth.
Next day, at office, she was there. She did not look at me and asked Disha if she was interested in a coffee. “Anyway, I don’t like hanging out with people who fib and act smart," I saw the arched glance she threw at me. I typed away furiously.

Thai delights

Food review

A bit of bamboo work on the ceiling, vessels of cane weave on the walls, traditional Thai music and motifs, and soft, enticing lights -- Mugen, which means dreams and fantasies in Japanese, is a restaurant that can seduce you into the indolent, hedonistic lives of the 'Lotos Eaters'.
This Thai-Indonesian-Chinese restaurant on 100 Ft Road, Indiranagar works its magic as much with the food as with the ambience. The restaurant is hosting a 'Thai Food Festival' to treat you to some rare and authentic Thai dishes. Maqbool Ahmed, restaurant manager, said, "We have selected the best and uncommon dishes for the festival. The recipes have mostly been picked from the Penang and Chiang Mai regions of Thailand."
His claims about authentic but unique preparations are borne out by the choices you have -- a curry favoured with betel leaves (hot spices set off with a dash of the mild coconut milk) or a dessert made of moong bean with chilled coconut milk (a light refreshing drink you can't miss). But what is special about the festive offerings is the great start. When the beginning is so delicious, the meal experience is heightened naturally.
One has to visit Mugen for their starters and even if you have no room for more after them, do not regret it. The succulent, chilli pe naam tok yaang (grilled lamb patties) whose musty meatiness is offset bythe dulcet tones of basil, sprouts and lemon on the non-vegetarian side and the featherweight grathong thong (dices of vegetables in pastry shells) that disappear the moment you pop them on the vegetarian side are irrestible. You should not leave out the corn mince and sesame toast with the hint of fresh turmeric or the fried prawns and wontons. Thai wontons are already tossed in various sauces before being served.
The main course, which can be rated nice, goes well with jasmine steamed rice or fried rice with shrimp paste. Seasonal vegetables in a tangy sauce or chicken with water chestnut and celery are good options. And if you are a group of six or more, just advance book the Chef's Table to be royally treated with a simiulation of Thai floor-seating and Benjarong crockery. for bookings call 080-41481414.

Published in The New Indian Express on January 8, 2010

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXIII

It's all in the brotherhood

We may be into 2010, but all modernism evaporates when we are accosted by some old hag

12 o'clock is always my Cinderella hour. And it doesn't change even on the last day of the year. Or on the first. As the seconds hand inched towards midnight, a sudden hush fell in the otherwise really noisy party. Everyone took deep breaths so that they could shout their loudest when 2010 finally arrived. So we all did that, the whole routine -- the "woo hoos" and "haaappy new yeeeear guys" and the hugging and the drunk "oh people, don't go back to Delhi (or wherever else), we miss you sooooo much!"
But the moment the digital clock flashed 12:01 -- no, things did not change drastically, the music was still on, we were doing the wild dance, and glasses were clinking endlessly; but still, the moment it was past 2009, the thrill we were all waiting for had come like an mischievous nymph, who teased us for a while, eluded us and slipped away. The Cinderella hour was gone, the magic was over, life was going to be back to normal.
Absolutely back to normal is what I mean. A few more minutes, and I was giving my friend J a tight, emotionally-charged, happy-new-year hug. That was it -- the last straw for Mrs Nair auntie, who had been spying on us from her balcony all the while. She knocked, and I was so pleased to see this otherwise superciliously preachy and uninteresting lady coming to wish us at the right time of the night.
"What do you think you are doing?" she said in a stern voice. The question was intended for me, and although I am nearing 30, I whimpered like a school girl, clueless, "New year party. Why auntie?"
"You drinking? You making noisy music, we did not say anything. Everyone sleeping, and yet you do all this, we did not say anything," her livid voice was rising in a crescendo above the loud music.
"But, do you have husband or what?" she screeched at me. The question sounded to me like whether I have an iPod, or the plate in which she had given us gobi sabzi last week. My vodka shot filled mind was utterly at a loss -- why was she asking this when my husband was standing right beside me? "You hug another man like that! How, how...phht?" So scandalised was she that she was at a loss of words.
I could have, and should have given it back to her. But, I had to redeem my goody girl image. "He is my brother auntie." Well, J is a blonde American, so Nair auntie's suspicions rose. So, "My uncle married foreigner. He is the son," and I gave her an entire choclate cake as a new year's gift, and sent her off while she keot on saying, "Oh beta, what's the need for this? You enjoy, enjoy..."