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..."