Come the Eighth of March and the world is awash in pink. Women’s Day Wishes fly around like so many interdepartmental memos in the ‘Ministry of Magic’ a la` Harry Potter world. There are promotions and promises, programs and prizes and articles (mea culpa) and awards which begin anywhere between a month to a day in advance. Everyone and their aunt and uncle ‘celebrate’ womanhood. Having made the right noises, everything is then wrapped in cotton wool and laid away carefully awaiting the next yearly outing.
It is an open secret that women in many societies are a repressed lot who carry the heavier end of the stick. A day to celebrate them is therefore a small way of acknowledging them and their vast contributions to society. It is an occasion for acceptance and appreciation which otherwise remains confined to the background. An occasion when the mostly voiceless are given a chance to be vociferous.
If the greetings which make their way on social media are to be believed, all women are possessed with superhuman powers, which become apparent only on the eighth of March. Perhaps they are hiding under a bushel the rest of the year? Touted as multitasking individuals, who can not only take on but also finish every assigned job at the drop of a hat, women are placed at the pinnacle of impossible achievements. Most media outlets, whether conventional or social seem to abound in achievers who are swiftly felicitated to make the correct corporate statements. Women of all shapes and sizes put their feet up, let their hair down and a general good time is had by all. So far, so fair and so frothy.
At the cost of sounding cynical, or even worse, critical of my own kind, I say that Women’s Day though important, nevertheless plays more on women’s inherent need of acceptance and appreciation than any concrete agenda for true emancipation. In many cases, it devolves into a feel-good thing to assuage the guilt which has built up over the course of the remaining three hundred and sixty- four days of the year. Something akin to offering a candy to a child to divert its attention from a badly scraped knee. While the candy is a good idea, the real need is to clean and dress the knee so that it can speed up the healing process.
It is but natural that men and women are different. Nature, of course has a strict no exemptions rule. Women trying to equal men in certain respects is simply not feasible. Nor should they try to. What is needed is for them to find common ground and let each other be, without stereotyping roles for either. The fine line which divides them, and believe me it still exists, needs to be not so much erased as annihilated, through genuine camaraderie, without continually viewing the other as a mercenary adversary. The discovery that they complement each other in more ways than thought possible can be liberating, while giving each other a more sympathetic outlook to the hurdles the other faces. And thus, the lofty ideal of the two being the two wheels of a chariot can spring to life instead of staying confined to the imaginary world of writers and their ilk. As long as the chariot runs smoothly, no one said anything about the wheels being exactly the same, the Tata Nano with its mismatched front and rear wheels being a prime example.
What we as women need, is to stop seeking validation not just for everything we do, but in some cases for our very existence. Strangely there is a flip side to this, in which some women expect to be continually complimented and lauded for being women, conveniently divesting themselves of traditional roles while staunchly refusing to don new ones. This will merely have the effect of widening the gap between the genders till it becomes first a chasm and then a yawning void. If it is equality that we seek, then it is important to remember that it works both ways. Act like a hot-house flower all you like, but then stop complaining about being confined to the hot house.
If we take pride in being touted as complete beings and truly believe in it then we will experience complete contentment too, without unnecessary competition. No one doubts that a fight for rights IS the right fight, but to fight just for the sake of ‘one upmanship’ would be akin to accepting defeat. It is the belief of the world in general and India in particular that women even after being awarded equal rights need to ‘prove’ themselves. This is equal to proclaiming males to be something more. Who suffers in this case? Women of course! By being trapped in their own thoughts and minds.
It is time for women to seek true equality and liberation. Equality in the eyes of the law, in family matters and in available opportunities. It is time to embrace the essence of ourselves, which make us different, unique even. The day we decide not to indulge the need of unnecessary competition with men, will be the day when we will truly wake. We will make our own pedestals and keep them in what will be truly our own space. Each day will be earmarked, because a single day to celebrate us is not enough. Every day will be ‘Women’s Day’!
‘Honest men cannot be expected to anticipate the actions of scoundrels’
I really get Trevor Noah and his classy wit. Especially his take on the ‘civilizational revolution’ which much of Europe foisted on the rest of the world. Of course, the bitter pill of loot, pillage and plunder was cleverly concealed under the sickly- sweet coating of ushering, (read dragging, kicking and screaming) the heathen natives, who did not know any better into the modern age, with its concepts of equality, prosperity and that elusive concept called freedom. It was a promise of a utopian world, were no one would be exploited, everyone would work together for the greater good and mutual brotherhood would rain upon all and sundry like manna from heaven. It was the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the mythical rainbow which when reached would lead humanity towards a bright new dawn.
Well, utopian dreams have a strange way of remaining only dreams and staying as far away as possible from coming true. And this is precisely what happened when the world engaged in a horrendous experiment called colonization. For us lucky ones, who were born with a sky to call our own, it might be difficult to fully understand carrying (in most cases literally) the white man’s burden of ill-conceived thought that anyone who was a shade darker was in severe need of redemption which could only be got through the good interventions of the West. When natives after suffering tremendously decided that enough was enough and began warming to the idea of claiming their bit of the earth (unfortunately with all its bounties), sea and sky as their own, it was as if the earth shook under their expensively shod feet and sure enough, sturdy native boots landed on their backsides to send them back to where they came from. Adding insult to injury, the natives gradually proved themselves to be as good if not better at managing their countries and themselves. True, there were the initial hiccups, an odd famine here, a few wars there but on the whole, the whole operation was rubbing along far more smoothly than imagined. No one had recalled their erstwhile masters to rule them again, on bended knee, a secret Western aspiration. However, absolute power not only corrupts absolutely but also leaves a rankling lust for it behind long after it has been lost.
And thus began an even more dangerous game: one of dissemination. The old slave and master mentality no longer fit into the concept of the post war (both world wars and cold war) world. And thus, much of the colonized world had to be subtly pointed to the direction in which the old colonial masters wanted it to go. The right noises made at the right times, much hot air about human rights and stirring up trouble where there was none later, the world was beset with wars (evident in Iraq, Syria and Afghanistan), economic crises (Pakistan, Venezuela and Sri Lanka) and several other man- made calamities including climate change. It was of course, so much easier to lecture others on what was right and wrong than it was to follow what one preached.
And when a busybody nonagenarian called Soros, in keeping with his name decided to add to the collective sorrows, well, every dark cloud had an even darker lining. A wonderful concept called the ‘Open Society’ was his beloved brain-child. It meant to do away with national borders and the recognition of different countries in what was to be a ‘truly global’ world. Old wine in a new bottle if ever there was. It was of course, a brilliant concept on paper but essentially flawed because the king-emperor, commander and high priest of this cabal in high places was to be Soros himself, who would not only decide who would rule where and how, but put his chosen ones on their respective thrones and made sure they stayed there. It was loot and plunder by proxy. Open Society would remain open as long as you toed his line. Questioning led to it closing its jaws faster than you could say ‘trap’ and more often than not taking a good chunk of your economy, peace and land with it. Several smaller countries ranging from the African to the South American succumbed to this, for want of a better name, underhanded warfare which relied heavily on arms, oil and pharmaceuticals. An attempt in vain by an equally vain individual at playing ‘I am the king of the world’.
Since biblical times, the love of money has been described as the ‘root of all evil’ and our man of the many sorrows excelled at economic warfare. Trained at the knee of the master marauders (read London School of Economics), he made the better part of his considerable fortune by shorting the pound against the Deutsche Mark, earning the sobriquet of the ‘Raider of the Bank of England’. The dramatic fall of the Thai Baht and Malaysian Ringgit was also purportedly born of his fertile imagination, though never ‘proved beyond reasonable doubt’. After many such little debacles the world over, it was time to stage a big ‘kheddah’ to net the Great Indian elephant, especially when the denizens of the Indian jungle had had the temerity to elect a nobody who had not trod the hallowed halls of a few of the accepted temples of learning (western thought at its best and brightest) like Cambridge to the highest political post of the country. Not only was the man a forthright nationalist, but a staunch Hindu. The situation was simply untenable.
An uncouth brown man in a position of power! Especially an incorrigible one who could not be bought lock, stock and barrel. Who insisted on setting a nor’nor’east course when told to take the sou’sou’west. Who traded with the likes of the ruffianly Putin and bought and sold oil with impunity. The man had even exhorted his blighted country to come up with a new internet payment system to put paid to any ‘blockage’ sanctions from the West. Talk about a permanent cure for the various constipated nations of the world. A good part of the billion- dollar fortune pledged during the Davos summit had already been spent in half-baked attempts to bring about a regime change during the 2019 general elections, which had unfortunately fallen flat on their faces.
India of course was always a double-edged sword. While a quite a few people, especially in the fourth pillar of democracy could be easily ‘funded’ (read bought) and implanted to peddle their narratives, the number of people buying into it without reasoning for themselves were gradually diminishing, thanks to another revolution of recent times: the internet invasion, which allowed multiple forms of the same story to make its way around the world simultaneously. This of course gave rise to that biggest nightmare of the would-be supremacist: an ability to think and reason. The idea of toppling the Modi Government had latched onto several nefarious minds and the sorrows of Soros were intended to rain down through the stock market. An attack on a big business house, the owner of which was always in the news for more of the wrong reason of being the power behind the Modi puppet, never mind that he commanded a port-to-power conglomerate was the piece`-de-resistance that would send the entire Indian economy into free-fall beyond the point of no return.
The public sector banks which had lent lakhs of crores thanks to ‘crony capitalism’ would bear the brunt taking with them the small savings of the common man. When food was whisked away from the table, there would be chaos, fostered by a few discreetly placed rioters who would covertly carry out their master’s bidding in return for the thirty shekels of silver. If Jesus could be betrayed, Modi was small fry. But that was not to be. The Indian stock market took a hit, but the welcome spectacle of a blood bath did not follow as expected. Moreover, the banks had the temerity to declare that they were not as exposed to the business house as claimed, leading to the exposure of an old man who was still trying to play the obsolete game of White supremacy, sinning in trying to cause unnecessary sorrows.
In a way, we have Georgie-Porgie with his puddings and pies to thank for revealing the chinks in India Inc.’s armor so that we who have grown steadily to become the fifth largest economy in the world are not caught napping the next time a damp squib called Hindenburg Research tries to cheaply spook our economy and get away with it. Maybe it is time for George Soros to learn from Brendan Fraser to become ‘George of the Jungle’ the ‘all round good guy’, loved by all instead of going down in history as the ‘George Sorrows the Scoundrel’, the ‘all round bad guy’, despised by all.
The great thing about democracy is that it gives every voter a chance to do something stupid’
Art Spander
Winter is on the wane. The sun comes a beckoning earlier and earlier and looks at me curled up cozily under a duvet with a stern eye. “Get up woman”, it admonishes with its rays. “Get up and walk”. When the entire solar system following the sun’s diktats without a murmur of protest, I am really small fry. I haul myself out. Reluctant and rather cross I don the walking shoes and a pullover to ward off the three days of chill which we Thanekars proudly tout as the good weather. For good measure, I also wrap a muffler across the lower part of my face, where it flaps desultorily in response to my brisk step.
“Good morning!”, calls out a pesky and scarily perky person, hustling past. As I think black thoughts about the morning not being so good after all, he jogs past again, even as I huff and puff on my way. This time, he gestures at my muffler. “Are you on your way to join the yatra?”. “What is that?” I wonder peering around blearily for a large crowd to appear on the horizon, because I am never at my best and brightest this early in the morning. Deciding not to cross him for a third time and be bombarded with more questions, I change track and walk away in search of quieter climes. But I seem to be out of luck. I spot three or four other acquaintances and they all ask me if I am joining the yatra and all of them seem to look askance at my muffler.
Deciding that I have appeased the sun enough, I decide to make a bee-line for home and perhaps try and get to the bottom of this yatra affair, when I am accosted by the offspring, no sooner I open the door. She promptly falls about laughing at what she terms my ‘unwittingly hilarious’ appearance. It turns out to be the muffler after all, which I had been suspecting as a culprit for some time now. I pause to take a look at the headlines on my phone, catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror and nearly drop my phone in horror. No wonder people think I am joining in the yatra which is making news. With my muffler, I bear an uncanny (and totally un-necessary) resemblance to a mendicant politician who is following the steps of Adi Shankaracharya in an attempt to traverse the length of the country.
With a gasp of panic, I rip the muffler from my face and feel my cheeks for good measure, to ensure that I have removed every bit of the offending wool and not grown a forest replete with its own ecosystem on my cheeks in the half hour that I have been wrapped in the muffler. Thankfully I have not. A rejuvenating cup of tea later, I am pondering the ‘humongous’ trek meant to join the country, pretty much in the way of a tailor regarding a shredded piece of cloth and putting it together again by a stitch here, a tuck there and a zip somewhere else. Humpty Dumpty MUST be put together again, even though he is not broken.
But the more I ponder, the more baffled I am. What exactly is the purpose of walking, living in an airconditioned container and wasting five months pouring trouble on oiled waters (yes, that spoonerism was intended) is something I absolutely do not understand. What I find even more baffling is the statements issued which range from outrageous to downright silly, when a well-respected and somewhat venerable person, who is a youth leader nonetheless says that he embarked on this journey to heal the nation of hate, but found it brimming with love instead. I beg to ask, did his minions not conduct a proper survey? Was there no ground work done before sending a middle- aged man on a wild goose chase? Maybe the grand old party was looking for a grander party on the road what with several other ‘Junta Sewaks’ playing hooky from day jobs, members of ‘civil society’ getting into the spirit and actors, writers, thinkers, bankers, and not quite a few wankers joining in with gusto.
Of course, Indian politics, right, left or center is filled with gimmicks and if the grand old party were to be involved in anyway, it has to be the grandest gimmick of them all. And this is what precisely happened. Much rhetoric, renaming of roads, a few choice speeches in the dripping rain and whirling snow, a couple of quick flits home and possibly abroad in hired helicopters, a vain attempt at turning into Hagrid with a beard thick enough for birds to nest in and several new sobriquets like ‘Tapasvi’, ‘Sanyasi’ and ‘Awam ki Awaaz’ later, the great Indian joining trip finally ended in Srinagar in the midst of flurries of snow and the nation collectively wanted to know if the several news channels which had hardly covered anything else could now go back to their regular jobs and show the actual happenings around the country and the globe.
According to polls run by several sites, popularity or should we say Pappularity ratings are soaring and we apparently have an old prime-ministerial candidate newly back in the ring, joints all limbered up and well oiled, thanks to the joining exercise, raring to go. The venerable seventy-something Prime Minister apparently does not stand a chance against this bright-eyed and bushy bearded fifty something who can make intelligent conversation on the state of the economy, the roads and how he has killed himself in the same sentence. No wonder that if nothing else, New India has a strong vision as far as joining minds, hearts, souls, houses, businesses, families, and communities goes. If the joining Juggernaut has his way, the golden days of ‘Din- E-Ilahi’ are not far behind. All that remains is for arthrologists to take a few tips from this vision of a perfectly seamless joiner to ensure that none of the joints in the human body ever go wrong again. A tall order, but I am sure a true tapasvi will always be ready to help.
Now that Republic Day is past, the great Indian Juggernaut has finally rolled to a stop in Srinagar where the national flag was hoisted amidst much fanfare and most people who have been walking the talk or talking the walk have returned to their day jobs which are a lot of fun since they involve daily disruptions, much mud-slinging, an appropriate number of allegations, stalling scheduled work and generally thwarting the other denizens of Sansad Marg and South Bloc who are struggling to go about their daily work. Perhaps the citizens are already missing their daily dose of laughter, the best medicine.
In the meanwhile, my joints are feeling disjointed, as if they have been pulverized by the joining Juggernaut. No longer wanting my muffler to be mistaken for Hagrid’s beard, I have decided to resume my swimming schedule in response to the sun’s summons. Also, I am firm in my view that if I need another Juggernaut, I am visiting Jagannath of Puri, the original one who truly does join us all!
Back in October 2022, thanks to the prodding of a good surgeon friend of mine, I had an epiphany like Munnabhai in ‘Lage Raho Munnabhai’. Luckily, I did not see visions of Bapu (a sure shot one way ticket to the mental health facility for which Thane is famous). Instead, I saw visions of myself sailing away into the sunset for three whole days, luckily unaccompanied by my prince or the little princess. Before you get any ideas, I was NOT going to look for new ones. It was to catch up with several someones even better: my friends from that happy time more than twenty years ago, when I actually had a waist, naturally black hair, and eyes which could see without any prosthetic aids. Always the one to leap before I looked, I allowed myself to be swept away on a rising tide of happiness and booked myself onto a ship which would reunite the class of 1994 and while apparently sailing us to Goa and back over a span of a few memorable days and nights would actually be a journey down a lane of memories which can only be wrought when you are undergraduates together. To tell the truth, I was a tad ashamed when friends pointed out that I was failing to participate when said cruise was a stone’s throw away where as others were flying in literally from all over the globe.
Now that I was signed up, I started trying to net “fresher catch” (read other friends). Finally, at a total of just over fifty, we were ready to cast off during the first weekend of the glad, mad New Year. Discovering that my slightly sadistic vein was still alive and well, I announced to the spouse and the offspring that they could slog while “I would be on a cruise having a good time” with much unwarranted glee. The first sign of signing on for much more than I had bargained for came in the form of a ‘dress code’ which would require much more than sixty shades of shopping. When the opinion poll on clothes which I was seeking started dragging for more than two weeks, I finally put a sock on it, and set out to shop, the recent Diwali debacle firmly banished to the dark depths of memory. By the time the clothes, the looks, the cosmetics, accessories, alterations, footwear, salon visits and the million other things which go into stepping on a boat with your buddies were sorted, I felt as drained as if I had personally built the ship from keel to mast. The spouse and the offspring who had watched ruefully from the side lines bid me a relieved good bye before collapsing thankfully on the sofa with a sigh of relief. It had been a difficult two weeks.
With a slight feeling of trepidation, I finally set out after obsessive planning on where to become ‘a lady who lunched’, worrying about whether the café I chose would be good enough, whether my friends would lose their way in the lanes of mercenary Mumbai, and most important of all whether they would recognize the matronly, middle- aged consultant as the svelte student of yore who had parted ways more than two decades ago. A hearty lunch later, I was laughing all the way to the dock for letting such dim-witted doubts to trickle in. It was an important lesson: some friends were for keeps and you could carry on as if you never left off in the first place.
Having thankfully seen that most of us were merrily ensconced in the ‘golden middle group’, the task of onerously hauling our humungous suitcases up a rather steep gangway seemed daunting to most, especially when some perilously teetered on heels three inches high, while taking a million selfies at the same time. I thought I saw a gleam in the eyes of our orthopedician friends, whether in anticipation of several pretty patients, or of tedious duty a la` residency remained to be seen, but I will go in favour of the former! During the short walk from shore to ship, one learnt the art of elegant selfie-taking on steep surfaces, but more on that later.
After being welcomed with larger- than- life enthusiasm by the staff, the smaller than anticipated cabins lent a whole new meaning to ‘close quarters’, but it was all part of the fun. It really did not faze any of the Mumbai residents, used as we were to everyday cheek- by-jowl living but denizens of more spacious habitats must have found it more in your face than bargained for. Luckily, my roomie and I shared a neat freak obsession and our cabin remained a model one at all times without any clothes bombs exploding anywhere. A larger- than -warranted hearted intensivist immediately took on ‘housekeeping’ the next day and greeted us at odd hours and even odder places clad in a snow-white lungi which was sure to turn funny colours like his shirt if he really did all the work expected of him. Despite us thanking him for his cooperation several times, he played his chosen role to the hilt, by smartly disappearing when called upon to clean up.
In hindsight (and I sure that our entire team of opthalmologists would agree), the cabin size was a great idea for it drove us all on deck so that we would watch Mumbai harbour crawl with vessels of all kinds in the backdrop of a hazy sunset. It was where I learnt that there was an art called ‘seventy shades of selfies’, of individuals, groups, groups of groups, selfies of other people taking selfies, selfies of groups taking selfies and various permutations and combinations which would make S. Ramanujan rethink the entire theory of probability. The ship finally sailed, not into the sunset, but into the darkness, Mumbai, a cluster of lights on the horizon. Some glad-rags and fancy footwear later, we were again on deck, to begin the fancy footwork (read dance) of which I was happy to be a bit of a fringe element in the beginning. But the tunes were too catchy, and the enthusiasm too much for the most recalcitrant and soon most of us shaking a leg with abandon. So far, so great. The selfie lesson learnt I did not think that I could be schooled in much more. Little did I realize that the real classes would begin early the next day, for when you relived your college days, could early lectures be far behind?
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PART TWO
The sun woke up the next day and wondered whether it should check itself into a hospital for a sharp attack of jaundice. The deck was a mass of various shades of yellow. Daffodil, ochre, chrome, lemon, mango and neon all fought for their rightful place under the gently reeling sun. Van Gogh and Wordsworth must have been peering down benevolently from above at a scene resembling ‘Starry Night’ and a host of golden daffodils, a classic case of ‘Ek pe Ek free’. After mumbling ‘Shining in the rising sun like a pearl upon the ocean’ a few times under my breath, I immersed myself in the bright plans for the bright day. Today was indeed the big one, what with a photoshoot in the morning and a gala private party at night in which the good stuff including casks of mead and wine would flow freely.
Finally buttonholing myself into a blazer bought for precisely this occasion, I tip-tapped my way around the ship in heels which brought howls of protest from my feet, picking up pictures as I went. Both of our extremely able organizers were opthalmologists (all the better to keep a sharp eye on things, my dear) and hence able to spot little groups getting together at the distance of a hundred paces. By dint of cajoling, yelling and good old-fashioned threatening, the shriller of the two finally got us into a large group and another enterprising physician sweet-talked an amused co passenger into photographing us all from a higher level. The son of one of our class mates, did not need any cajoling and deciding that there had to be at least one adult in the group calmly took on the responsibility too. In the meantime, the rest of us behaved like school children who have been abandoned to their own devices by tired teachers. We got into groups, bickered, pulled faces, pointed at each other in photographs and generally behaved in ways which would have had patients running for cover.
Deciding that our wilder shenanigans were better carried out in a place far from the gawking crowds, we retreated to the relative quiet of the aft deck where we were once again marshalled into place according to specialities by our beloved tyrannical ophthalmologist to walk the ramp. The anaesthetists fell asleep on the job, causing the surgeons to shudder and the orthopedics to obsess. The eye people grabbed eye-balls with an impromptu little dance at the sight of which the gynaecologists got carried away as usual to gyrate with abandon. The physicians all carried their hearts on their sleeves while the neuro guys tried their best to make sense of what was happening (and probably failed). The radiologists decided to send out an SOS on the ship’s radio, but no joy. The nuclear medicine guy went nuclear at all that went on. I looked about vainly for my brethren, those three headed experts of ears, noses and throats only to remember that they had all bailed out the day before, leaving me to hold the fort alone, feeling like Cerberus, the giant three headed dog who guarded the gates of Greek hell.
I also tried a few stupid things while stone-cold sober like climbing ladders in tippy-tappy heels (not advised), and trying to recall the past day’s lesson and filling my protesting phone with too many pictures than deemed healthy. An exhausting morning of cat-walking later, as we finally made our way to lunch, it was as if the years had fallen away to reveal the youth and abandon which lurked beneath the acquired trappings of sophistication which time had made us don over the years.
It was only at lunch and after that I realized exactly how much planning goes into the packing involved while setting out on a cruise. Everywhere I looked were pretty women whom I thought I recognized. Of course, I did. They were my friends. But where on earth did they find the time and patience to change into better and better costumes every two hours? Or was it every twenty minutes? I stared like a bumpkin at the display of skirts, pants, shirts, jeans, pantsuits, dresses in varying lengths and colours of the rainbow, and everything in between. Enough stuff to kit out Barney’s New York, Harrods, London and leave some over for good ol’ Desi Westside, Mumbai. Deciding that I had to learn to pick some brains regarding the finer nuances of packing, I made my way back to my cabin deciding to lie low from the one thousand and one photographs which seemed to be following me around like the ghost of the Arabian Nights.
Come evening and it was the time to party, with a capital P. The good staff of the cruise had earmarked a private space for our use (they had decided that we were better off hidden away before we gave our shipmates any ideas). A couple of crooners, bartenders and a competent DJ later, ‘Take the world and paint it red’ had taken on a whole new meaning. The dance floor heaved, the music throbbed and even the staid teetotalers had brought their favourite step to the floor. Waving arms, kicking heels, bobbing heads and clapping hands brought out the ‘josh’ like no other. Twirls, whirls and flying curls only spelt out what we had known all along: the best times are best spent with friends.
A wonderful live music program seemed a befitting way to end a day which had left us all saying “Yeh Dil Maange More”.
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PART THREE
When the ship finally docked in Goa, we still had miles to go before the thought of sleep even entered our rewired minds. By now, we considered ourselves experts on egging each other on into evil ways and several plans for the day were made and unmade, each more hilarious than the last. Just as I rubbed at my sore ankles finally glad that ‘well-heeled day’ was safely behind me, I realized that the ethnic photo shoot was still on the agenda. After all the literal and figurative pains that had gone into the hunting and gathering for this single outfit, it made little sense to give it short shrift by missing out on the heels.
So, after mentally promising the protesting sore muscles a rejuvenating week of flats only, the heels were again pulled on and the aft deck reached. After gossiping with Mr. Sun the day before, Mr Wind who was of the opinion “Why should Sun have all the fun” had joined us on deck and it was soon a tale of whipping pallus, hair, saris and dupattas. Any innocent bystander could have been forgiven for believing that he had meandered into the set of a Karan Johar magnum opus crossed with Spielberg’s Titanic if the poses, colours, drapes, shades, not to speak of the incessant clicks of camera phones were anything to go by. And thus, we would have continued merrily adding madness to method if it were not for a friendly visitor.
It was later revealed that the tales of our exploits and escapades had reached Arabia and caught the attention of a local Sheikh who owned four oil wells. He had immediately chartered some form of transport (whether it was a plane, yacht or good ol’ flying carpet is yet unknown) and had landed in our midst before you could say ‘Wallah Habibi!’. We were summarily herded into a vast meeting room where he not only performed magic tricks but also enlightened us about his tricks in trade which involved keeping his oil wells and large family which included four wives in some semblance of order. It was an extremely interesting hour since neither him nor us could understand each other, were it not for another even more multi-talented cardiologist who volunteered to translate and promptly got lost in translation himself. All that we were privy to was a lot of vigorous nodding and waving of the hands. The four wives were mentioned at least four times and peace prevailed. It was only when the Sheikh began to glow like a mini sun that we realized that the thawb and kaffiyeh hid the insouciant charm of our friendly anaesthetist at which point he decided to make himself scarce. A charming dance in good Indian ishtyle was sorely needed to soothe our hot sand parched selves and it was put on immediately by another friend who was as nimble and graceful with her feet as she was with her fingers.
After all the excitement of the morning, what we were looking for was a fitting finale and it happened our way in the form of a live musical in the evening to be followed by a late- night burlesque show. The little stampede for tickets which occurred would have caused many a wildebeest of the Masai Mara to doff their hats and point to us with pride. Luckily the tickets were sought, got and we were ready to settle down to the shows without a second thought. The shows were great no doubt, but what was even better was the nostalgia created by rushing to ‘catch’ the good seats so that the whole group could be seated together, the constant hubbub as people made themselves comfortable, the shifting and adjusting to make room for one more, some more selfies, the slightly ribald remarks and the whistling which now had to share space with the ‘OOOOOOOO’ yell from the movie ‘Kantara’. It was the stuff of legend, as if we had never left college after all. Long after the burlesque dancers had called it a night, some of us still stuck to our guns in refusing to call it a night, simply because we wanted to remain in this happy bubble, headier than the best champagne.
When Mumbai loomed large on the horizon the next morning, I am sure everyone longed for a time-turner, but alas, this was the one magic which was beyond the ken of even the most competent and cleverest amongst us. These short days stolen from busy lives deserved an unreserved salute. To all those who had attended from far and near and to those who could not, but were always with us in spirit. A salute to those who unflinchingly took up the responsibility of organization from the actual planning and coordination, to arranging the casks of good stuff, to all those who took photographs with uncharacteristic patience and of course all those who patiently posed for them. Perhaps our bags were a little heavier as we hauled them down the gangway, because now in addition to all that they had before, they were also filled with memories. Perhaps we had found our time turners after all, because we had discovered that we really had not changed that much at all.
When it was time to return to many different worlds, we knew that distances, designations, degrees and faces would change but one part of us would always remain the class of ’94……
Pictures: Courtsey Dr. Prasad Bhukebag and Dr. Rajeev Gothe
“Many people look forward to the New Year for a new start on old habits”
Unknown
It takes a lot of time and effort to get the timing right. The New year seems to have managed it exceptionally well this year, what with New Year’s Eve falling on a Saturday which seems entirely appropriate. In addition, people (those of blessed short memory) have forgotten the virus which was a-lurking until last year and are thus set to give an entirely new meaning to the word ‘merry-making’ before you can say Ho-Ho-Ho! If the one hundred and fifty thousand drinking permits issued in the rather strait-laced city of Pune are anything to go by, I shudder to think of the situation in Delhi and Namma Bengaluru! Surely, the roads and alleys are going to be awash in the good stuff as far as the eye can see. People in the streets, wheeling and dealing and then some good old homeward reeling! Promises to be great fun.
New beginnings mean new innings, another chance to set out and achieve all that you meant to. Thus, the New Year fills me with a new found piety. Resolutely planning to turn over a new leaf and becoming the best version of myself, I plan to develop a will of iron, firmly turning my back on all that appears even faintly illicit. A cleansed person is what I resolve to become. To conveniently forget my little trysts with cleansing anything, myself included and the grief that inevitably follows in its wake. If a great Greek hero like Hercules was reduced to tears, having had to divert an entire river to cleanse the Augean stables, well to quote a Hindi saying, yours truly is a mere ‘kis khet ki muli’.
My list of great resolutions goes something like this:
Learn to wake up with the sun (in true Mumbai spirit, overtake the sun if possible)
Eat healthy (nibble on salad leaves, fruit and the like. Don’t even think of Vada Pav)
LOSE THE FLAB! (at least five kilograms in a month, I know I am being more idealistic than realistic)
Be more assertive (read DO NOT let the spouse and offspring walk all over you)
Learn a new skill (wearing properly coordinated clothes is an important life -skill in my case)
And so on and so forth. The list of resolutions grows like Hydra heads. Chop one off and two more immediately sprout in its place.
And so, I await the New Year with much eagerness, armed to the teeth with my lists of resolutions and even a list of the lists. That I will soon be fighting a losing battle is the furthest thing from my mind, even though I have as much ‘exprience’ in this as Meenamma had in running away from home in the singularly popular ‘Chennai Express’. And so, I ring in the new with much gusto, already half-way to turning over a new leaf.
A happy week of cleansing and detoxing (which any bride-to-be would be proud to emulate before her big day) follows. The night-watchman has the pleasure of seeing me jog out of the gate at 5.30am on the dot for the first couple of days. The 5.30am gradually starts veering towards 5.45 and then 6am and the jog slows to a walk and a final crawl, until about ten days I am greeted with a “Do din se aap dikhe nahin, Madamji? Beemar ho gaye kya jaldi uth ke?” when he is about to go off duty at eight in the morning. I rub my still bleary eyes, mumble something about the offspring having an early class and vanish before he thinks of a closer cross-examination. That my arm involuntarily springs out from between the sheets at least ten times to hit snooze every ten minutes is a state secret which must never be divulged. Early January in Mumbai is a time when you are not driven out of bed because you are sweating profusely and I am determined to make the most of it.
“Do not despair” is my motto for the year. I decide that a single resolution falling by the wayside is nothing to get all hot and bothered about. Four others are awaiting to test my mettle. The healthy eating brings a howl of protest from the help, “Didi, how much salad must I chop every day? I am working overtime at your place!” The unspoken threat of claiming said overtime hangs in the air. The offspring and the spouse are vying with each other to develop new looks of deep disgust at the boiled-steamed- raw fare which is dished up in the new year, until they lose all semblance of patience and refuse to sit down at the table if a single salad sans dressing is spotted anywhere within a radius of one kilometer. I spend longer and longer hours in the kitchen soothing frayed tempers with delectable dishes, while my frayed nerves gradually get the better of me. On the day the help marches in waving her resignation under my nose, I crumble before you can say “Oh, Crumbs”, and samosa and fried fish are reinstated to power after the brief sojourn of salad and fruit.
Now that the first two resolutions have followed the divine decree of “Dust we are and unto dust we return”, the six-hundred and fifty grams of weight which I had so proudly lost promptly decides to reinvade and reclaim lost territory. Methinks Modiji should take a lesson from the lard and reclaim PoK pronto. He is sure to meet with unmitigated success. Perhaps if it is not too late to worm my way into the Padma Awardees list, I am ready to forward this suggestion to the PMO in the hopes of getting a stray one, but no joy. Giving the weighing scale a wide berth, I sadly fold up the whole new wardrobe which I had so proudly purchased and slip back into the old loose clothes who welcome me with open arms like the friends in need that they are.
Now desperate to make up lost ground, my meek self suddenly turns assertive and begins (or at least tries) to order first the offspring and then the spouse hither, tither and yon to do my bidding, both big and small. Seeing me abjectly disappointed by the short duration of my other resolutions, the offspring initially gives in with good grace because she is a sensitive little soul. The spouse in the meanwhile looks attentive, nods his head vigorously and makes himself scarce only to reappear at some unearthly hour when I have fallen asleep out of sheer exhaustion, unable to bark out orders like a field marshal or check whether he has carried out the ones issued earlier, to the letter. Barking dogs, however are known for their inability to bite and after about a week, my new assertiveness has grown old, the spouse has started showing up early and both, he and the offspring have started treating me to the familiar eyeroll and “Let us humor the lady” attitude. In response, I rollover and play dead as usual. I think the Indian Cricket Team learnt how to give a ‘walkover’ at my knee. With assertiveness dead and buried, peace reigns over the household for some time.
When I walk into the offspring’s room with my new found skill of color coordinated dressing, I am treated to the kind of explosion which was heard by the good citizens of Hiroshima and Nagasaki upon the advent of the atomic bomb. Only, in my case, it is the offspring doubled over and ROFLing (roll on floor laughing for the uninitiated) at the sight of me. “Where is my mom and what have you done with her?”, is the overwhelming question. I decide that wisdom lies in not waiting to find out the spouse’s opinion on my new found fashion sense and am back in what I usually wear before you can say ‘fashion statement’. I am only thankful that I did NOT take the hairdresser’s advice and weave a single strand of gold dye through my hair which she had so confidently marketed as ‘fetching’. I shudder to think of what he would have fetched if he’d seen me in my new colorful ‘avatar’: a straitjacket.
I manage to wallow in self-pity for some time at the extremely short duration for which my resolutions seem to last. A weak mind, a weak will, call it what you will, I am moody and sulky like a bear with a sore head for the next couple of days. No amount of reminding myself about the length for which the French and Russian revolutions lasted until they could cause even an iota of change can better my ‘ray of sunshine’ disposition. That is until a friend comes visiting bearing not just glad tidings but a large box of Biryani.
With a song on my lips and biryani on the brain, I resolve that the Resolution Revolution will live to see another day……next year!
It’s silly (sorry, I meant saley) season again. Everyone and I mean everyone, the Gods included, put their heart and souls into waiting for the time of the departed souls (called Pitrupaksha) to end so that they can launch into the festive season with zeal. After all, three major festivals, all falling within a month of each other, means laughing all the way to the bank for some and crying all the way there for others. Yes, Navratri, Dussehra and the most important event on the festival calendar, Diwali are just round the corner, beckoning and tantalizing. So, it is time to toss out the rag-a-bones and waltz with the new! And what with Bollywood holding sway over too many, Karva Chauth has escaped its geographical confines and become the festival of newly- weds everywhere. Although we don’t have a fall season, it is a pretty good time to see your bank balance fall with alarming rapidity!
The markets of course, are decked out early. Clothes of all kinds, pretty earthen ware, lanterns, fairy lights, scented candles, soaps and perfumes, knick-knacks, jewelry, sweets and mounds of dry fruit are on offer at every nook and corner. Clever builders try to make a fast buck by offering discounts on down payments to your dream home. Cleverer car salesmen follow in their wake ready to drive you to said dream home in a spanking new set of wheels of your choice. Banks scheme to offer the ‘Buy now, pay (or regret, as the case may be) later’ umbrella of schemes, too good to pass up.
With e- commerce surging ahead thanks to the recently waning pandemic, you tend to be swamped by the swelling tides of offers on all sites online. If Flipkart makes your heart go flip-flop, then the sharp snapping of the Snapdeal offers wake you up thoroughly if you were dreaming of falling asleep on the job. Myntra has its own mind-games, Nykaa nudges you in the right direction and the Amazon (site not the river, silly) swells and threatens to carry away your solvency on its tide! It’s not just the Joneses, but also the Sharmas, Varmas, Banerjees, Singhs, Baruas, Modis, Kulkarnis, Raos, Nairs and Iyers whom you run to keep up with! The only person who probably really laughs all the way to her office is Ms. Seetharaman, our long- suffering finance minister. She spots the gold, not at the end of the rainbow, but at the end of October, put there of course, by you and me!
Our ancestors were too smart to do anything without rhyme or reason. Back when we were a chiefly agrarian culture, this season meant the season of plenty, thanks to the monsoon which would have recently stopped showering its bounty. The harvest of the kharif crop was at hand. The barns and granaries were full, as were most people’s pockets. And they were ready to spend (not indiscriminately, I said they were too smart). Besides, things tended to come apart in the wet weather and needed replacement. So, to market, to market they went. The habit has remained. Although it is much bigger but not necessarily better.
We are all guilty of opening overflowing cupboards, thanks to our stashing stuff away all year long and wondering how to fit in a couple of festival newbies in them. Perhaps we could teach pack rats a thing or two! But, this ritual yearly inspection (if you happen not to get round to cleaning) helps in taking stock of what we lack and then we get down to the job of buying the missing items with gusto. Gifts, corporate or personal, make for a large chunk of what we shop for. It is guilt- free splurging when we are buying for someone else, you see!
On the personal front, I keep planning to turn over a new leaf when it comes to festival shopping, each year. With much fanfare, I make a list in the ‘notes’ section of my smart phone. This I decide, is the beginning of a new, Zen me, who lives a minimalist life. It will not be like that memorable year, when I ended up with four identical kurtas because they happened to be stashed away in the back of beyond, forlorn and forgotten! To further get my shades of shopping right, I decide that I will need to visit three markets at least. The flea market for knick-knacks, the mall for the pricier stuff and my phone for the thousand and one things which disappear from over wrought memory and which become (un)necessary online purchases. But, by the time my lists and plans are made, I realize with a start that I am as usual left with precisely ninety-six hours to get my act together.
Battling my way through all this is easier said than done. The flea market is best approached on foot, leaving the comforts of the car far, far behind! With the air of a gladiator, I plunge into the arena that is the flea market. Crowds jostle, people mill, gawkers gawk, dogs bark, vendors yell and my head swims with heady excitement and that strange smell of expectation. I stagger away with ‘knick-knacky’ essentials, and look for a rickshaw which will haul all the loot and my sorry self, back home so that I can hunt, gather and forage some more!
The mall demands a blood sacrifice before letting me into its hallowed precincts. I have to battle horrendous traffic and scrape my precious car before I can find a spot in the parking lot bursting at the seams. My car is wedged in a narrow space between a pillar and the wall and for some time, it looks like a losing battle before I extricate myself from it and stomp inside, the offspring who is giggling irreverently, in tow. The scenario here is worse because the crowds are now confined indoors, gawking at the beautifully decorated ceilings far above and nearly causing a stampede on the escalators. My well-laid plans of purposefully marching into a few select shops, going about my business with laser like focus and marching out again fly out of the window in the first five minutes. What with the glitz and the glamour and the enticing ‘sale’ signs everywhere, I forget my actual rather venerable age and act like the kid in the candy store, until the very mature offspring rebukes me sharply and tells me to put a sock on my silliness. I subside abashed. Truly, the child is the father or in my case, the scolding mother of woman.
Three and a half hours, a much- needed rejuvenating meal at the food court and several irate phone calls by the spouse later, I have shoved the thought of the much lighter bank account to the back of my mind and am trying to wedge myself into the car which is overflowing with the results of my excursion. A mental pat on the back is sorely needed, I decide, ignoring the black looks the offspring is offering. The decorations, cutlery, clothes and a majority of the gifts have been sorted or so I think. My happy trance lasts for all of the half an hour required to drive home.
Mumbai homes are cozy places with very limited spaces and I am unceremoniously jerked from my happy trance once I see the living room square footage swallowed by the fruits of my hard work. Getting down on my hands and knees, I begin the stashing exercise. As I clear away old and not-so-old stuff, I feel like the evil magician from Aladdin, exchanging old lamps (in my case literally) for new. The person who smiles beatifically in the background is the maid, as she walks away with quite a few prize- finds which I thrust at her as I follow by ‘stash and run’ policy with unerring regularity. Zen me has survived in the wilds of shopping for exactly two days.
As if I need more salt rubbed into my throbbing wounds, I discover several dry, desert islands in my sea of shopping. The tops are here, but what about the bottoms? The beautiful Maggam work blouse does not exactly match the saree and although I have picked up six beautiful mugs from Home Center, what about the strainer I really needed? The new Amish Tripathi novel which is to be released is also sorely desired. And thus, Zen me turns into Regular me, rushing to Amazon Express armed with American Express. A cursory glance through the previous orders shows that quite a few things which I had ‘picked up cheap’ will be arriving over the next twenty- four hours. Until now, they have been conveniently relegated to the back of my memory. But this is no time to brood. An hour of meditation (read picking and clicking on sundries) later, I feel truly cleansed. I make another of my golden resolutions: who needs the traipsing in the sweltering October heat if one can pick and click at leisure on the net from the blessed comfort of home? and hence physical shopping will henceforth be banned.
The moment of truth arrives exactly a day later when first the disgruntled spouse, and then the offspring begin arriving with large packages tucked under their arms every time they return home, both wearing identical black scowls. No amount of reassurances on my part that the yearly shopping has ‘been put to bed’ succeeds in cajoling them out of their pre-festivity blues. And as the cherry on top, I soon begin receiving frantic calls from the building supervisor regarding the number of packages which have found their way into the lobby, all bearing my name, causing an obstacle course for the elderly, amusing none and could I please take them away? I trudge downstairs to comply. I happen to meet a nosy aunty on the way back. “Oh, Diwali preparations! Been shopping?”, a loaded question if ever there was.
At last, all the shopping is put away, all the gifts sorted and everything matched and color coordinated. Clad in brand-new apparel, with a spring in my step, I set out for the ‘festive get-together’ hosted in the building. I meet a neighbor who regards me from top-to toe. “I am so glad to see you recycling everything and wearing your old clothes. Not wasting money on truck-loads of stuff! You have put out recycled diyas too!”, she says.
Luckily, she steps out of the lift before I bang my head firmly into the wall after throttling her. My face is changing color into sixty different shades of ….shopping!
“Indians paid for the privilege of being conquered by the British”
Shashi Tharoor
I look up to Mr. Tharoor. I wish I had his flair for calling a spade a spade in such a convoluted and grandiose way that even Shakespeare would be put to shame after he figured out what Mr. Tharoor had set put to say (and trust me, good old Will must have had a lot to ponder on). And what I admire the most is that he does it not in his mother tongue, Malayalam, but in English, the very language of the conquerors whom he has set out to conquer in his book, “An Era of Darkness”. My rather dubious claim to fame is that I share this much with the illustrious Mr. Tharoor, I write in English too, not in my ‘Mai Boli,’ Marathi.
With the passing of Queen Elizabeth, the Second, Great Britain has been in the news for quite some time now. Whether the ascension of King Charles the third or the funeral for the late queen, the media has left no stone unturned in covering several aspects of the monarchy. And one picture which has been front and center is that of the coffin of the late monarch, flaunting some of the best jewels in the world, all studded into a stunning crown. The sight of the jewels has sent the Twitterati into a frenzy, voicing a demand which the government of India has already put forth twice, a return of the most famous jewel of them all, the 105 carat Kohinoor.
One of the largest diamonds in the world, it was mined in the Kollur mines of India. As with all precious objects, it has changed hands several times, its bloody trail well woven into the pages of history as it made its way from India to Persia and back via Afghanistan, thanks to the exploits of Maharaja Ranjit Singh of Punjab. The Indians had been unable to hang onto to it during the Persian and Afghan Invasions, but these were tales of conquest.
When the British chose to ‘acquire’ it from the ten- year- old Duleep Singh, the only remaining heir to Ranjit Singh was when chicanery first entered the picture. And thus, it made its way over the seas to Queen Victoria to become part of the Crown Jewels, where it has remained since 1850. Of course, India made two demands for its return, first in 1947 after gaining independence and again in 1953 during the coronation of Queen Elizabeth the Second. Of course, the possession of the diamond was termed non-negotiable and the demand was summarily rejected.
But why the Kohinoor? Because it is not just a diamond for a large section of the populace. It is a symbol of all that was wrong with our part of the world for the better part of the last century, the vestiges of which we are still trying to fight off. It symbolizes the yoke of colonialism, during which we lost the better part of our identity and heritage, to have it replaced by an apologetic attitude to our beliefs and culture. It is a symbol of oppression by a race who for reasons unknown placed so much belief in their infallibility that they still refuse to acknowledge the horrendous effects and loss of lives they wrought on those whom they believed to be ‘leading towards the light of Western Emancipation’.
It is stained by the blood of the victims of several man-made famines, the most infamous being The Bengal Famine of 1943, thanks to the policies of an unapologetic racist and imperialist like Winston Churchill, who is lauded as one of the saviors of the free world, thanks to winning the Second World War. Its sparkle hides An Era of Darkness, for the thousands of Indian soldiers, forced to fight a war which was not of their choosing. Its facets reflect the tears of the hapless loom workers who lost their thumbs and livelihood so that the colonists could usher in a new ‘Industrial Era’ in their country.
It is rare that a single object captures the imagination of millions for so long, but the Kohinoor has achieved the feat. It inspires not just awe, but also revulsion when one thinks of the innumerable lives lost for the realization of the dream of a free India. What we now want is for the world to acknowledge what was done to us. That while the thought of the ‘Commonwealth’ is all nice and fuzzy, there is nothing common about the wealth which was looted by charlatans who now dare to preach about ‘human rights’ and want bygones to remain bygones.
History is funny because it still remains an imperfect record of what actually came to pass throughout our long tryst with British rule and its excesses. Often written by or at the behest of winners, it hardly ever gives us the real picture of what was so that we can reforge what will be. It is up to us therefore to from a collective consciousness as a nation and decide that we will no longer tolerate that which denigrates us, which tries to prove us inferior, whether the color of our skin or the veracity of our beliefs.
Whether the British develop their own much touted sense of ‘fair-play’ or not and choose to acknowledge their excesses matters little. In all fairness, we know that the Kohinoor will never be returned. Until then however, we have the satisfaction of knowing that an Indian who not until so long ago was discriminated against for the color of her skin was an honored invitee to the funeral of the late Queen. We have chosen to shake off the yolk of slavery in the real sense because we are a Republic, where any Indian irrespective of caste or creed can be our head of state, unlike our ex-rulers who still maintain a hide-bound tradition of heredity, exemplified in our current president, Shrimati Draupadi Murmu. And thus, perhaps the Kohinoor has served its purpose without returning to the land of its birth. A constant reminder about the slaves who chose to make better lives for themselves, giving a whole new meaning to ‘Uneasy lies the head which wears a crown.’.
“Everyone has a hidden talent they don’t know about until the tequila is poured”
Think cocktails, and wondrous visions of delicious stuff in elegant flutes, coupes and cocktail glasses swim into view, bedazzling one with their contents. Many are left shaken AND stirred to the depths of their souls (since not everyone has Bond’s panache or cool). Without a doubt, the cocktail hour advertised in so many uber chic establishments for w(h)ining and dining is one of the more brilliant marketing heists ever pulled. The mere whiff of a complimentary cocktail and guzzlers gather by the gazillion.
You can get a Hanky- Panky down, while comfortably ensconced in a Sidecar. And who needs to worry about mundane little details like doctors when despite Last Words, you can always be brought back from beyond the veil by the Corpse Reviver? Feeling like a Zombie? Well, just get on a Moscow Mule and you will be the Bee’s Knees in no time. It is easy to tour Manhattan, explore Long Island via the ice-tea route and sling Singapore into the bag as well. Well, enough of the playing with the names of cocktails before a strait-laced teetotaler like yours truly is mistaken for hic! a dipsomaniac like Captain Haddock!
Humans, as we all know, are social animals. Unless you are one of those few precocious souls who truly seek enlightenment and communion with a higher power, or have been possessed by William Wordsworth’s worthy spirit and wish to see the dancing daffodils flash before your inward eye, you will not find much solace or bliss in solitude. You will tend to congregate in herds, droves, gaggles or perhaps even murders? and hobnob with your own kind. And what better situation to do this than a party and a cocktail one at that? A perfect place to let your hair down, put on your best war paint, short frocks and rocks, network busily and ‘build up your contacts’, for doesn’t the world work like that these days? and get up to all kinds of wild shenanigans cloaked in the relative anonymity of large crowds and the happy thought of someone who is not you, not only getting down to the nitty-gritty of organizing the whole shebang, but also footing the bill.
Some of us however, are cursed with a recalcitrance which borders on the phobic. We take our cues from Bertie Wooster and set a nor’ nor’ east course if we get the slightest hint that a party is taking place sou’ sou’ west. It is not we do not like to interact with people, but we refuse to be crowd pleasers or let our guard (much less our hair) down when surrounded by relative strangers. Our conversation can be sparkling and scintillating, but we prefer to do that without the prop of a beaker of bubbly. Anonymity is not our license or ‘buzz’ for raucous behavior and only serves to put our guard up! For us, these cocktail parties mean only one type of cocktail, the good ol’ Molotov!The one which literally goes bang, before you can say ‘New Year’.
Being surrounded by crowds ‘Sha-la-laing’ or ‘Zing-Zing-Zingating’ with an overbearing DJ and zealous hostess/host exhorting everyone onto the dance floor to show off their moves (never mind if they succeed in accidentally beaning someone over the head or taking someone else’s eye out with their overflowing cup of joy) makes some of us feel as if we are carefully negotiating a mine-field, blindfolded. One false move and you will never know what hit you in the face! We look around with a sense of wonder at what people who are perfectly sane most of the time are capable of when the ‘happy juice’ gets going in their veins. The Romans had it right all along, ‘In vino, veritas’. In wine, lies the truth.
It is at times like these that I paraphrase the lyrics of ‘How do you solve a problem like Maria?’ from ‘The Sound of Music’. All I can think of is “When I’m with them and confused,out of focus and bemused, and I NEVER know exactly where Iam….!” This brings to mind my recent tryst with destiny at a rather ‘large do’ hosted by a mover and shaker. If I’d hoped that there would be at least some of my kind (read wallflowers) clustered around, with whom I could at least exchange a smile in passing if not anything else, I was in for a rude shock.
As a conscientious ENT surgeon, I make it a point to remind all my patients about the hazards of noise pollution, even printing it on my prescription sheet and the fact that a party being held on the second floor could be heard in the parking lot did not bode well for my rather sensitive sensibilities. The sights went one better. A jostling crowd around the bar tender, tall tables topped with glass, awash in glasses of every kind, filled with enough stuff to give you a high by its mere sight. As if this was not enough, once people got going on the good stuff as well as on the dance floor, they miraculously lost their moorings. The sight of a well -respected, much older couple setting the dance floor on fire (after indulging and then some) left me wondering if I was aging in dog- years and fearing for their safety as well as that of those in their vicinity (on account of the wildly flailing limbs).
If I was looking for entertainment, I had found it in the near constant whistling (I am still on therapy for deafness, how ironic!), the throng who downed enough shots to shoot down a Rafale, an older woman with enough war-paint which would require several knives to scrape off and a sort of conga line which grew like a caterpillar from the dance floor to engulf the entire room before you could say ‘beat’. Oh yes, Molotov was here all right, ignited and whirling around the room spreading merry mayhem, one bang, one crash at a time! I spent the evening neatly side stepping all the merry makers who seemed keen to set a record of stepping on as many toes as possible, without making too much of a spectacle of myself. As I rued to myself later,if I had been expecting the quiet class of the cocktail hour, I was looking for it in the wrong place!
When it was finally time to go home, I staggered out, unfortunately punch-drunk, knowing exactly how the shell-shocked soldiers of trench warfare during the first world war must have felt. I knew that I would never take the peace of a quiet night for granted ever again. A feeling of kinship for Wordsworth and his penchant for solitude sprung up, for who knows, before he retired to his ‘couch’,he might have been a victim of such a ‘do’ too!
To meet with fellow beings and destress is very essential in the modern world. Perhaps many people would swear by the adage ‘We all deserve an alcoholiday’. While it would be wrong to sit in judgement on the ‘party scene’, it is equally wrong to do away with all the norms which make us civil society. Eat, drink and be merry by all means, but with an eye on what is enough and what is excess.Because aMartini can turn into a Molotov in the twinkling of an eye and a mellow evening can be literally set on fire before you can say ‘incineration’.
One of the best reasons why you should keep your wits about you (health reasons notwithstanding) instead of getting carried away with the flow is that you should KNOW when you are having a good time!
‘Once you sign on to be a mother, 24/7 is the only shift they offer’
Jodi Picoult.
If I dig deep enough into the precious memorabilia I have from my glory days of yore, (read childhood and the happy time when the offspring was a little bundle of preciousness, who, try as she might, could not move much) I am confident of unearthing two photographs. One was taken when I was about five or six, featuring my Great-grandmother, Granny, Mom and me. Our expressions varied greatly, Great-granny had a look of slight disbelief, Granny complacent, Mom happy enough, though her smile looked just the tiniest bit forced and I, blithe and carefree as they come, my mind already planning the next devilment.
Fast forward to two and a half decades later. A repeat of the same picture, but with a slight change in the players: Granny, Mom, me and the offspring (Great -Granny had since journeyed to the hereafter), the same expressions, although the offspring was too young to execute any of the devilments which she might have planned. It was then that I realized the mystery behind the expressions. The Marathi sayeth which roughly translates as ‘you do not get a glimpse of heaven unless you die first’ was true after all. Great-Granny looked disbelieving because she could actually wash her hands off her offspring and Granny was complacent about a well-raised offspring, who perhaps contrary to her expectations, accepted responsibility for a hundred things.
It was Mom’s slightly forced smile which was the most intriguing. It was probably because she had probably been gradually realizing that her 24/7 shift was not even going to change to a 12/6 one for the next decade and a half at least, that she, to quote Robert Frost had miles to go before even a peaceful afternoon nap was in sight. Well, by the time I realized and repented for all my little and not so little foibles, they had caught up with me and can be summarized by something interesting which I read just the other day, ‘My kid is turning out to be just like me. Well played Karma, well played.’
Fast forwarding yet again, if you take a good look at me these days, my smile is not so much forced, as a downright grimace. I had solemnly vowed to never say ‘Yeh Aaj kal ke bacche!’, having heard this litany continuously while growing up, leaving me wondering whether I had grown hooves, horns, a forked tail or all of the above. But the famous James Bond movie sums it up rather well, ‘Never Say Never Again’. In a futile attempt to keep my vow, I make sure to never say the ‘Yeh Aaj’ etc etc aloud, but chant it in my mind, a never- ending mantra, which will perhaps lead me on the path to enlightenment. Now that the offspring is a full-fledged teen, it is par for the course for her to be on the offensive about a million things and more, and she does it with customary aplomb, leaving me to put up a rather feeble defense. I constantly glance over my shoulder hoping for reinforcements in the form of Mom perhaps? (the spouse not being of much use) But, no such luck. Mom is too busy grinning and pointing at her beloved grand-offspring with pride from the side-lines, and egging her on if anything! I am seriously considering getting a puppy, so that at least someone in the house is pleased to see me!
Having been a mom for more than a third of my life now, I have suddenly developed not just a bond, but a kindred spirit of deep sympathy for the rest of my ilk, especially those of my generation. Harried women, most of them teetering on the tightrope of holding on and letting go, ‘upgrading’ themselves at speed, to become the latest 6 or 7G versions of themselves, lest they become ‘slow’ in this era of virtual reality. In these times of cut-throat competition, it is hardly implausible that mothers without warning can morph from normal moms to ‘momsters’ in the blink of an eye. It is the fear of their children being left behind that drives them to be the ones with the best dressed, best fed, best behaved, topper kids who play three musical instruments, four varsity sports, have developed half a dozen apps and written at least two books by the time they are twelve and are fending off talent scouts from all eight of the Ivy League Institutes by the time they are fifteen. Anything less is considered a failure. Of course, there are the rest of us who think that there exists a very fine line between ‘Supermoms’ and sanity.
In the meantime, kids make merry. Each generation thinks that the successive ones are insufferable know-it-alls. This is especially true for most of us, for we spent our childhood in the pre-internet era, gained an insight into it at the beginning of our college/ working lives (mainly those lucky ones who are in I.T. The rest of us, me included, only heard about its existence) and gradually allowed it to transform how we looked at things only since a decade and a half. With the children submerged in the internet since early childhood, it seems the most natural thing to them to become self- proclaimed masters, navigating the tangled web with frightening ease and efficiency before mommy dearest can say ‘tarantula’ (the giant spider, I meant, not the latest version of some game or operating system).
I like to think that we are keeping pace with the changing times. Mr. Suraj Barjatya, with his penchant for playing happy families with a Magna Mater ruling the roost and ensuring that she is the last word on manners and morals which the rest of the clan obsequiously follows and whose children hang on to her every word like so many bats in a cave has been firmly relegated to the past, getting an outing only when we feel the need to be drenched in nostalgia. The rest of the time, we keep it real, ala` Sridevi, in her fabulous come back film, ‘English Vinglish’, where she deals with an impertinent offspring with flair, in her inimitable way. It is not as if the offspring are bad at all. It is just the impatience of youth, trying to prove itself, to make sure that it reaches the goals we set in the first place.
It is with these encouraging (God knows I need them twenty times a day) thoughts that I gird myself for some more skirmishes with the offspring which are sure to come my way unexpectedly. In the course of an ordinary day, it begins with the ideal time to wake up (with the sun according to me and the stars according to her), the menu for BLD(breakfast, lunch and dinner), the clothes, the nails, the hair, the books, the time wasted watching OTT (according to me of course!), the choice of music (mine wails and hers sounds like nails on a chalk board), midnight snacks and a million other things which all moms the world over would agree on. But, at the same time, I would not change a single thing. These little battles are the stuff of family legends.
There are tears and laughter and rule-making and breaking. Times when I am deemed judgmental, or other times when the rolling eyes describe me as simply ‘mental’. Times when I don’t know enough and times when I know too much. When I am too preachy and times when I don’t give enough advice like other well-meaning people. When I am not assertive at all, or so assertive that she has to remind me that it’s her life! And those memorable times when I can be counted on to embarrass her with either my misplaced sense of style (or lack thereof) or misplaced sense of humor. It is a constant rollercoaster ride which I wouldn’t miss for the world.
And of course, every time I seek some respite, to write this screed for example, she, by some strange form of extra sensory perception,knows that I am putting my feet up, leading me to discover a new law, The Offspring Law, as I call it. “The moment you find something interesting or important to do is the very moment when the offspring will need something, and yell for you. The more you ignore, the longer the duration, and higher the pitch and the frequency”. This is especially true in case of multiple offspring, where you are trained with great zeal in the many tasks which peace keeping forces are expected to do.
What brought on this piece on parenting you ask? Mother’s Day of course, though if truth be told, I would say that every day is Mother’s Day, at least as far as keeping the wheels of the daily grind tickinggoes.I would like to wish all mothers out there, for having been there and done that. Because being a mom is not easy. If it were, dads would do it too! So, irrespective of your style of parenting or the type of mom you are, a tiger, a dolphin, an elephant, a helicopter, or any other, take heart for you are doing better than your best and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise!
Sticky fingers, runny noses, fevered brows, scraped knees, forgotten homework and projects, exams by the dozen, sports, music and everything else in between, a mom’s world is never dull, long after the kids have flown the nest. Because they are the living memories which we make, little bits of ourselves, which we hope to leave behind for posterity. That is what motherhood is, the eternal walk between mania and magic.
“Do you remember what day is it, today?”, when voiced in a sweet feminine voice, this seemingly innocuous question has many a red-blooded male leaping to his feet as if scalded, the blood draining from his face, the fear of God in his suddenly-thumping-in-terror heart. No, I do not take sadistic pleasure in unnecessarily needling the opposite sex. All that I am trying to do is drive home the fact that far too many days of the year have been awarded ‘special status’ these days. It is as if diplomatic passports have been handed out en masse to everyone who got lucky, despite them having nothing to do with an Indian Foreign Service (IFS) qualification. When people of my generation were younger, we did not have to tax our memories very much. Important days of the year glared out at you from the calendar, proud of their ‘red letter’ status in a uniform sea of black, which marked the other days of the week, except Sundays of course. At the start of the year, there was a special joy in turning the pages of the calendar to check these ‘red letter days’, (mainly important festivals of all religions which made India, India) because they spelt holidays. Imagine the pleasure that we, as school children felt when we saw them adjoining the much- awaited Sundays! Other important days were of course birthdays (which were mostly low-key affairs) and the beginning of the vacations. Adults seemed to take unholy glee in the days devoted to exams and results, much to our chagrin. Of course, Granny had her own calendar for various festivals, rituals and the like, but life flowed around them, uninterrupted, except that we made it a point to seek special blessings and feasted on special dishes. Everything had a quiet elegance, easy grace and a personal touch. Commercialization was not even thought of, let alone present. Times changed and with a cabal of ‘global citizens’ sprouting in every nook and cranny, many new days sneaked into the calendar. What was an innocuous trickle at first gradually grew into a stream and suddenly became a full- fledged deluge. While they were ignored or branded ‘elitist’ initially, they set up a persistent clamor which gradually got the attention it sought. Added to this Molotov cocktail was the spreading of the world wide web which lived up to its name in more than one way, encircling the globe before you could say ‘Tarantula’. You made friends with people abroad at the drop of a hat or should I say the click of a mouse, went on exchange programs, collaborated on projects and of course, exchanged culture in the form of food and festivities.
Now, there were days specifically designated to people, Mothers’ Day, Father’s Day, Son’s Day, Daughter’s Day, Grandparent’s Day, Women’s Day, Men’s Day, the mother-of -them -all literally, (excuse the pun), Valentine’s Day, Jab-We- Met Day, Anniversaries ranging from a month to a year, Every-Dog-Has- His-Day, etcetera, if you get the general drift. Just to confuse your already befuddled mind some more, there were national days for women and the International Women’s Day and woe betide you if you forgot any of them. Besides, some blessed days like Fathers’ and Mothers’ Days were celebrated on the second or third or last Sundays of certain months like May and July and September, all the better to improve your failing memory, my dear!
And some days, not satisfied with being, well, days decided to claim the whole week for themselves. Perhaps this is where Vladimir Putin came up with his brilliant plan of claiming all of the Ukraine as his own (if Valentine can do it, so can Vladimir being his take on the matter and who can blame him?), but as usual, I digress. What I set out to mean was, the recently concluded Valentine’s Day had now spilled into Valentine’ week with a Rose Day, Chocolate Day, Hug Day, Teddy Day(really?), Silly Day, Crazy Day and the Lord-alone -knew- what- Day. Being a singularly undemonstrative person (and the spouse being one too, thankfully), all that we could say was ‘Rehne De, Jaane De, Chod De and have you recently read Shobhaa De?’ I can already hear the teeth gnashing and the knives being whetted in anticipation of drawing my blood, but I stand firm. Celebrations are to human life what spices are to food. They bring out the sublime flavor and zest and make all that is seemingly bland and boring so much more palatable. In other words, they are necessary so that we are lifted out of the rut that we sometimes find ourselves during the course of day-to -day living. But there is something called too much of a good thing. Just like spices are merely meant to enhance the taste of food and not replace it, celebrations derive meaning because they are a one off. There of course, is the very valid school of thought that every day ought to be a celebration, but it should be a celebration of YOU, an inherent joy in day- to-day life, which does not require any external prop.
Popular culture and peer pressure, that double-edged blade of course plays a significant role in what can well be described as the blatant commercialization of certain roles which were sacrosanct until not so long ago. Caring? Yes, Sharing? Definitely. Making someone feel appreciated and special is important, but do it as a mundane chore or because everyone else is doing it, and the very sanctity of the feeling is washed away, leaving behind very little meaning. It is better to do what little you can, perhaps on any old, ‘nothing special’ day and see the sparkle in the eyes of those to whom you matter.
It only takes a glance at all the advertising campaigns which form the run up to these ‘Days’ to know that it these merchants of dreams who are laughing all the way to the bank. They know the act of subtle manipulation and play on the most important emotion of all, guilt. What was structured as a cohesive family unit, scattered in the country, but still managing to keep meeting in person until not so long ago has been suddenly cast adrift with the members blown to the far corners of the world like chaff in the wind. Add the double whammy of the recent pandemic, and you are left with lonely people struggling in their own little isolated pockets. And where there is loneliness, can the clink of money being spent be far behind? In the race to assuage the guilt of the time which cannot be spent with loved ones, a gift of remembrance on a specially created ‘day’ seems the only worthier option.
I personally have nothing against gaining from any culture. Being blinkered to the good which anything, (irrespective whether it is foreign or not) has to offer is one of the worst prejudices one can harbor. What I have a problem with is the one upmanship which comes with it. The “Oh, you don’t celebrate this and this!”, accompanied by the slight snigger and smirk is what makes my blood boil. In addition, I think dissing your own traditions to follow something alien just because it is ‘the’ thing to do talks of a distressing herd mentality, which needs to be combated. Perhaps it is time to introspect on what special days tell us about ourselves and those who are special to us. If we practice equality every day, we can do away with gender specific days. And if we make our loved ones feel special always, NO ONE will remember or remind anyone else of specific day, because each day will be a celebration…
