Childhood Train Trauma
Who's that man?
Why is he standing near my slippers?
Is he going to steal our luggage?
We're the only ones who haven't chained our bags
I told ma the biggest bag should be near the outside
Am i the only one awake?
Are my slippers still there?
Everyone knows my mum has 'hidden' her handbag under her head like a pillow.
What if someone puts their hands through the bars in the window?
Who would want 'chaiyaaa' at 3am?
There's a mad beggar lurking by the window.
That man is staring at me.
Is he thinking dirty thoughts?
Yuck
Asshole
Let me hide under my sheet
But then how will i know if someone is going to steal our luggage
Why am i the only one awake?
I am the family nightwatchman.
i want to do susu
hold it
but its coming
i'm not going alone
psst, wake up
come to the loo with me
ufff
get off the bearth and land in your chappals
eeee cockroach
shhhh you'll wake the train
evil men
with big south indian mustaches and checked lungis
lurk by the dim light outside the loo
they smoke smelly cigarettes
they hang out of the door of the fast moving train
their lungis hitched up like skirts
they pretend not to look at us.
we put on brave faces
hard city faces
huh! we maybe girls
but we're not scared of evil smoking men
in checked lungis
In the loo,
gather your clothes
don't let anything touch anything
hold your breath
pee
tie your pajama
don't let the bottom touch the floor
kick the door with your feet
wash the tap and then shut it
yuck
In the morning
Don't take biscuits from that sweet grey haired aunty
She may be part of the biscuit gang
They drug you and steal your gold
the poster says so
I told mama not to wear her chain
but she hides it like she hides her bag
everyone knows its there
oh no
now that noisy group of men are playing cards
i can smell alcohol
there is a fine of 1000 rs if you drink on the train
or you can go to jail for 1 year
the poster says so
aha
the railway cop is doing his rounds
we'll be safe now
oh
oh no
he's sitting down to play with them
now i'm the family policeman
oh god
now my mum wants to buy omlettes from the station
don't get off the train
no i dont want an omlette
no i don't care if it's fresh and hot
mum the train doesn't stop for long
where'd she go?
can you see her from the window?
there's a crowd at the omlettewala
she's going to miss the train
oh no
the train hooted its warning hoot
mummmy!
everyone is running back
can you see her?
oh no! its started
oh god
where is she
is she on the platform?
no she's not in the corridor
oh god
should we pull the chain?
how much time should we wait before we pull it?
tick tick one
tick tick two
tick tick - my potty is coming
ok i see her
god
thank god
the omlettes are yummy
bombay is coming
so is my potty
will i be able to hold on till we get home?
hurry up train
i shouldn't have eaten that omlette
i can't go back to that loo
oho
now all we can see are people doing potty on the tracks
welcome to bombay
try and think of something else
school starts tomorrow
i haven't done my homework
this is making my potty come even more
are you ok?
you're looking sick
whats wrong?
i tell you,
we enter this city and the kids look ill...
lose their colour in a day
lets get on another train and go off again!
nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
I remember:
Seeing Santa Claus in blue Bata chappals
An earthquake
A thermometer breaking & the mercury rolling up into little metal balls
Trying to fill the pockets of my green dress with water
A bee stinging my mother’s arm
Walking around the house on tip toes as if I were in heels
Looking for my dog Snowy
Copying UrmilaParmila drink their tea
A fat neighbour
Watching the coconut oil melt in a mug of hot water
Sitting on the pot, waiting for my mum to wash my bum
Malai-cheeni on toast
Somersaults in the grass
Thinking my car-seat steering wheel, actually controlled the car
Playing house-house and doctor-doctor
Being petrified during holi
Watching my mum wax
Running around naked on hot summer days
Sitting on newspaper and eating litchis dripping with juice
I remember having the best childhood ever
Saturday, January 21, 2006
My uncle had a loyal servant of 11 years.
Biharilal.
He cooked for them, he cleaned, he washed, he served them with love and undying loyalty.
They in turn educated his kids, paid all his medical bills and gave him loans whenever he asked. He was like a member of the family.
So naturally, when Biharilal asked for leave, they gave it to him. He missed his wife and kids he said. He hadn't met his mother for a year he said.
They sent him off with clothes for the children, a saree for the wife and some ladoo's for the mother.
They waved as he left at 8 am, to catch his train to the village. 'Have a safe trip' they shouted.
A phone call disturbs the night. My uncle grumbles sleepily into it. And then is suddenly wide awake.
Biharilal is dead. He fell off the train and got 'cut' by one coming from the opposite direction. He didn't meet his wife or his kids or his mother.
My uncle is in shock. He imagines his loyal Biharilal lying on the tracks, 'cut' gruesomely into half by a big train. He shudders. He doesn't sleep a wink.
In the morning, he tells the carpenter and the watchmen and they tell the neighbours. Everybody talks in hushed whispers and sits togther in silent shock. Some of the neigbhours phone in their condolences. Biharilal was a much loved man.
My uncles makes up his mind. 'i will go to the village, i will attend his funeral. i will find his wife and children. i will look after them now. they are my responsibility.'
The carpenter volunteers to accompany him.
They jump into a hired car and drive all the way to the village. They're not sure of the exact location, but know the district and are determined to find his family. On the way my uncle can't get Biharilal's sweet smiling face out of his head. As he watches the sun set, a tear trickles down his cheek. They drive the whole night, sleeping fitfully.
In the morning they reach the main village. They start asking around and are sent to the sarpanch. As they explain their story, a crowd collects. A bystander knows this mans sister. She lives in a village not too far from there. The man volunteers to take them there. Thats the least he can do for such concerned folk.
As they drive, they cross the railway tracks. My uncle asks the car to stop. He gets down and spends a silent minute near the tracks. His eyes wander, maybe i'll find a finger or something. The carpenter joins him, he puts his arm around him and gently guides him back to the car. 'saab, don't do this. don't look at the tracks.'
They start again. They find the village, they find the sister. She didn't even know yet. She starts wailing and screaming and beating her chest. She opens out her hair and mourns. Someone slaps her.
She takes them to his home, in a village a little while away. On the way she sobs uncontrollably. She didn't even know her own brother was dead. She saw him last at her own wedding, 7 years ago.
They reach the house. the sister starts wailing loudly. The mother and brother rush out.
'What happened? Why are you here and who are these people.'
The sister narrates the story hysterically. The mother looks shocked. She doesn't speak for a whole 5 minutes. The brother puts his arm protectively around her and mutters into her ear. Slowly she breaks. And starts wailing and thumping her chest too. The sight sends shivers down my uncles back. He didn't expect to be the messenger of death.
The brother and the neighbours try and console the women. The children see them crying and start crying too. In the confusion, my uncle suddenly sees Biharilal. He's standing next to his mother, consoling her gently.
My uncle closes his eyes and opens them again. Is he seeing a ghost? And there he is again. My uncle looks at the carpenter. Can he see him too? Am i going mad? Suddenly the carpenter turns white. He sees him as well. And he's not a ghost.
They shout, 'Arey! here is Biharilal!'
The man looks at them and runs away upstairs.
They look at the family and say, 'he was right here. we just saw him. call him down.'
The family look at each other flabbergasted. 'There was no one here' they say. The sister starts crying again. The brother comes down in the same clothes that 'Biharilal' was just wearing. They say, see its the brother, they look alike. You must be imagining.
My uncle walks out of the aangan. He needs air. He needs space. This is all too much for him to handle. He leans against a tree and takes in the clean village air.
Inside, the carpenter is still trying to figure out what that was all about. He tells them, the saab is outside, its only me, i know he's up there, call him down.
My uncle enters the aangan. There stands his beloved Biharilal. Head hanging down in shame. There's silence in the courtyard. My uncle needs to sit and does so on the floor.
The sister starts crying again. This time even louder.
They all look at her strangely. Why on earth is she crying. She explains between sobs...
First she thought he was dead. Then when she realised that he faked his own death, she was ashamed. Her izzat was stolen from her. Her brother had lied and been caught in front of the whole village. They'd have no respect left. And he lied to such a caring saab.
Why? they ask. Why would you do something like this?
He doesn't answer for a while.
'I didn't know how to tell you that i don't want to work with you anymore' he whispers in a barely audible voice.
My uncle doesn't know if he should hug the man or hang him. he's so relieved that he's alive and so livid that he lied, that he just sits there on the floor, silent.
He gets into the car with the carpenter and leaves.
On the way back there's just one thought that haunts my uncle. 'Biharilal thought i wouldn't care enough to attend his funeral'
Biharilal.
He cooked for them, he cleaned, he washed, he served them with love and undying loyalty.
They in turn educated his kids, paid all his medical bills and gave him loans whenever he asked. He was like a member of the family.
So naturally, when Biharilal asked for leave, they gave it to him. He missed his wife and kids he said. He hadn't met his mother for a year he said.
They sent him off with clothes for the children, a saree for the wife and some ladoo's for the mother.
They waved as he left at 8 am, to catch his train to the village. 'Have a safe trip' they shouted.
A phone call disturbs the night. My uncle grumbles sleepily into it. And then is suddenly wide awake.
Biharilal is dead. He fell off the train and got 'cut' by one coming from the opposite direction. He didn't meet his wife or his kids or his mother.
My uncle is in shock. He imagines his loyal Biharilal lying on the tracks, 'cut' gruesomely into half by a big train. He shudders. He doesn't sleep a wink.
In the morning, he tells the carpenter and the watchmen and they tell the neighbours. Everybody talks in hushed whispers and sits togther in silent shock. Some of the neigbhours phone in their condolences. Biharilal was a much loved man.
My uncles makes up his mind. 'i will go to the village, i will attend his funeral. i will find his wife and children. i will look after them now. they are my responsibility.'
The carpenter volunteers to accompany him.
They jump into a hired car and drive all the way to the village. They're not sure of the exact location, but know the district and are determined to find his family. On the way my uncle can't get Biharilal's sweet smiling face out of his head. As he watches the sun set, a tear trickles down his cheek. They drive the whole night, sleeping fitfully.
In the morning they reach the main village. They start asking around and are sent to the sarpanch. As they explain their story, a crowd collects. A bystander knows this mans sister. She lives in a village not too far from there. The man volunteers to take them there. Thats the least he can do for such concerned folk.
As they drive, they cross the railway tracks. My uncle asks the car to stop. He gets down and spends a silent minute near the tracks. His eyes wander, maybe i'll find a finger or something. The carpenter joins him, he puts his arm around him and gently guides him back to the car. 'saab, don't do this. don't look at the tracks.'
They start again. They find the village, they find the sister. She didn't even know yet. She starts wailing and screaming and beating her chest. She opens out her hair and mourns. Someone slaps her.
She takes them to his home, in a village a little while away. On the way she sobs uncontrollably. She didn't even know her own brother was dead. She saw him last at her own wedding, 7 years ago.
They reach the house. the sister starts wailing loudly. The mother and brother rush out.
'What happened? Why are you here and who are these people.'
The sister narrates the story hysterically. The mother looks shocked. She doesn't speak for a whole 5 minutes. The brother puts his arm protectively around her and mutters into her ear. Slowly she breaks. And starts wailing and thumping her chest too. The sight sends shivers down my uncles back. He didn't expect to be the messenger of death.
The brother and the neighbours try and console the women. The children see them crying and start crying too. In the confusion, my uncle suddenly sees Biharilal. He's standing next to his mother, consoling her gently.
My uncle closes his eyes and opens them again. Is he seeing a ghost? And there he is again. My uncle looks at the carpenter. Can he see him too? Am i going mad? Suddenly the carpenter turns white. He sees him as well. And he's not a ghost.
They shout, 'Arey! here is Biharilal!'
The man looks at them and runs away upstairs.
They look at the family and say, 'he was right here. we just saw him. call him down.'
The family look at each other flabbergasted. 'There was no one here' they say. The sister starts crying again. The brother comes down in the same clothes that 'Biharilal' was just wearing. They say, see its the brother, they look alike. You must be imagining.
My uncle walks out of the aangan. He needs air. He needs space. This is all too much for him to handle. He leans against a tree and takes in the clean village air.
Inside, the carpenter is still trying to figure out what that was all about. He tells them, the saab is outside, its only me, i know he's up there, call him down.
My uncle enters the aangan. There stands his beloved Biharilal. Head hanging down in shame. There's silence in the courtyard. My uncle needs to sit and does so on the floor.
The sister starts crying again. This time even louder.
They all look at her strangely. Why on earth is she crying. She explains between sobs...
First she thought he was dead. Then when she realised that he faked his own death, she was ashamed. Her izzat was stolen from her. Her brother had lied and been caught in front of the whole village. They'd have no respect left. And he lied to such a caring saab.
Why? they ask. Why would you do something like this?
He doesn't answer for a while.
'I didn't know how to tell you that i don't want to work with you anymore' he whispers in a barely audible voice.
My uncle doesn't know if he should hug the man or hang him. he's so relieved that he's alive and so livid that he lied, that he just sits there on the floor, silent.
He gets into the car with the carpenter and leaves.
On the way back there's just one thought that haunts my uncle. 'Biharilal thought i wouldn't care enough to attend his funeral'
I’m outside the door of her house, a minute early.
It’s a big interview and I don’t want to mess it up.
I ring the bell and its opened by a uniformed maid.
I sit on the white sofa, in the stark but stunningly designed living room.
I’m suddenly conscious of a loose button on my shabby cargo pants.
As I wait, I glance around the room. Many paintings, a stunningly simple vase, and an elegant black piano stare at me, asking, “And what might you want?”
I resist the urge to stick my tongue out at them.
Suddenly she appears. Casual, just out of bed, in her printed kaftan.
I sit up and clear my throat, but she’s so chilled, I find myself relaxing immediately.
We chat and then move to another room so she can see my work on her computer.
I sit facing the door, talking her through my work.
She reacts positively, and seems excited.
It’s going well, I can tell.
Suddenly, there’s some movement outside the door.
Distracted I glance up.
There’s a big naked man standing there, a towel barely, barely covering his jewels.
He looks as stunned as I do.
I’m mid sentence, talking about a piece of work I’ve done for some boring bank.
I feel the blood rush to my face and think I’m going to explode.
I avert my eyes, and continue talking as if nothing happened.
In my head I’m screaming and laughing and startled all at once.
From where she sits, she can’t see the door and doesn’t seem to have noticed a thing.
From the corner of my eye I see him scurry away.
The interview over, we walk out to the living room.
On the same white sofa, sits the big man, now dressed.
She introduces me to him, “meet my husband” she says.
I’m turn bright magenta. I can’t even look him in the eye.
I mumble a hello.
And he mumbles back.
I leave.
I get the job.
I’m sure he told her.
She laughs inexplicably the next time we meet.
It’s a big interview and I don’t want to mess it up.
I ring the bell and its opened by a uniformed maid.
I sit on the white sofa, in the stark but stunningly designed living room.
I’m suddenly conscious of a loose button on my shabby cargo pants.
As I wait, I glance around the room. Many paintings, a stunningly simple vase, and an elegant black piano stare at me, asking, “And what might you want?”
I resist the urge to stick my tongue out at them.
Suddenly she appears. Casual, just out of bed, in her printed kaftan.
I sit up and clear my throat, but she’s so chilled, I find myself relaxing immediately.
We chat and then move to another room so she can see my work on her computer.
I sit facing the door, talking her through my work.
She reacts positively, and seems excited.
It’s going well, I can tell.
Suddenly, there’s some movement outside the door.
Distracted I glance up.
There’s a big naked man standing there, a towel barely, barely covering his jewels.
He looks as stunned as I do.
I’m mid sentence, talking about a piece of work I’ve done for some boring bank.
I feel the blood rush to my face and think I’m going to explode.
I avert my eyes, and continue talking as if nothing happened.
In my head I’m screaming and laughing and startled all at once.
From where she sits, she can’t see the door and doesn’t seem to have noticed a thing.
From the corner of my eye I see him scurry away.
The interview over, we walk out to the living room.
On the same white sofa, sits the big man, now dressed.
She introduces me to him, “meet my husband” she says.
I’m turn bright magenta. I can’t even look him in the eye.
I mumble a hello.
And he mumbles back.
I leave.
I get the job.
I’m sure he told her.
She laughs inexplicably the next time we meet.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
I have been away, doing things that make me happy :)
Like eating butter.
The sight of butter in silver foil makes me smile.
It stares at me. Flirting.
Calling my name.
In a trance, my hand moves towards it.
Warnings in my head, scream ‘Butter! Fat! Thighs!’
Yet these go ignored.
I pick it up.
I gently open one corner.
Its perfect. Not too hard, not too soft.
I put a bit on my knife.
And dab it on the corner of my toast.
I wait.
I watch it melt and disappear into the greedy hot toast.
I lift the toast to my mouth
And I am in Amul Butter heaven.
Like eating butter.
The sight of butter in silver foil makes me smile.
It stares at me. Flirting.
Calling my name.
In a trance, my hand moves towards it.
Warnings in my head, scream ‘Butter! Fat! Thighs!’
Yet these go ignored.
I pick it up.
I gently open one corner.
Its perfect. Not too hard, not too soft.
I put a bit on my knife.
And dab it on the corner of my toast.
I wait.
I watch it melt and disappear into the greedy hot toast.
I lift the toast to my mouth
And I am in Amul Butter heaven.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
dodge
the dog shit
the human spit
the open gutter
the shoe eating pavement
dodge em cars
avoid
the 22 yr old on the cycle
the groper
the mobile snatcher
and the potential kidnapper
cross the road if you think u have company
don't look at
the mad man
the drug addict
the man pissing on the wall
don't look into cars with blackened windows
ignore
the begging children
the drunk man in the gutter
the dead man on the street
crude hindi songs
look over your shoulder, hold on to your bag
hold your breath when u pass
garbage
the sulabh sauchalaya
the man with the tb cough
mahim
and love-grove pumping station
i hate the days i don't have my car.
the dog shit
the human spit
the open gutter
the shoe eating pavement
dodge em cars
avoid
the 22 yr old on the cycle
the groper
the mobile snatcher
and the potential kidnapper
cross the road if you think u have company
don't look at
the mad man
the drug addict
the man pissing on the wall
don't look into cars with blackened windows
ignore
the begging children
the drunk man in the gutter
the dead man on the street
crude hindi songs
look over your shoulder, hold on to your bag
hold your breath when u pass
garbage
the sulabh sauchalaya
the man with the tb cough
mahim
and love-grove pumping station
i hate the days i don't have my car.
Sunday, December 25, 2005
ok. this blog is going to be an educative one.
for anyone who's interested in saving the world.
alright, maybe its not anything that dramatic, but i really do have to share this and hope some of you will do your bit.
take an empty coke bottle, or any 1 ltr plastic bottle. fill it up with water. put it in your empty flush tank. then let the tank fill. and eureka! you've saved and will continue to save a litre of water with every flush.
And the pot cleans just as nicely.
it may seem small, but you know what they say about every drop...
try it.
for anyone who's interested in saving the world.
alright, maybe its not anything that dramatic, but i really do have to share this and hope some of you will do your bit.
take an empty coke bottle, or any 1 ltr plastic bottle. fill it up with water. put it in your empty flush tank. then let the tank fill. and eureka! you've saved and will continue to save a litre of water with every flush.
And the pot cleans just as nicely.
it may seem small, but you know what they say about every drop...
try it.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
A relative I can’t remember meeting before, asks us out to dinner.
He’s suave, confident and slightly brash.
And very obviously from New York.
The guy has done it all. Made a big business out of nothing, married a princess, traveled the world, met heads of state, and made heaps of money. And therefore, with good reason, he believes he can do anything! And tonight he’s in Bombay. How hard can that be...
The guy is dying to eat good Indian seafood and after much debate, we decide on Trishna. This awesome no-frills-attached seafood joint is hidden in the filthiest by lanes of Bombay, near the only synagogue I’ve ever been to.
We squeeze our way through narrow gallis and past the remains of the day. Tired people, dogs, heroin addicts and rubbish fight for space with my battered little Santro. Most shops have their shutters down, yet the place is buzzing with life.
The corner paan shop is full of people. Picking up cigarettes, kalkkatta saada kimam and the latest gossip. Old dusty chandeliers throw their dim light on men downing hot mutton biryani in a faded green Irani restaurant we pass.
After a couple of wrong turns, and up the wrong way of a one-way street, there it is. In all its shady glory. If I didn’t know the place well, I’d think it was one of Bombay’s seedy dance bars. With no windows and gaudy neon signs seductively blinking – bar & restaurant, bar & restaurant.
We park, dodge a dead rat, and hurriedly enter the place. Instantly, the delicious smell of spices, garlic and crab hit us. Visions of prawn koliwada, butter pepper crab and hyderabadi fish tikka’s swim before my greedy eyes. Our mouths are watering. As are the mouths of 23 other people waiting ahead of us. If you listen hard enough, you can hear the water gushing, flooding up inside and being swallowed noisily.
Ooh I can’t wait to eat.
You’ll have to wait saar, just 30 minutes, informs the ‘man with the list’.
To call him maitre de would be too up-market for this place.
Don’t worry - says the confident relative - I’ll take care of this. There’s one trick that works around the world.
From the back of the crowd, he makes eye contact. In his hand, there is already a crisp hundred-rupee note folded and waiting. He gestures to the guy, I’ll take care of you my friend he says with his eyes, in his smooth New Yorker way.
The man frowns slightly and looks away. Our friend makes his way to the front. He glides through the people and sidles up to him. He mutters in his ear, and shakes his hand.
By now I’m pink and hot with embarrassment. It can’t be. I live here. I eat here often. These guys know me. He can’t bribe them. What’ll they think of me? It feels very dirty.
Please don’t take it. Please don’t take it. Please don’t take it.
Our host turns to us with a smile on his face. Oh God no. Is nothing clean anymore? I’ve lost my appetite. I want to stand far away from this guy. I don’t want to eat with him. He can’t be related to us. We don’t do this kind of thing. And then I hear him say - I can’t believe it. It’s the first place it hasn’t worked. Now I’m really embarrassed I tried to bribe him!
I try to keep a straight face, try to stop the smirk. Inside I’m soaring. I want to hug the ‘man with the list’. I want to hug our host too. There’s hope. There are people who can’t be bought. This country may be poor and corrupt but as long as there are exceptions, there is HOPE.
Suddenly I’m ravenous again.
He’s suave, confident and slightly brash.
And very obviously from New York.
The guy has done it all. Made a big business out of nothing, married a princess, traveled the world, met heads of state, and made heaps of money. And therefore, with good reason, he believes he can do anything! And tonight he’s in Bombay. How hard can that be...
The guy is dying to eat good Indian seafood and after much debate, we decide on Trishna. This awesome no-frills-attached seafood joint is hidden in the filthiest by lanes of Bombay, near the only synagogue I’ve ever been to.
We squeeze our way through narrow gallis and past the remains of the day. Tired people, dogs, heroin addicts and rubbish fight for space with my battered little Santro. Most shops have their shutters down, yet the place is buzzing with life.
The corner paan shop is full of people. Picking up cigarettes, kalkkatta saada kimam and the latest gossip. Old dusty chandeliers throw their dim light on men downing hot mutton biryani in a faded green Irani restaurant we pass.
After a couple of wrong turns, and up the wrong way of a one-way street, there it is. In all its shady glory. If I didn’t know the place well, I’d think it was one of Bombay’s seedy dance bars. With no windows and gaudy neon signs seductively blinking – bar & restaurant, bar & restaurant.
We park, dodge a dead rat, and hurriedly enter the place. Instantly, the delicious smell of spices, garlic and crab hit us. Visions of prawn koliwada, butter pepper crab and hyderabadi fish tikka’s swim before my greedy eyes. Our mouths are watering. As are the mouths of 23 other people waiting ahead of us. If you listen hard enough, you can hear the water gushing, flooding up inside and being swallowed noisily.
Ooh I can’t wait to eat.
You’ll have to wait saar, just 30 minutes, informs the ‘man with the list’.
To call him maitre de would be too up-market for this place.
Don’t worry - says the confident relative - I’ll take care of this. There’s one trick that works around the world.
From the back of the crowd, he makes eye contact. In his hand, there is already a crisp hundred-rupee note folded and waiting. He gestures to the guy, I’ll take care of you my friend he says with his eyes, in his smooth New Yorker way.
The man frowns slightly and looks away. Our friend makes his way to the front. He glides through the people and sidles up to him. He mutters in his ear, and shakes his hand.
By now I’m pink and hot with embarrassment. It can’t be. I live here. I eat here often. These guys know me. He can’t bribe them. What’ll they think of me? It feels very dirty.
Please don’t take it. Please don’t take it. Please don’t take it.
Our host turns to us with a smile on his face. Oh God no. Is nothing clean anymore? I’ve lost my appetite. I want to stand far away from this guy. I don’t want to eat with him. He can’t be related to us. We don’t do this kind of thing. And then I hear him say - I can’t believe it. It’s the first place it hasn’t worked. Now I’m really embarrassed I tried to bribe him!
I try to keep a straight face, try to stop the smirk. Inside I’m soaring. I want to hug the ‘man with the list’. I want to hug our host too. There’s hope. There are people who can’t be bought. This country may be poor and corrupt but as long as there are exceptions, there is HOPE.
Suddenly I’m ravenous again.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Thursday, December 01, 2005
I recently attended a Chinese/Punjabi/English wedding.
It was in the hills of Mahableshwar, and the weather was perfect. We stayed at the Mahabaleshwar club - an old Parsi 'asli' club with bearers and pudding and high ceilings. And strict notices 'No chappals or mobile phones allowed in the dining room.'
There was a sangeet, a Chinese tea ceremony and a Hindu ceremony at her house (a little way away from Mahableshwar proper).The fun part of the wedding was that there were sweet, polite Chinese relatives, raucous drunk Punjabi relatives and proper tea drinking and beer guzzling English ones in summery dresses.And while the Punju women drank and smoked and sang naughty songs in husky voices, the Chinese ones, sipped and bowed and shyly whispered into the mike.
The English ones of course, sang off key.
Tara, the Bollywood sister taught us all to dance...and by the end of it, everyone thought they were little Bollywood divas when actually we'd probably just about pass off as extras.
Her dad (the erstwhile playwright, Pratap Sharma) didn't lose a chance to make a speech. About how the marriage was making the world a smaller place…and how the tea in the Chinese tea ceremony had the fragrance of love or something like that and about the history of the music he played and on and on...but really sweet and touching.
On the wedding day, we had to climb into buses and head to the house, through narrow, curvy, hilly lanes. We reached a particularly narrow stretch and the bus driver refused to go any further!
He said his bus would get stuck and wouldn't be able to turn and navigate its way thru the narrow roads.
He did what all good Indian bus drivers do – he went on strike!
So what do we do? There’s a wedding to get to after all…so we get off and start walking...in our chiffon sarees and high heels and delicate brocade outfits. Carefully tip toeing our way down a kachcha rasta, slapping mosquitoes and ooohing at the stunning view.Anyway. We get there, and Pratap Uncle has invited the whole village to the wedding! So there they are, the Maharashtiran villagers in all their finery, with band and horse, attending a Chinese, Punjabi and English wedding! Along with a Bollywood star thrown in.
The villagers take over. The groom, does as is told and gets onto the horse. The drums start. The horse panics. It rears up on its hind legs and throws the groom off. And then loses its balance and falls on top of the groom, kicking and denting a friends car on the way down!So there was the groom, battered and bruised, there was the bride, worried about her husband, and there was my friend, wanting to sell her car then and there!
But I have to say it was one of the most relaxed, and entertaining weddings I've ever been to. Real good solid fun. Namu was so relaxed and carefree as was Andy, that no matter what happened, everyone had a really good time. That’s the way to get married! Or one of the ways I guess.
It was in the hills of Mahableshwar, and the weather was perfect. We stayed at the Mahabaleshwar club - an old Parsi 'asli' club with bearers and pudding and high ceilings. And strict notices 'No chappals or mobile phones allowed in the dining room.'
There was a sangeet, a Chinese tea ceremony and a Hindu ceremony at her house (a little way away from Mahableshwar proper).The fun part of the wedding was that there were sweet, polite Chinese relatives, raucous drunk Punjabi relatives and proper tea drinking and beer guzzling English ones in summery dresses.And while the Punju women drank and smoked and sang naughty songs in husky voices, the Chinese ones, sipped and bowed and shyly whispered into the mike.
The English ones of course, sang off key.
Tara, the Bollywood sister taught us all to dance...and by the end of it, everyone thought they were little Bollywood divas when actually we'd probably just about pass off as extras.
Her dad (the erstwhile playwright, Pratap Sharma) didn't lose a chance to make a speech. About how the marriage was making the world a smaller place…and how the tea in the Chinese tea ceremony had the fragrance of love or something like that and about the history of the music he played and on and on...but really sweet and touching.
On the wedding day, we had to climb into buses and head to the house, through narrow, curvy, hilly lanes. We reached a particularly narrow stretch and the bus driver refused to go any further!
He said his bus would get stuck and wouldn't be able to turn and navigate its way thru the narrow roads.
He did what all good Indian bus drivers do – he went on strike!
So what do we do? There’s a wedding to get to after all…so we get off and start walking...in our chiffon sarees and high heels and delicate brocade outfits. Carefully tip toeing our way down a kachcha rasta, slapping mosquitoes and ooohing at the stunning view.Anyway. We get there, and Pratap Uncle has invited the whole village to the wedding! So there they are, the Maharashtiran villagers in all their finery, with band and horse, attending a Chinese, Punjabi and English wedding! Along with a Bollywood star thrown in.
The villagers take over. The groom, does as is told and gets onto the horse. The drums start. The horse panics. It rears up on its hind legs and throws the groom off. And then loses its balance and falls on top of the groom, kicking and denting a friends car on the way down!So there was the groom, battered and bruised, there was the bride, worried about her husband, and there was my friend, wanting to sell her car then and there!
But I have to say it was one of the most relaxed, and entertaining weddings I've ever been to. Real good solid fun. Namu was so relaxed and carefree as was Andy, that no matter what happened, everyone had a really good time. That’s the way to get married! Or one of the ways I guess.
Some more co passenger woes...
On my way to Baroda, i got a window seat at the back of the plane. I smiled. I shall be alone and undisturbed. I shall be able to stretch across three seats and read my book. I shall be able to go to the loo without apologizing to people...
ha ha ha
An old lady in a wheelchair gets the aisle seat. She can't move by herself at all and has to be lifted into the seat. There go any bathroom visits i may have planned. Then comes her son with a million plastic bags. He climbs over her and settles down, carefully arranging his plastic bags around him. I lean away from him and hide in my book.
Before the plane takes off, he opens his tray table and pulls out a large purple thermos. I tell him, he can't have it open during take off. Luckily he listens, cause the thermos is full of steaming hot milky tea. He is very agitated and keeps checking his watch. He needs to drink tea from his thermos before sunset. He's taken a mannat. And the plane is late and the sun is dipping and he can't 'take' anything after it vanishes over the horizon, he explains.
i wonder what he'd do if we were flying westward, and it got light after it was dark!Anyway, so we take off, and within minutes, with the plane still banking sharply, the hot tea is poured into steel glasses and sipped noisily with the appropriate "aaahhh" to follow.
I think of what a friend said to me after my last travel experience "you must have strange co passenger karma" and i giggle into my book.
But that is just the beginning. out come paper plates. and a big steel box filled with soft white idlis. and smaller one with freshly grated coconut chatni. He serves his mother and encourages her to eat, ignoring the glances and smirks from the young airhostesses. He then makes her wash her hands in the glass and empties it into the paper plate. It slops all over his tray table and gets very messy. I squirm in my seat and look away embarrassed...
Bizarre and absurd as the situation seemed, i found myself thinking and hoping that i would be able to serve my parents, family or any loved ones with such care and complete abandon. there was no sense of apology, no embarrassment, no excuses as to why he needed to carry food and plates when the airline serves you anyway.
he knew he needed his mother to be comfortable and thats all that counted.and when i thought of that, it made me feel small that i had giggled.
and proud that i was sitting next to him.
And it made me think for the hundred millionth time, how we just can't and shouldn’t judge people.
On my way to Baroda, i got a window seat at the back of the plane. I smiled. I shall be alone and undisturbed. I shall be able to stretch across three seats and read my book. I shall be able to go to the loo without apologizing to people...
ha ha ha
An old lady in a wheelchair gets the aisle seat. She can't move by herself at all and has to be lifted into the seat. There go any bathroom visits i may have planned. Then comes her son with a million plastic bags. He climbs over her and settles down, carefully arranging his plastic bags around him. I lean away from him and hide in my book.
Before the plane takes off, he opens his tray table and pulls out a large purple thermos. I tell him, he can't have it open during take off. Luckily he listens, cause the thermos is full of steaming hot milky tea. He is very agitated and keeps checking his watch. He needs to drink tea from his thermos before sunset. He's taken a mannat. And the plane is late and the sun is dipping and he can't 'take' anything after it vanishes over the horizon, he explains.
i wonder what he'd do if we were flying westward, and it got light after it was dark!Anyway, so we take off, and within minutes, with the plane still banking sharply, the hot tea is poured into steel glasses and sipped noisily with the appropriate "aaahhh" to follow.
I think of what a friend said to me after my last travel experience "you must have strange co passenger karma" and i giggle into my book.
But that is just the beginning. out come paper plates. and a big steel box filled with soft white idlis. and smaller one with freshly grated coconut chatni. He serves his mother and encourages her to eat, ignoring the glances and smirks from the young airhostesses. He then makes her wash her hands in the glass and empties it into the paper plate. It slops all over his tray table and gets very messy. I squirm in my seat and look away embarrassed...
Bizarre and absurd as the situation seemed, i found myself thinking and hoping that i would be able to serve my parents, family or any loved ones with such care and complete abandon. there was no sense of apology, no embarrassment, no excuses as to why he needed to carry food and plates when the airline serves you anyway.
he knew he needed his mother to be comfortable and thats all that counted.and when i thought of that, it made me feel small that i had giggled.
and proud that i was sitting next to him.
And it made me think for the hundred millionth time, how we just can't and shouldn’t judge people.
A man suffering from obsessive-compulsive disorders walks onto the plane and sits down beside me. A man suffering from obsessive-compulsive disorders walks onto the plane and sits down beside me J ok jokes apart; I think this guy has a serious problem.
Before the flight takes off, he asks for 2 bottles of water. And 2 pillows.
He quickly gets rid of the newspapers (there are far too many for his liking) in the seat pocket in front of him, drinks 2 glasses of nimbu pani, takes 2 imli sweets from the basket the airhostess brings around and closes his eyes the moment the plane takes off.
At breakfast, he asks for 2 packets of sauce, 2 packets of sugar and eats 2 pieces of sautéed potato. He puts aside the tomato cause its 1.
Poor tomato.
I almost offered to eat it.
He slices his bun neatly in two, smears pink strawberry jam on both halves. He cuts his omelette neatly down the centre into two equal pieces. So now he has two mini omelettes.
The moment he finishes eating, his eyes close again. Abruptly.
I wonder what would happen to him if one day he can’t get 2 pillows. Or two packets of sauce. Would he still sleep? Or be able to eat his omelettes?
Maybe he has two wives.
And two children.
Maybe he’s wearing two pairs of socks.
Two chaddis.
Maybe he’ll fill out the contest form in duplicate.
Or hey…maybe, he’s one of a pair of twins. And needs two of everything he does in his life. Maybe the twin died and he’s making up for it…
The plane lands and I’m glad to get away. So glad that I don’t wait to count how many bags he’s carrying.
Before the flight takes off, he asks for 2 bottles of water. And 2 pillows.
He quickly gets rid of the newspapers (there are far too many for his liking) in the seat pocket in front of him, drinks 2 glasses of nimbu pani, takes 2 imli sweets from the basket the airhostess brings around and closes his eyes the moment the plane takes off.
At breakfast, he asks for 2 packets of sauce, 2 packets of sugar and eats 2 pieces of sautéed potato. He puts aside the tomato cause its 1.
Poor tomato.
I almost offered to eat it.
He slices his bun neatly in two, smears pink strawberry jam on both halves. He cuts his omelette neatly down the centre into two equal pieces. So now he has two mini omelettes.
The moment he finishes eating, his eyes close again. Abruptly.
I wonder what would happen to him if one day he can’t get 2 pillows. Or two packets of sauce. Would he still sleep? Or be able to eat his omelettes?
Maybe he has two wives.
And two children.
Maybe he’s wearing two pairs of socks.
Two chaddis.
Maybe he’ll fill out the contest form in duplicate.
Or hey…maybe, he’s one of a pair of twins. And needs two of everything he does in his life. Maybe the twin died and he’s making up for it…
The plane lands and I’m glad to get away. So glad that I don’t wait to count how many bags he’s carrying.
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