Monday, August 24, 2009

Loosen Up! Why Don't You?

The more developed the race,

the more sounds and actions they use to communicate.

Superior communication skill is widely acknowledged as a sign of intelligence.

And we human beings are the most developed. Or so we would like to believe.

We are emotionally intelligent.

We are audio visual people.

But it’s surprising how many of people around you will use either sound or action.

More surprising is the ratio of people who will or can use neither.

“Will the work be done today?” To garage mechanic.

Grunt in reply.

“When can I expect it?” to annonymous.

Soon.

“Will the delivery be at 6:00 or 8:00?” to the supermarket guy.

‘Ha Ha.’ Phone click.

How was your day?

Ok!!!!

Do you love me? To the love of your life.

Blank stare. Uh huh. Silence. Or he did not hear you or your insecurity.

It’s surprising how we present our back to a person while talking.

How often we maintain no eye contact.

How we sit at a table with a ‘dear friend’
and frantically message other ‘dear friends’ looking down at our phone.

How we always forget to return a dear ones calls.

How rare it is that we call up the people we live with -

Our parents, our boyfriends / girlfriends, our husbands /wives, our roommates -

just to have a chat, just like that.

I wonder, when have you 'networked' with them last?

Everything NEEDS to have a time, a sense, an occasion and a definite reason.

Calls are made only when there is something to talk about.

Gifts bought only on birthdays and anniversaries.

Outings / Romance/ Friends are Sundays.

Courtship is, well, only during courtship.

Holidays can be postponed.

The more the communication channels, the lesser the communication.

Letters became sms.

Sms became expensive?

Conversations are calls now. Victim to per minute billing.
Or chats. Or status updates.

So much for emotional intelligence.

The intelligence these days is in not showing any emotion.

When is the last time you surprised someone with something ridiculous?

When is the last time you did something without a reason?

When is the last time you were a kid?

Or silly.

Or funny.

When is the last time you tickled someone?

When is the last time you did not take yourself seriously?

When is the last time you took someone else seriously instead? :-)

Are you audio visual?

Or just plain scared?

Or indifferent?

Do you like being this way?

Are you having fun?

Is anybody else?

Friday, August 21, 2009

Ozi Kozi Tree

There is a tree outside my window.

Well, technically, he is on the other side of the road,
but he kindly leans over to us.

A huge old fellow.

His arms spread wide,
spanning the entire building and some more.

He made himself quite comfortable, very early,
When real estate on St. Leo road was very cheap I daresay.

Now this guy is a sociable fellow.

I fancy myself some sort of a bird watcher.

Thanks to a trip to Jim Corbett.

Where I did not see a single tiger.

But boy! Did I see birds!

And snow for the first time!

But I digress!

I was telling you about the tree.

So … it is a huge tree

With many squirrels leasing its boles and crevices.

Ever so often you can see the little nimble creatures dart here
and stop to make munching motions with their tiny paws near their face.

As if they are whispering to a smaller squirrel in their hands.
Or keeping a watch on you and speaking into a lapel mike about your movements
And the going-ons in your house.

And then there are the glorious birds that visit.
Eagles, hawks, parrots are de rigeur.
There are magical Kingfishers, fantails, koels.
It’s like having caviar every day.
Visual luxury.

Evenings are a riot of homecoming.
With birds fidgeting and struggling for their favourite positions.
Not unlike Bombay’s local train.
Some days you have to make do with the fourth seat.

And the other evening gifted me a saffron sunset.

As if someone up there had lit up halogen lamps at a village wedding.

Orange and creamy and hazy.

Quite unexpected at this time of the year.

You should have seen the tree that day!

Framed against that sky.

It was quite an image.

I so wish you had seen it.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Writer Unblocked

I like to write.

I just discovered that actually.

Not because I like to think of myself as a writer.

Not because it earns me bread.

(Well, it does in a way I suppose.

But this is pure pleasure.)

I like to write

because I really like to read what I have written!!!!!!

There I have said it!

Does it sound terribly self-indulgent?

I hope not.

That was not my intent.

It’s just that this way I get to know what I am thinking.

How I feel.

Quite surprising really!

Shocking, too, at times.

One’s own thoughts can be.

I also like to know what others who have read think about it.

Not about how it is written and all that.

But about memories evoked.

I made a dear one cry the other day.

I get heaps of appreciation from some.

And on some evenings I get a much awaited call.

Today a friend remembered his childhood. And his outings with his Dad.

He took me to Howrah on a Sunday morning ride in a fiat

whose door opens the other way around he said.

I put my head out with his in the wind as we crossed the bridge.

And I sat at a small eatery and had luchi and dal with his Baba and him.

And on the way back we both watched his Baba drop his books off at the library

and pick up the stock for the week ahead.

He was happy to recall these moments.

I was happy he was happy.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Eternal Sunshine Days

It’s here! It’s here! It’s here!

Ever had a day that you know is special?

You wake up all excited.

Like a child off to a picnic.

And even before you open your eyes,

You just know it, and you are smiling.

You jump out of bed.

You bang against something

and don't even cuss.

You even whistle a tune.

That's how happy you are.

Everything is all right ... till you realise ...

something is wrong ...

The day seems to be just dragging and dragging.

In its boring, unyielding, non-serendipitious routine …

The day did not ask you to be there ...

You are not special enough for this day ...

So ...

There are no twists.

No magic ...

No sudden jokes or laughter.

Nothing exciting or remotely unique.

Definitely no huge surprises.

Not for you.

This day seems to have nothing for you.

And as you are kicking a stone on the dusty road in the evening …

On your way back home …

Unwilling to give up the day …

To give up on it …

You feel strange …

Strangely cheated

Strangely let down

Hey … I was right, wasn’t I?

This day Was special …

At least it was supposed to be …

Or maybe ...

Heck yeah … is my day tomorrow maybe.

Why not? It makes sense …

Of course it is ...

Tomorrow is My day.

I just got it wrong.

Hell imagine that … it’s tomorrow … not today!

And I kept thinking I lost the day …

Eternal sunshine chants …

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow …

Warms you again …

Today, Tomorrow, Tomorrow, Today

Monday, August 17, 2009

Happy Birthday Dada

Dada, it’s your birthday today.


I am going to ask you for some gifts.


Another sleepy morning with bhajans playing as I wake up.



A-1 puffs on your walk back from Bandstand.

Of course, we will both grin and wink as Mom mutters,

‘She does not eat so much. Get just one.’



I will cut my hair again today.

‘Boy cut’ just the way you liked it.



And do let’s go take a drive in our ‘Big Black Car’.

(Well, it’s not black. But that’s the only place I cheated.)



You siesta once more on my bed, Dad.



And just maybe we can do a ‘chakkar’ to Fendi after that.



Or you go get me bhel puri and sev puri for Mum.



You please watch Laughter Challenge on my TV.



Let Brandy yelp in irritation and snarl because you teased him.



This weekend I will not go to Dahisar.

Or even if I do, I will come back before you wake up.



And oh yes! Let’s order food from China Gate.

Just the way I had promised you that last day.



I promise we will ‘Not waste the prawns.’

Friday, August 14, 2009

DIY India

A Letter to Every Indian - APJ
The former President of India DR. A. P. J. Abdul Kalam’s Speech in Hyderabad.


Why is the media here so negative?

Why are we in India so embarrassed to recognize our own strengths, our achievements?
We are such a great nation.

We have so many amazing success stories but we refuse to acknowledge them. Why?

We are the first in milk production.
We are number one in Remote sensing satellites.
We are the second largest producer of wheat.
We are the second largest producer of rice.
Look at Dr. Sudarshan, he has transferred the tribal village into a self-sustaining, self-driving unit. There are millions of such achievements but our media is only obsessed in the bad news and failures and disasters.

I was in Tel Aviv once and I was reading the Israeli newspaper. It was the day after a lot of attacks and bombardments and deaths had taken place. The Hamas had struck. But the front page of the newspaper had the picture of a Jewish gentleman who in five years had transformed his desert into an orchid and a granary. It was this inspiring picture that everyone woke up to. The gory details of killings, bombardments, deaths, were inside in the newspaper, buried among other news.
In India we only read about death, sickness, terrorism, crime... Why are we so NEGATIVE?

Another question: Why are we, as a nation so obsessed with foreign things? We want foreign TVs, we want foreign shirts. We want foreign technology.
Why this obsession with everything imported. Do we not realize that self-respect comes with self-reliance? I was in Hyderabad giving this lecture, when a 14 year old girl asked me for my autograph. I asked her what her goal in life is. She replied: I want to live in a developed India. For her, you and I will have to build this developed India. You must proclaim. India is not an under-developed nation; it is a highly developed nation.

Do you have 10 minutes? Allow me to come back with a vengeance.
Got 10 minutes for your country?
YOU say that our government is inefficient.
YOU say that our laws are too old.
YOU say that the municipality does not pick up the garbage.
YOU say that the phones don’t work, the railways are a joke. The airline is the worst in the world, mails never reach their destination.
YOU say that our country has been fed to the dogs and is the absolute pits.
YOU say, say and say. What do YOU do about it?

Take a person on his way to Singapore. Give him a name - ‘YOURS’. Give him a face - ‘YOURS’. YOU walk out of the airport and you are at your International best. In Singapore you don’t throw cigarette butts on the roads or eat in the stores. YOU are as proud of their Underground links as they are. You pay $5 (approx. Rs. 60) to drive through Orchard Road (equivalent of Mahim Causeway or Pedder Road) between 5 PM and 8 PM. YOU come back to the parking lot to punch your parking ticket if you have over stayed in a restaurant or a shopping mall irrespective of your status identity. In Singapore you don’t say anything, DO YOU?

YOU wouldn’t dare to eat in public during Ramadan, in Dubai. YOU would not dare to go out without your head covered in Jeddah. YOU would not dare to buy an employee of the telephone exchange in London at 10 pounds (Rs.650) a month to, ’see to it that my STD and ISD calls are billed to someone else.’ YOU would not dare to speed beyond 55 mph (88 km/h) in Washington and then tell the traffic cop, ‘Jaanta hai main kaun hoon (Do you know who I am?). I am so and so’s son. Take your two bucks and get lost.’ YOU wouldn’t chuck an empty coconut shell anywhere other than the garbage pail on the beaches in Australia and New Zealand. Why don’t YOU spit Paan on the streets of Tokyo? Why don’t YOU use examination jockeys or buy fake certificates in Boston???

We are still talking of the same YOU. YOU who can respect and conform to a foreign system in other countries, but cannot in your own. You who will throw papers and cigarettes on the road the moment you touch Indian ground. If you can be an involved and appreciative citizen in an alien country, why cannot you be the same here in India?

Once in an interview, the famous Ex-municipal commissioner of Bombay, Mr. Tinaikar, had a point to make. “Rich people’s dogs are walked on the streets to leave their affluent droppings all over the place.” he said. “And then the same people turn around to criticize and blame the authorities for inefficiency and dirty pavements. What do they expect the officers to do? Go down with a broom every time their dog feels the pressure in his bowels? In America every dog owner has to clean up after his pet has done the job. Same in Japan. Will the Indian citizen do that here?” He’s right.

We go to the polls to choose a government and after that forfeit all responsibility.
We sit back wanting to be pampered and expect the government to do everything for us whilst our contribution is totally negative. We expect the government to clean up but we are not going to stop chucking garbage all over the place. Nor are we going to stop to pick up a stray piece of paper and throw it in the bin. We expect the railways to provide clean bathrooms but we are not going to learn the proper use of bathrooms. We want Indian Airlines and Air India to provide the best of food and toiletries but we are not going to stop pilfering at the least opportunity. This applies even to the staff that is known not to pass on the service to the public.

When it comes to burning social issues like those related to women, dowry, and girl child! and others, we make loud drawing room protestations and continue to do the reverse at home. Our excuse? “It’s the whole system which has to change. How will it matter if I alone forego my son’s rights to a dowry?” So who’s going to change the system?

What does a system consist of? Very conveniently for us, it consists of our neighbours, other households, other cities, other communities and the government. But definitely not me and YOU. When it comes to us actually making a positive contribution to the system, we lock ourselves along with our families into a safe cocoon and look into the distance at countries far away and wait for a Mr. Clean to come along & work miracles for us with a majestic sweep of his hand or we leave the country and run away.

Like lazy cowards hounded by our fears we run to America to bask in their glory and praise their system. When New York becomes insecure we run to England. When England experiences unemployment, we take the next flight out to the Gulf. When the Gulf is war struck, we demand to be rescued and brought home by the Indian government. Everybody is out to abuse and rape the country. Nobody thinks of feeding the system. Our conscience is mortgaged to money.

Dear Indians, The article is highly thought inducive, calls for a great deal of introspection and pricks one’s conscience too ... I am echoing J. F. Kennedy’s words to his fellow Americans to relate to Indians...

‘ASK WHAT WE CAN DO FOR INDIA AND DO WHAT HAS TO BE DONE TO MAKE INDIA WHAT AMERICA AND OTHER WESTERN COUNTRIES ARE TODAY’

Let’s do what India needs from us.

Thank you,
Dr. Abdul Kalam

Thursday, August 13, 2009

My parents were not rich. But I never felt poor either.

Coming back wet from school.
Ma giving me hot milk, brandy and sugar after toweling my hair vigorously dry.

Joy beating up someone on the school bus and bloodying his nose,
(Guy called Merwyn. He would pinch so hard that it bled)
Because he pushed me.

Baba and my song.
‘Ek pyaar ka nagma hai … Maujon ki rawani hai …
Zindai aur kuchch bhi nahi …
Teri meri kahani hai.’

The plastic lizard on the electricity board
So we would not touch the switches or the fuse box.
That’s where my phobia started most likely.

Eating Chapati in next door neighbour, Chinga Aunty’s, house.
Still remember that steel container.
Ma says I would eat half and get half back for her always.

Thursday morning market trips with Baba.
Baba and I having tea with fisherwomen.
We were treated like celebrities.
Baba had that effect on women.
Baba letting me buy second hand books.
And then the secret sugar cane juice tryst which we never ever told Ma about.

Eating mallu food with my neighbours.
Becoming half a mallu myself.
Usha Didi. Shanta Didi. Gita Didi (who I still look out for). Unni Dada.

Listening to Ma tell stories.
My leg thrown over her from this side. Joy’s leg from the other.
Ramayan, Mahabharat. Byomkesh Bakshi. Ghost stories.
Occasionally we kicked each other to claim our place back.

Sitting on the sidecar of Baba’s scooter
and going all around Bombay waiting for Ma to finish her work.

Climbing trees and plucking guava and black jamuns.

Having 9 dolls.
Well, 8 actually.
One was my brother's. But it was the child in my third family.
And it broke my heart when he took it away at each fight.
I always said sorry so I could have it back.

Baba’s friend, Chandra Uncle, coming.
He took us for Cassata ice cream every time he came.

Baba carting all the building kids on his scooter and side car to school.
I used to feel so tripped.

Baba’s freedom fighter Mama visiting from London.
He used to take Joy and me for long walks.
I used to get tired at the end of it.
But just before he turned around to walk back,
he would buy us a pack of chocolate each. Our choice.

Joy and his dog army.
Champi. Panna. And all the other dogs in the neighbourhood.
He used to share his tiffin with them.
Then I had to share my tiffin during recess with him.

Dad’s tennis ball stuck on a palm tree.
It was his prize possession.
He had been forbidden from playing with it.
I had taken it to bribe the older boys, so they would let me bat too.

Playing Superman with towels wrapped.

My best friend Puppy dying suddenly.
I did not understand for a long time what happened
and where she went.

Buying and wanting only frilly dresses.
White. Pink. Yellow. Blue.
I was such a girl.

School Library Day.
Making all the people who don’t read, get the books I want to read.

Grafting all the rose bushes I could find
after reading about it in the school textbook.

Winning the white China marble.

Catching tadpoles in gutters.
We thought they were fish.

Rahul and Mukul's Mum's Diwali goodies.
Especially the karanjis.

Me fainting often at school and at play.
Felt terribly embarrassed every time it happened.

A tent made of saris.
We stayed all day in it.
The other neighborhood kids were ever so jealous.

Writing plays in Hindi and enacting it
with all the small kids in my building.
I had my own infantry who used to shadow me everywhere.
We used to take pangas with all the big kids around.

Rahul and I playing Rich and Poor all afternoon.

Also Rahul wanting me to solve dummy SSC question papers.
Because he loved finding my mistakes
and cutting huge marks for the smallest of things.

The 60 odd nannies that were inflicted on us.
Before Ma decided we could take care of ourselves.
Or rather I could take care of us.

Ma’s Doctor Mama coming.
He lived in this huge bungalow in Tala Park Calcutta.
He bought us lovely fairytale books.
Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Ukranian Folk Tales.

Horse Riding in Matheran.
Guide was my first horse.
Badal was my second.
Have a picture wearing a cowboy hat too.

Taking my ‘infantry’ to eat ice cream surreptitiously at a wedding hall.
Pretending to be a part of the wedding party.
We ate quite a lot of Tooti-Fruity ice cream that day.
I still like that flavour.

Burning my hair while blowing out the birthday cake candle.
Had to cut my hair really short for the first time.
But when I went back to school,
I learnt the importance of a good hair cut. ;-)
All the boys wanted to be my friend. Suddenly.

Getting pie-eyed drunk on Feni.
And cooking Dhansaak for eight people.
Must have been fifteen or so then.

It was sweet. All of this. Most of it.
The rich part.
The reason I did not feel poor maybe.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Where I come from

Where I come from, Sunday morning is a long happy tumble and tangle in bed.

Actually most mornings are.

You never get out without a cuddle.



Where I come from,

we show unreasonable happiness

when we meet each other again

at the end of a journey …

at the end of the day,

at the end of each small or big or long or hard separation.



Where I come from, we wave goodbye.

We wave and wave and wave till the other person waving is just a speck.

And then wave some more.



Where I come from, you never sleep angry.

You are not allowed to remain angry either.

Love, the happy puppy, put its head down

and wet-nose nuzzles your feet in abject apology.

It licks and bites,

Mews and cuddles you back into a good mood.




Where I come from, you can stop living.

Stopping to love, alas, is not an option extended.

Monday, August 10, 2009

Say Hello and Wave Goodbye

So, yesterday I went to Thane. To say hello to some old neighbors. To say goodbye to one.

You see my old neighbor, Uncle Cyril D’cruz, passed away a few weeks back. And I dedicate this post to his memory. I went to visit his wife, Maria and daughter Alisha.

If you had known me as a child, you, like me, would have known what a happy teddy bear or panda looks like. Like Uncle D’cruz. With his big burly frame. Curly hair which turned salt and pepper even back then. A ready smile, laughter or joke. Allways the first to help. Never upset or angry or stressed out. Never ever. I don’t have a single memory of him like that.

During vacations, the D’cruz house door and our main door were always left wide open or slightly ajar. This was to facilitate the movement of little Miss Alisha D’cruz who reigned supreme over both these households.

But it is the first day of every vacation that I want to tell you about. Every child waits for this day, I am sure. But every child does not have Uncle D’cruz as neighbor you see. Come that day, he would throw open his cassette shelves and VHS shelves and bookshelves. My greedy eyes and hands were welcome to all the loot that I could carry. As many as I liked? Even that one? And this, uncle? Yes, as many as you want, my dear. For as long as you want.

It was D’cruz Uncle who introduced me to country music. Don Williams’ CafĂ© Carolina was my first country listening. John Denver. Johnny Cash. Kenny Rogers. Jim Reevs. They all followed. It was D’cruz Uncle who gave Joy (my brother) and me Tom & Jerry VHS’ to watch again and again. Any party in their house and I would be happily invited, handed a glass of port wine and expected to join in. My first taste of Goan Sausages came from there. And all the Mount Mary and Christmas goodies that I could stuff my face with.

Birthdays and Diwali, I have unfailingly received a card, or a message or a call from them. I have been remiss in not remembering to do this consistently. I hope to be better now.

Uncle D’cruz passed away on July 3rd. The stomach cancer was in its fourth stage when detected. He did not feel a thing before that. And it put paid to his life within a matter of a few months. He must have suffered some pain. But he did not suffer long.

Yesterday was Sunday. And once again I was in the D’cruz household. We all spoke nineteen to the dozen. Lots of laughter. Years of catching up. Lots of tears. Lots of promises to not lose touch again. I missed Uncle D’cruz. If he was around, it would have been a party. With country music and wine and beer. And a table-full of good food. Because that’s the kind of person he was. His eyes twinkled at us from the frame. The smile still the same. The hair had become a silver halo. I imagined he was happy to see us. It felt that way.

Friday, August 7, 2009

Happiness is not happiness till you don’t have an album on Facebook

Yesterday I heard on the radio that Costa Rica has been declared the happiest nation in the world. They also have the smallest carbon footprint. But surely this data can’t be right. Visit Facebook nation. Each and every citizen here is deliriously happy.

See that extra large smile. See that tight ‘we-are-best-friends’ hug. See that friend who is not a friend he is a ‘soul brother’. Oh ha ha ha. That caption! Superb! So funny! See that party is extra happening. See we got extra drunk. See. See. See. See here is my life. See how much fun it all is. See my life. Show it to others. Show it to your friends, colleagues, janitor. Here, here. I give you full access. Check out my holiday.

Every emotion is felt only if it translates into a ‘catchy’ slogan. Only then can it become a status message you see. Only then can random people reply with inane suggestions captured in ‘catchier’ slogans. And when the replies trickle off, that’s when the desperate Facebooker goes into the worst Attention Deficit mode. He craves attention. And puts his miniscule brain to the most arduous test. Think , think, think. A catchier thought. A more dissonance creating feeling. A hotter issue. Another phone picture. A haircut? Maybe I should watch a movie. Maybe I should go out tonight. Maybe I can write a poem. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Should I make a ‘witty’ comment on Rakhi Sawants show. Hmmm. Let me think. Let me think. Rains? Nah! Too boring. Work! Too real.

(An aside: Wonder how much the camera industry has grown since Facebook. Alas! Nobody buys rolls anymore. Not the kind of people who are clicking themselves through every dull, boring day trying to make it appear shiny-happy for Facebook, Orkut, Chat sites. )

What’s mind boggling is this intense, all consuming determination to live for the world. Whenever I get on to Facebook, I have an insane desire to write pert replies. I do that sometimes. I add a LOL in the end to make things better. Or a smiley. Because then they will understand it’s ‘fun’. It’s the modern way of making everything okay.

So, for all the loyal Facebookers seething right about now, or quickly running a mental check on the ‘asinine-level’ of your last few status messages, LOL.