Sunday, October 5, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Vande Mataram
One of my articles published in the Indian Express a few years ago.
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It was a typical muggy evening in a sunny southern state of America. My sweat stained kurta sticking to my back, I stood in line waiting to buy a ticket for the Festival of India. This was an eagerly anticipated annual event and drew large crowds of the sub-continental people from all around. It also drew indigenous crowds of ‘educated’ people wanting to ride elephants, see snake charmers and shake hands with a Maharaja. They were sorely disappointed. The snake had escaped and bitten the Maharaja, who was then taken on the elephant to the emergency room.
As I waited, I glanced at the poster for the event. It promised a wondrous evening showcasing the diverse people, food, cultures and titillating splendors of an exotic country, if you could get into the auditorium. There were long queues for tickets comprising homesick Indians looking to talk to another human being without having to roll their r’s. What surprised me most was that not one of them was jostling for space to get ahead in the line, there was no fat uncle rubbing his smelly armpits in my face and definitely no one spitting paan on my shoes. Talk about culture shock! The odds of seeing such an orderly queue in India is rare. Some would say as rare as India winning the Cricket World Cup. Either of these events is cause enough for the general masses to rise up in union and exclaim jubilantly in chorus, “The gods are on our side! Our sins have been forgiven!” Of course, this would promptly be followed by political parties calling for a curfew to ascertain which gods were being propitiated and to include a quota for proper representation of the minority communities in these prayers!
But I digress.
An excited throng of sari, dhoti, kurta, salwaar and turban wearing multitude milled around the auditorium. The incessant babble of people around me was intermittently drowned out by music blaring from the speakers. Small shops had been setup selling everything from cheap imitation Indian jewelry at exorbitant prices to pirated Hindi movies, still running in theatres back home. Dance programs on stage highlighted the latest fads from bollywood songs, with enough pelvic gyration to give the local belly dancer a hernia! Even the large overflowing trash cans in every corner seemed to lend an aura of authenticity.
My attention was drawn to a table across from me. The sign above it instantly piqued my interest. I licked my dry lips with my tongue. A slight tremble in my hands gave away my anticipation. I moved closer to the table. I reached out slowly. My hand closed in around the plate of free, hot samosas. It was not a figment of my imagination. Neither was the small cup of sweet chutney on the side. I dipped the samosa in it and took a bite. An overwhelming surge of curry spice and sweet chutney enveloped me in a sense of well-being. I licked my fingers and wiped the delicious crumbs from my lips. I beamed from ear to ear. And that’s when it hit me.
It is well known that, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach”. The belief that love is governed by a base need like hunger leads me to re-state, “To know if man has a heart, fill his stomach”. I walked away with a renewed faith in my fellow beings, my country and in the unstoppable positivity of a satiated stomach. With a look of utter satisfaction on my face and lightness in my step, I thought to myself, “Fill the plates of the hungry and the poor in India and you will soon rejoice in its new found patriotism.” After all, one billion stomachs’ is a ‘whole lotta love!’
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It was a typical muggy evening in a sunny southern state of America. My sweat stained kurta sticking to my back, I stood in line waiting to buy a ticket for the Festival of India. This was an eagerly anticipated annual event and drew large crowds of the sub-continental people from all around. It also drew indigenous crowds of ‘educated’ people wanting to ride elephants, see snake charmers and shake hands with a Maharaja. They were sorely disappointed. The snake had escaped and bitten the Maharaja, who was then taken on the elephant to the emergency room.
As I waited, I glanced at the poster for the event. It promised a wondrous evening showcasing the diverse people, food, cultures and titillating splendors of an exotic country, if you could get into the auditorium. There were long queues for tickets comprising homesick Indians looking to talk to another human being without having to roll their r’s. What surprised me most was that not one of them was jostling for space to get ahead in the line, there was no fat uncle rubbing his smelly armpits in my face and definitely no one spitting paan on my shoes. Talk about culture shock! The odds of seeing such an orderly queue in India is rare. Some would say as rare as India winning the Cricket World Cup. Either of these events is cause enough for the general masses to rise up in union and exclaim jubilantly in chorus, “The gods are on our side! Our sins have been forgiven!” Of course, this would promptly be followed by political parties calling for a curfew to ascertain which gods were being propitiated and to include a quota for proper representation of the minority communities in these prayers!
But I digress.
An excited throng of sari, dhoti, kurta, salwaar and turban wearing multitude milled around the auditorium. The incessant babble of people around me was intermittently drowned out by music blaring from the speakers. Small shops had been setup selling everything from cheap imitation Indian jewelry at exorbitant prices to pirated Hindi movies, still running in theatres back home. Dance programs on stage highlighted the latest fads from bollywood songs, with enough pelvic gyration to give the local belly dancer a hernia! Even the large overflowing trash cans in every corner seemed to lend an aura of authenticity.
My attention was drawn to a table across from me. The sign above it instantly piqued my interest. I licked my dry lips with my tongue. A slight tremble in my hands gave away my anticipation. I moved closer to the table. I reached out slowly. My hand closed in around the plate of free, hot samosas. It was not a figment of my imagination. Neither was the small cup of sweet chutney on the side. I dipped the samosa in it and took a bite. An overwhelming surge of curry spice and sweet chutney enveloped me in a sense of well-being. I licked my fingers and wiped the delicious crumbs from my lips. I beamed from ear to ear. And that’s when it hit me.
It is well known that, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach”. The belief that love is governed by a base need like hunger leads me to re-state, “To know if man has a heart, fill his stomach”. I walked away with a renewed faith in my fellow beings, my country and in the unstoppable positivity of a satiated stomach. With a look of utter satisfaction on my face and lightness in my step, I thought to myself, “Fill the plates of the hungry and the poor in India and you will soon rejoice in its new found patriotism.” After all, one billion stomachs’ is a ‘whole lotta love!’
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Chapter 10 - Vanakkam, my name is Mani.
Was walking by a nice, clean building, single storeyed, blue and white exteriors. Looked like a bank. It was. The brightly lit sign outside said in bold white letters against a blue background, “GE Money”. Right underneath in tamil text, the same. With my limited knowledge of Tamil, it took me a while to “kooti padikku-fy”. And that’s when it hit me. GE Money, when read by a person in Tamil, especially if that person was from the boondocks and did not know about the existence of the mutli-billion dollar conglomerate, would make absolutely no sense. I stopped walking for a few seconds and a broad smile wrapped itself around my face as this imaginary conversation between two village bumpkins ran through my head:
First bumpkin: “Dei, yaarida intha G.E. Mani? Ooruku puthusa? Enna Vikuran?”
Second bumpkin: "Theriyada? Ooruku puthusa vanthurkire collector!"
("Dei, who is this G.E. Mani? Is he new in the town? What does he sell?")
("Dont you know, he is the new collector in town!")
I continued walking and i started to wonder if there was any other business names that rural folk would have a problem coming to grips with! Any ideas?
First bumpkin: “Dei, yaarida intha G.E. Mani? Ooruku puthusa? Enna Vikuran?”
Second bumpkin: "Theriyada? Ooruku puthusa vanthurkire collector!"
("Dei, who is this G.E. Mani? Is he new in the town? What does he sell?")
("Dont you know, he is the new collector in town!")
I continued walking and i started to wonder if there was any other business names that rural folk would have a problem coming to grips with! Any ideas?
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Sleepless in Rockcity
Five months of bus rides to and from work has confirmed the following: Everyone sleeps on the bus. Everyone. Only in their sleep patterns we find differentiation. There are three kinds on the bus. You’v got the Zen masters, the bobble-heads and last but not least you have spit-face. Zen masters are weird. They are neither asleep nor fully awake. They have their eyes closed yet manage to sit still as the bus jumps and jolts everyone else around. Then there are the Bobble-heads. These are the guys who have their eyes closed and their heads keep dropping onto their chest. Just when you think they are lights-out they jerk back up to an upright position and repeat the entire procedure again. And then come the spit faces. I envy these guys for they possess the unearthly super power to sleep like no human has ever slept before. From the time they get onto the bus they hit a snooze button and bam! They are of to la-la land. Its very easy to find these guys in the bus. They are the ones hanging half in and half out of their seat or generally smothering their unfortunate neighbor while maintaining a constant stream of spittle from their half open mouths. They will not wake up till the bus has reached the office and that too only if half a dozen of their colleagues dance the flamenco on their heads.
Its also funny the way seating in the bus has so naturally arranged itself. Zen masters always sit next to zen masters. Bobble-heads usually next to other bobbles but some unfortunate ones can get stuck next to a spit face. They never repeat the mistake. Spit faces predominantly sit next to each other. Oblivious to the spittle bath that they shower on each other, these somnolent beings find comfort in their shared inability to maintain consciousness in a moving vehicle. They cluster together like fungus. They also believe in more the merrier. You will always find them in the three-seater benches, never in the two seater, which is usually reserved for the groups of zen’s and bobbles. The other day I saw an incredible sight, what I believe to be the next Olympic sport: Synchronized sleeping! Like trained athletes three spit faces sitting next to each other, all with their heads lolling on their chests, with the same quantity of spittle in the corner of their mouths, jerking this way and that way with the swaying of the bus in perfect unison. Not even trained athletes could muster up such perfection. These unconscious beings swaying to some unheard universal melody; their body, soul and spittle tied together in an ethereal cosmic dance.
Wherever groups of humans get together patterns start to emerge. Are there any other patterns you readers have observed? In different situations maybe? In different circumstances? Do share. Im eager to know. You can say Im drooling for information!
Its also funny the way seating in the bus has so naturally arranged itself. Zen masters always sit next to zen masters. Bobble-heads usually next to other bobbles but some unfortunate ones can get stuck next to a spit face. They never repeat the mistake. Spit faces predominantly sit next to each other. Oblivious to the spittle bath that they shower on each other, these somnolent beings find comfort in their shared inability to maintain consciousness in a moving vehicle. They cluster together like fungus. They also believe in more the merrier. You will always find them in the three-seater benches, never in the two seater, which is usually reserved for the groups of zen’s and bobbles. The other day I saw an incredible sight, what I believe to be the next Olympic sport: Synchronized sleeping! Like trained athletes three spit faces sitting next to each other, all with their heads lolling on their chests, with the same quantity of spittle in the corner of their mouths, jerking this way and that way with the swaying of the bus in perfect unison. Not even trained athletes could muster up such perfection. These unconscious beings swaying to some unheard universal melody; their body, soul and spittle tied together in an ethereal cosmic dance.
Wherever groups of humans get together patterns start to emerge. Are there any other patterns you readers have observed? In different situations maybe? In different circumstances? Do share. Im eager to know. You can say Im drooling for information!
Friday, August 8, 2008
Friday, August 1, 2008
Chapter 8
“Dei Congratulations!”
“Whats with all the marriage fever in our batch? Anyway, congrats!”
“Who is the lucky girl?”
“Are you crazy??!!!”
Some of the messages on my facebook account. All because I changed the status on my page to seven simple letters, “Engaged”. I am sure there will be more to come and most will be real colourful. Will post some more of these as and when I get them. I thank my friends for taking a little time from their lives either to congratulate me or pass on their condolences!! That last comment was by one of my friends whose idea of a monogamous relationship is one woman only…every week. The last I heard of him he was fleeing from three angry ex’s, taking a trip to deepest darkest Africa. Wonder if he’ll have access to Facebook there?
So If you are wondering why my blog has remained untouched over the past two months ask my mobile service provider. I happen to be their single largest customer, helping them stay afloat in these lean times. My bills are astronomical as are my head, heart and soul (oh…so mushy!). Telephone conversations with this someone special is consuming all my free time and spare minutes are spent with my ears glued to the cell-phone, milking every last drop of juice from the batteries to get another sentence in. She calls herself my “phone-friend”. I call her, “The reason why Airtel has given me a credit line of ten thousand rupees”. I got a call from the customer service rep requesting me to prolong my engagement till the end of the fiscal year as they still had some bad debt to clear!
A twinkle in her eye, one watermelon juice, and a swish of her skirt and she had me hook line and sinker. Or should I say, “Cellphone, charger and Bluetooth!”
My special “phone friend”.
“Whats with all the marriage fever in our batch? Anyway, congrats!”
“Who is the lucky girl?”
“Are you crazy??!!!”
Some of the messages on my facebook account. All because I changed the status on my page to seven simple letters, “Engaged”. I am sure there will be more to come and most will be real colourful. Will post some more of these as and when I get them. I thank my friends for taking a little time from their lives either to congratulate me or pass on their condolences!! That last comment was by one of my friends whose idea of a monogamous relationship is one woman only…every week. The last I heard of him he was fleeing from three angry ex’s, taking a trip to deepest darkest Africa. Wonder if he’ll have access to Facebook there?
So If you are wondering why my blog has remained untouched over the past two months ask my mobile service provider. I happen to be their single largest customer, helping them stay afloat in these lean times. My bills are astronomical as are my head, heart and soul (oh…so mushy!). Telephone conversations with this someone special is consuming all my free time and spare minutes are spent with my ears glued to the cell-phone, milking every last drop of juice from the batteries to get another sentence in. She calls herself my “phone-friend”. I call her, “The reason why Airtel has given me a credit line of ten thousand rupees”. I got a call from the customer service rep requesting me to prolong my engagement till the end of the fiscal year as they still had some bad debt to clear!
A twinkle in her eye, one watermelon juice, and a swish of her skirt and she had me hook line and sinker. Or should I say, “Cellphone, charger and Bluetooth!”
My special “phone friend”.
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