When Michael Curitz directed “Casablanca” and released it in 1942, he expected nothing extraordinary out of the movie. Nothing in the film was A-list- Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman were struggling stars, the writers weren't creative demi-Gods and the war’s (the plot was based in the backdrop of WWII where Nazi Germany had an edge then)direction was unpredictable. But then out of everybody’s expectations, the film did exceptionally well. It won three Academy awards including the award for “best film”. With passing time the film became “cult fiction”. The rugged, stoic but subtly lovelorn Rick Blaine (played by the evergreen Humphrey Bogart) became a role model for a lot of young men around. Young women modeled themselves on Ilsa Lund (played by the eternally beautiful Ingrid Bergman). By 1977, “Casablanca” was the most broadcast movie on American television beating every other major film around.
“Casablanca” became a sudden hit with its plot which a large audience could relate to. Nazi rule in Europe and Vichy controlled France and its colonies led to mass exodus from Europe to the Americas. The rich fled to the new “heaven” to escape the “blitzkrieg” unleashed by Adolf Hitler. French ruled Morocco was a place from which refugees went to Lisbon (Portugal) and from there to the Americas. “Casablanca” spoke the language of all these countless men and women who had survived this ordeal to reach the Americas. They could see themselves in those refugees who gave away everything to escape the uncertain future. There is a scene in which Captain Louis Renault, the French Police chief of Casablanca makes an “indecent proposal” to Annina Brendel, a Bulgarian Refugee in exchange for papers to travel out of Casablanca. It was indeed very touching and raises the “homicidal impulses” in the audience. The eyes of the actress express her helplessness and move the audience to tears.
Rick Blaine and Ilsa Lund’s love story is the pivot of the plot. It has become such a common part of each love story that it has influenced many. Tapes and discs of it have been presented over and over to people in love. The part of the story in Paris personifies the concept of romance very well. The eyes were dreamy, the smiles were heartwarming and the kisses were passionate. Tears drop by kilolitres when Rick and Sam wait at the railway station in Paris and Ilsa fails to turn up and how Sam pushes Rick to leave Paris. And how the eyes light up when both of them reconcile at Casablanca. And how moved Rick is when he sees Ilsa in Casablanca. His initial portrayal of a stoic club owner just melts away as he is unable to control his mind and body. Dialogues that are remembered to this day follow. The best is when Ilsa asks Sam (The club Pianist) to play. “As time goes by”, the same tune that he used to play for them while in Paris. Her voice has so much innocence when she says “Play it again, Sam”. For the record, Sam was played by American actor Dooley Wilson, who in real life was a drummer and could not play the piano (Now can you beat that?). Viewers secretly pray for the lovers to get back into each other lives when Ilsa secretly comes to meet Rick in the abandoned café.
Victor Laszlo (Played by Austrian Paul Henreid) plays the part of a sensitive husband who is in knowledge of his wife’s love for another man but is more concerned about saving her in the time of distress than blame her for an “affair” while he was away. He keeps his calm while resisting the German invasion and intricately plans his escape to Lisbon and then USA along with his wife using the “papers” which were dropped in Rick’s possession by a petty thief.
“Casablanca” was also a voice of dissent towards the Nazi rule. When Major Stresser and his friends sing the Nazi anthem in Rick’s club, Laszlo replies with “La Marseilles” in a higher pitch. Things turn ugly when Rick orders the club band to play the tune and other French citizens join Laszlo and the Germans are beaten by sheer numbers. Major Stresser orders Renault to close the café on a flimsy charge.
Ilsa Lund portrays the role of a woman torn between her love for two men. When Victor Laszlo was in a concentration camp and she believed news that he was dead, Rick comes into her life. The love story seems immortal till her failure to arrive at the railway station makes the audience think that she “diched” Rick. But that was the time when her husband Victor turns up into her love and she decides to go back into her “marriage”. Fate brings her back to Rick at Casablanca. She tries every trick in the book to get the papers from Rick including pointing a pistol at him (But then she is not able to shoot him as she is still in love with him). Bergman plays the love-torn woman so well that in the audience can’t help but forgive her. For what? For everything.
The biggest loss in the whole film is borne by Rick Blaine. He is portrayed as the epitome of sacrifices in the plot. He first sacrifices Ilsa’s love in order to save his people (during the escape from Paris to Casablanca). Then he sacrifices the “papers” which he could have sold in the market at a premium- for Ilsa’s love again. He believed that giving the papers to Laszlo would mean his departure for Lisbon and then the USA and Ilsa coming back to his life. But then he also realizes that Ilsa’s love for Laszlo is a permanent phenomenon which will never wear off (It was very painful to see Ilsa telling Rick about her love for Victor. The audience was all for Rick). In the end, Victor and Ilsa leave. Rick loses Ilsa, Rick loses his club and Rick comes out as “Sacrificing Rick”. The best is in the end when he forcibly puts Ilsa on the plane saying that if she didn’t go she would regret it. “Not today, not tomorrow, but very soon and for the rest of your life”. I am yet to see somebody who is so stoic after losing so much. Bogart’s career took an upward dive after “Casablanca”. His portrayal as Rick Blaine has made the phrase “nice guys finish second” sound like an axiom. You just can’t help but hope to be like him. He is smart, suave, polished and above all- he is stoic.
The real winners in the fim are Victor Laszlo and Captain Louis Renault. Laszlo escapes to Lisbon, gets his adorable wife and we hope lived happily ever after. Renault is shown as the “expectedly” corrupt Police Officer who enthralls the public with the famous line, “I am where the wind blows, and presently the wind blows towards the Vichy”. He shows money to be his true master when he cleverly covers up Major Stresser’s murder by Rick. As the two men walk into the night in the end, Rick pulls down the curtain for the audience saying, “Louis, I think it is the starting to a beautiful friendship”.
It’s been almost 7 decades but “Casablanca” still is fresh in the minds of all its viewers. It still continues to be sold as a DVD and to be presented as a token of “love”. Imagine, this fim was made for a budget of $1 million. Considering the maount of people who must have appreciated it and seen it time and again, this cost seems like a pittance.
Rick Blaine and Ilsa Lund live on in our hearts.
P.S. The views expressed are personal opinion of the author and does not mean to hurt the feelings of any person- living or dead.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Has the monk grown old?
Vidhu Vinod Chopra and Rajkumar Hirani gave the cinema audience of this country and the Indian diaspora a cinematic treat that will be remembered for a lifetime. Each and every character of the film was carefully chosen and had a contribution to make to the script. Such eloquence was earlier probably seen only in “Sholay” where the myriad of characters put the screen on fire.
Rancho, Farhan, Raju and not to forget the “screwed-up yet affable” Chatur put a lot of us back into the “campus mode”. We went back to the days when life revolved around an institution called “college”. People who were residents of college hostels could relate more to the plot as the happenings passed by like a montage of clips. Faces of people who were defined as “friends” at one point of time were recollected. Every single, small, uneventful happening became a part of this pleasant nostalgia. Those were the days.
Chatur put the film into the drive with his “TamBram” accented Hindi which was devoid of any grammatical accuracy. But the fella was a pleasure to watch. As he offers a bottle of “Madeira” (the man had a gadget- it was too advanced to be called a cell phone- which contained a dictionary software) to 2 Idiots (Rancho decided not to turn up), my eyes fell on the label of the small bottle. It said, “Old Monk – 7 years old blended XXX Rum”. By the time my nervous system reacted to this picture, the whole audience started screaming. Chatur had brought out another piece of nostalgia- Old Monk rum.
From soldiers to civilians, from the rich to the poor, politicos, bureaucrats, students, wanderers and even teetotalers- this spirit has given “moments of pride” to a lot of people. The brand is owned by the Indian distillers Mohan Meakin & Co. and manufactured at their Mohannagar (Ghaziabad) factory. Established in 1855 by Edward Dyer, the company was later acquired by N N Mohan after Independence. The distillers have since then made quite a few improvements to this flagship brand of theirs. But the original shape of the bottle and the label has always remained the same. An old monk from one of the catholic monasteries has always featured on it making it easily recognizable by its patrons. With 42.20% alcohol content, it is a bit more “spirited” but ask any of the “old monk loyalists”, the taste is unbeatable. The loyalty of the brand can be estimated from the fact that it is the world’s third largest selling brand of rum with sales of 9 million cases in a year. “Bacardi” is the largest selling brand with about 14.00 million cases followed by “Tundray” which sells 12.90 million cases a year.
“Break the seal and with the first drop the fragrance of caned sugar from lush green fields will fill your nostrils”- is what a tagline for this great brand says. Trust me, they are right. The 750 ml (They call it “Khamba” in common parlance) of liquid has supported people through various emotions through more than a century. It has been a catalyst to celebrations and victory, it has been a friend to people during moments of sorrow and loss, it has bought people by it sheer power to dislodge people from rationality and it has even “put to sleep” a lot of people who thought they could win over it!
There are umpteen college stories that have revolved around this “distilled drop of cane sugar”. Abhijit Bhaduri gave a very vivid description of it in his book “Mediocre but Arrogant”- a book that brought out the life in an management school very well. “Rum and Coke” became a potent combination for the youth in the early 90s and thereafter. College hostels celebrated or supported “bad times” with this combination. The “bitter-sweet” taste is not just a “cocktail”. It is the way of living up that moment.
There are two kinds of people who drink “old monk”- one who are ‘loyalists’ (people who would not drink anything else until they don’t have a choice) and the second are the people who drink it because it is one of the most “affordable” spirits around (It still sells for under 300 bucks a bottle). Actually, it’s the “affordable” brass which moves on with time to becoming a “loyalist”. Or perhaps it’s the habit of watching another “loyalist” that makes you a “loyalist”. I fall in this category. Collegians start drinking it because of its sheer “affordability” which translates into its volumes (In college you drink for no rhyme and reason. Whatever be the reason, you just drink)
The club culture gave a big boost to the use of alcohol in India. “Bars” were generally frequented by people who were perceived as people who weren’t capable of “holding their glasses”. They drank cheap liquor (mostly Whisky) on a daily basis for a myriad of reasosn and were expected to create a “scene after getting drunk”. But “pubbers” were apparently a group of smart, suave, polished, up market guys who used the “spirits to raise their spirits”. Well Exceptions were always there (Poor Jessica Lall got shot by a “high” and “high powered” Manu Sharma) but as a whole, they were a “safe lot”.
Coming back to “old monk”, it very soon became a brand of the classes and the masses. Army and Police officers would not end their days without a sip of it. Winters turned it into a life-saving drug with the folks in hill stations making a beeline for it. On a visit to Nathu La, I was shocked to find it being sold in households in Sikkim. The monk had managed to conquer even the remotest households of the country. Fathers and sons had it alike. Soldiers kept themselves warm in blizzards and snow by a sip of it. Folklore goes in the Indian army that subordinates have to be “tipped” with it. People were “bribed” with it and people were “saved” (42.20 % alcohol can kill any kind of infection) with it. It has gone into cakes, pastries and innumerable other bakery products. It has been used as a cooking medium or to garnish a recipe. It is also used to wash one’s hair and to give it a shiny feel before a social appearance (the sugar in it sticks to the strands and gives hair a shiny look).
There is a certain gentleman who I know to be fond of the monk like anything. He was a “top cop” and kept a flask of the spirit always with him. When asked about it he always replied, “I can’t ask God to come with me but I can ask the monk. Can’t I?” Can there be a higher loyalty quotient. Another anecdote is about a train journey from Durgapur to Delhi. Aborad Howrah Rajdhani we opened a bottle of it along with some “Hilsa” fish for company. The public couldn’t appreciate the combination that their nostrils were treated to. Before somebody called the coach attendant, the fish was gobbled and the monk was safely tucked inside a blanket. Then we started screaming. The monks taught us that “offence was the best form of defence”. Long live the monk.
Old monk has not survived alone but has given a new lease of life to a lot of other people too. When Coca-Cola entered the Indian market, it started buying it competitors in India to gain market share. This included “Campa Cola” and “Thums Up”. The acquisition killed the former but the latter survived. “Thums Up” made a potent combination with it and this could not be replicated by Coke in any other form. Thus it survived and got a new lease of life.
The best part about it is the fact that its brand has become synonymous with “Rum”. You talk of rum and you mean “Old monk”. It is equally popular and sold and is available in all parts throughout India giving it a national character. It would not be wrong to say it has united India in the same mode as “lux” soap or “parachute” hair oil.It has been nearly two decades since the monk was born and been an integral part of its connoisseurs’ life. Its patrons swear by it and its competitors fear its reach. Even “Bacardi” and “Tundray” with its international market are barely ahead of it while “Old Monk” is served only in the Indian diaspora.
Dearest monk, all we wish to tell you is that your presence in our lives gives us a wider spectrum to look out to. In regulated quantities you have added a lot of colours to our lives and given us moments of joy and gaiety. So, whenever this question is posed to us about your age asking, “has the monk grown old?” all we answer is, “The monk is ageless”.
P.S. The words are the personal opinion of the author and are not meant to harm or offend any person living or dead. Consumption of alcohol is dangerous to the health.
Rancho, Farhan, Raju and not to forget the “screwed-up yet affable” Chatur put a lot of us back into the “campus mode”. We went back to the days when life revolved around an institution called “college”. People who were residents of college hostels could relate more to the plot as the happenings passed by like a montage of clips. Faces of people who were defined as “friends” at one point of time were recollected. Every single, small, uneventful happening became a part of this pleasant nostalgia. Those were the days.
Chatur put the film into the drive with his “TamBram” accented Hindi which was devoid of any grammatical accuracy. But the fella was a pleasure to watch. As he offers a bottle of “Madeira” (the man had a gadget- it was too advanced to be called a cell phone- which contained a dictionary software) to 2 Idiots (Rancho decided not to turn up), my eyes fell on the label of the small bottle. It said, “Old Monk – 7 years old blended XXX Rum”. By the time my nervous system reacted to this picture, the whole audience started screaming. Chatur had brought out another piece of nostalgia- Old Monk rum.
From soldiers to civilians, from the rich to the poor, politicos, bureaucrats, students, wanderers and even teetotalers- this spirit has given “moments of pride” to a lot of people. The brand is owned by the Indian distillers Mohan Meakin & Co. and manufactured at their Mohannagar (Ghaziabad) factory. Established in 1855 by Edward Dyer, the company was later acquired by N N Mohan after Independence. The distillers have since then made quite a few improvements to this flagship brand of theirs. But the original shape of the bottle and the label has always remained the same. An old monk from one of the catholic monasteries has always featured on it making it easily recognizable by its patrons. With 42.20% alcohol content, it is a bit more “spirited” but ask any of the “old monk loyalists”, the taste is unbeatable. The loyalty of the brand can be estimated from the fact that it is the world’s third largest selling brand of rum with sales of 9 million cases in a year. “Bacardi” is the largest selling brand with about 14.00 million cases followed by “Tundray” which sells 12.90 million cases a year.
“Break the seal and with the first drop the fragrance of caned sugar from lush green fields will fill your nostrils”- is what a tagline for this great brand says. Trust me, they are right. The 750 ml (They call it “Khamba” in common parlance) of liquid has supported people through various emotions through more than a century. It has been a catalyst to celebrations and victory, it has been a friend to people during moments of sorrow and loss, it has bought people by it sheer power to dislodge people from rationality and it has even “put to sleep” a lot of people who thought they could win over it!
There are umpteen college stories that have revolved around this “distilled drop of cane sugar”. Abhijit Bhaduri gave a very vivid description of it in his book “Mediocre but Arrogant”- a book that brought out the life in an management school very well. “Rum and Coke” became a potent combination for the youth in the early 90s and thereafter. College hostels celebrated or supported “bad times” with this combination. The “bitter-sweet” taste is not just a “cocktail”. It is the way of living up that moment.
There are two kinds of people who drink “old monk”- one who are ‘loyalists’ (people who would not drink anything else until they don’t have a choice) and the second are the people who drink it because it is one of the most “affordable” spirits around (It still sells for under 300 bucks a bottle). Actually, it’s the “affordable” brass which moves on with time to becoming a “loyalist”. Or perhaps it’s the habit of watching another “loyalist” that makes you a “loyalist”. I fall in this category. Collegians start drinking it because of its sheer “affordability” which translates into its volumes (In college you drink for no rhyme and reason. Whatever be the reason, you just drink)
The club culture gave a big boost to the use of alcohol in India. “Bars” were generally frequented by people who were perceived as people who weren’t capable of “holding their glasses”. They drank cheap liquor (mostly Whisky) on a daily basis for a myriad of reasosn and were expected to create a “scene after getting drunk”. But “pubbers” were apparently a group of smart, suave, polished, up market guys who used the “spirits to raise their spirits”. Well Exceptions were always there (Poor Jessica Lall got shot by a “high” and “high powered” Manu Sharma) but as a whole, they were a “safe lot”.
Coming back to “old monk”, it very soon became a brand of the classes and the masses. Army and Police officers would not end their days without a sip of it. Winters turned it into a life-saving drug with the folks in hill stations making a beeline for it. On a visit to Nathu La, I was shocked to find it being sold in households in Sikkim. The monk had managed to conquer even the remotest households of the country. Fathers and sons had it alike. Soldiers kept themselves warm in blizzards and snow by a sip of it. Folklore goes in the Indian army that subordinates have to be “tipped” with it. People were “bribed” with it and people were “saved” (42.20 % alcohol can kill any kind of infection) with it. It has gone into cakes, pastries and innumerable other bakery products. It has been used as a cooking medium or to garnish a recipe. It is also used to wash one’s hair and to give it a shiny feel before a social appearance (the sugar in it sticks to the strands and gives hair a shiny look).
There is a certain gentleman who I know to be fond of the monk like anything. He was a “top cop” and kept a flask of the spirit always with him. When asked about it he always replied, “I can’t ask God to come with me but I can ask the monk. Can’t I?” Can there be a higher loyalty quotient. Another anecdote is about a train journey from Durgapur to Delhi. Aborad Howrah Rajdhani we opened a bottle of it along with some “Hilsa” fish for company. The public couldn’t appreciate the combination that their nostrils were treated to. Before somebody called the coach attendant, the fish was gobbled and the monk was safely tucked inside a blanket. Then we started screaming. The monks taught us that “offence was the best form of defence”. Long live the monk.
Old monk has not survived alone but has given a new lease of life to a lot of other people too. When Coca-Cola entered the Indian market, it started buying it competitors in India to gain market share. This included “Campa Cola” and “Thums Up”. The acquisition killed the former but the latter survived. “Thums Up” made a potent combination with it and this could not be replicated by Coke in any other form. Thus it survived and got a new lease of life.
The best part about it is the fact that its brand has become synonymous with “Rum”. You talk of rum and you mean “Old monk”. It is equally popular and sold and is available in all parts throughout India giving it a national character. It would not be wrong to say it has united India in the same mode as “lux” soap or “parachute” hair oil.It has been nearly two decades since the monk was born and been an integral part of its connoisseurs’ life. Its patrons swear by it and its competitors fear its reach. Even “Bacardi” and “Tundray” with its international market are barely ahead of it while “Old Monk” is served only in the Indian diaspora.
Dearest monk, all we wish to tell you is that your presence in our lives gives us a wider spectrum to look out to. In regulated quantities you have added a lot of colours to our lives and given us moments of joy and gaiety. So, whenever this question is posed to us about your age asking, “has the monk grown old?” all we answer is, “The monk is ageless”.
P.S. The words are the personal opinion of the author and are not meant to harm or offend any person living or dead. Consumption of alcohol is dangerous to the health.
How Devdas and Ghalib die a thousand deaths everyday..
There were two individuals in Indian folklore (one of them was a part of History too) who gave a new spectrum to the emotion of love (I refer to the worldly use of the “word”). Devdas and Mirza Asadullah Khan “Ghalib”.
Their similarities are phenomenal. Both hailed from rich nobility but when death came they were paupers. They both had a liking for ‘spirits’ which turned them into ‘spirits’. And both of them said words which have been repeated by generations with passage of time. But then, there was a basic difference between both these men- Devdas was a figment of imagination which was brought to life by Sarat Chandra Chatterjee in his magnum opus “Devdas” while Mirza Ghalib was indeed a part of India’s history with him gracing Gali Qasim Jaan in Ballimaran in the walled city of Delhi. Devdas lived a life of misery due to his “fatal mistake of refusing Paro” while Ghalib’s sorrow was a complex mix of a dissatisfied marriage,loss of seven children and his reputation of being a “ladies man”.
Devdas came from a legacy of landed gentry. Educated in British ruled Calcutta (Oh yes! Devdas never went adroad as distorted by the Cinematic Gods of bollywood) he presents the image of a weak man who doesn’t have the guts to accept his love for Paro, his neighbour. Paro on the other hand had taken Dev to be her husband for life before she finds that her status was a element of fun for her love’s household and was coerced to marry a widower who apparently was richer than Dev;s family. Love hits a roadblock. Paro realizes that her “husband for life” theory kind of fell on his face (most women in the 21st century would agree with me that this theory either can be termed as stupid or has to be repeated many times before finding the right ”person.”) Anyways, what is bygone is bygone. Dev lands up in the arms of the courtesan Chandramukhi who also falls in love with him. Along with her came the killer alcholhol which siphoned off everything out of Dev’s system. Death came with lots of pain. But Dev became an icon for all the future generations of lovers in the Indian Diaspora who found failure in this emotion.
Ghalib on the other hand was born in Agra (a section of people somehow call Agra the “city of love-makers). Love-making indeed generated a good result in the form of Ghalib. Anyways, he never did anything for a living. Surviving on money doled out by the state and patronized by his friends, he spent his life writing urdu ghazals and couplets. Drawing inspiration from the great Meer Tauqi Meer, his persianised Urdu became a source of oxygen for the asphyxiated intelligentsia. History speaks of his competition with Zauq- the court poet of Mughal Emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar II. Although, he was married very early, he never had any children who lived (Seven of his children died). The pain can be traced in his writings which were drenched with sorrow many a times. Poets say that Ghalib could make you cry without making your tear glands work. This 19th century literary figure gave a new dimension to Urdu writings. Not only was he a good poet, but his prose too had deep-rooted effect on the readers. His death was indeed a loss for all the lovers of his literary creations.
Are you feeling as if I am trying to write History in my own words? Okay, you are partially right because the point that I am going to make now needed a bit of introduction on these men.
People have a different way of abusing Devdas. The world did not let him Rest in peace the moment he died. Every male who refuses to shave is referred to as “Devdas”. “Arrey, I may not wish to yield the razor for umpteen reasons- for lethargy to absence of shaving cream- but does that make me a Devdas”? The answer is no. What the world refuses to acknowledge is that Devdas died with time and every time you try to equate another human being with him, you basically are killing him again and again. Not to mention the fact that the world thinks that every Paro or for that matter Chandramukhi is bound to have a Devdas. Is there a cause and effect relationship between all three of them? No! Drinking alone is being a Devdas, rebelling against one’s folks is being a Devdas, refusing Paro is also being a Devdas. Last, but not the least, visiting Chandramukhi after losing Paro is also being a Devdas. If that be the reason, movies like “Mumbai Matinee” and “The 40-year old…..” would never be made. Shocking was the day when my 80-year old grandmother remarked at somebody who went beserk after a foreigner, “He has lost his brains; bloody sex crazy Devdas”. God! We cannot imagine how many times both Devdas and Sarat Chandra must have turned in their graves.
But why is the world killing Devdas like this everyday? Do we have a right to crucify him in this grotesque manner every single moment in our lives? The answer is no! We all accept that his love for Paro was totally unadulterated. It was not like the “emotion” most of us have these days which is laced more with hormones and material benefits than with emotions which had no rhyme and reason and was mostly selfless. His “confusion” and his being “pulled apart” between family honour and love can be given the benefit of doubt. As the modern version of Paro reminds him ofhis confusion by saying, “Dev, log pyar karte hai, yeh pyar karma chahna kya hota hai (People fall in love. What implies when you say that you wish to fall in love)”? His loyalty quotient was so high that till the last day he kept screaming Paro at the top of his alcohol filled lungs which ultimately led to his death. This is unbelievable, isn’t it? Chandramukhi was a courtesan who fell in love with Dev (at least the women in Sarat Chandra’s words were sure of what they wanted) and tried to nurse him back to health. But to no avail. The Devdas saga had ended for Sarat Chandra.
Contrary to the world ridiculing him, Devdas was a man of courage. Let me tell you, it took a lot of courage for a Indian nobleman (even if it be a fictional one) to fall in love with somebody who was not of his family status. In today’s world where eco-socio-geo-political factors affect the equation between a man and a woman, such courage is hardly to be seen. Rebellion is not always courage. Perhaps people have understood the real meaning of the words, “If your father is poor, it’s your destiny, but if your father-in-law is poor, it’s your stupidity”. Applies equally to both genders.
Coming to Mirza Asadullah Khan “Ghalib”, his story is a complex mix. “Miyan Ghalib” became more famous after he died and created a following which a become a sort of religion. Followed equally in India, Pakistan and the Indian diaspora, his words touch the deepest corners of the heart. From the deeply motivating, “Khudi ko kar buland itna” to the sorrowful “Hazaron Khwahishen aisi”- Ghalib made a place in the heart of all his followers. A failed marriage, loss of seven children and his tendency to “stray” led him write prose and poetry which became immortal with time. His penchant for foreign liquor and his spendthrift ways made him a pauper towards the end of his life. He died a broken man. If you visit his grave, you can feel his spirit reciting couplets to you even today.
The world makes it a point to kill Ghalib every day. Any person who drinks and recites poetry is referrd to as “Ghalib”. Even if he is sloshed and recites the most pathetic lines ever heard, he will still be called Ghalib. What a bunch of losers we are? A drunk is a drunk, and a poet is a poet. A combination of both is a drunk pet but not Ghalib. Another way of murdering him is the host of collections that claim to be “Ghalib ke Gajalen”- my my, what a way of mudering a Ghazal and the poet. Lines which are capable of starting genocide are passed off as creations from the pen of this literary giant. What a waste!
Ghalib is the mascot of urdu poetry in India. During his lifetime, the man hardly got any recognition but after that there is hardly anybody who doesn’t know of him. He has been the inspiration of poets and pathetic poets equally. I once saw a man who tried to play down his heart break by sipping a bottle of fruit beer on the terrace with Ghalib playing in the background. The whole set-up was hilarious but between us there was once man who was ably supporting the heartbroken man. That was Ghalib with his words. Atleast the dead think unlike the living.
Both Devdas and Ghalib are dead but the memories are still alive. The memories are so alive that we kill them everyday with our actions. Their plight can be best described in a famous joke about a man who was cursed that he would turn in his grave every time his wife cheated on him. Very soon the man was hung as a ceiling fan in St. Peter’s office.
Needless to say, the man remains a ceiling fan and Devdas and Ghalib die a thousand deaths everyday.
P.S. The words are the personal opinion of the author and are not meant to harm or offend any person living or dead.
Their similarities are phenomenal. Both hailed from rich nobility but when death came they were paupers. They both had a liking for ‘spirits’ which turned them into ‘spirits’. And both of them said words which have been repeated by generations with passage of time. But then, there was a basic difference between both these men- Devdas was a figment of imagination which was brought to life by Sarat Chandra Chatterjee in his magnum opus “Devdas” while Mirza Ghalib was indeed a part of India’s history with him gracing Gali Qasim Jaan in Ballimaran in the walled city of Delhi. Devdas lived a life of misery due to his “fatal mistake of refusing Paro” while Ghalib’s sorrow was a complex mix of a dissatisfied marriage,loss of seven children and his reputation of being a “ladies man”.
Devdas came from a legacy of landed gentry. Educated in British ruled Calcutta (Oh yes! Devdas never went adroad as distorted by the Cinematic Gods of bollywood) he presents the image of a weak man who doesn’t have the guts to accept his love for Paro, his neighbour. Paro on the other hand had taken Dev to be her husband for life before she finds that her status was a element of fun for her love’s household and was coerced to marry a widower who apparently was richer than Dev;s family. Love hits a roadblock. Paro realizes that her “husband for life” theory kind of fell on his face (most women in the 21st century would agree with me that this theory either can be termed as stupid or has to be repeated many times before finding the right ”person.”) Anyways, what is bygone is bygone. Dev lands up in the arms of the courtesan Chandramukhi who also falls in love with him. Along with her came the killer alcholhol which siphoned off everything out of Dev’s system. Death came with lots of pain. But Dev became an icon for all the future generations of lovers in the Indian Diaspora who found failure in this emotion.
Ghalib on the other hand was born in Agra (a section of people somehow call Agra the “city of love-makers). Love-making indeed generated a good result in the form of Ghalib. Anyways, he never did anything for a living. Surviving on money doled out by the state and patronized by his friends, he spent his life writing urdu ghazals and couplets. Drawing inspiration from the great Meer Tauqi Meer, his persianised Urdu became a source of oxygen for the asphyxiated intelligentsia. History speaks of his competition with Zauq- the court poet of Mughal Emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar II. Although, he was married very early, he never had any children who lived (Seven of his children died). The pain can be traced in his writings which were drenched with sorrow many a times. Poets say that Ghalib could make you cry without making your tear glands work. This 19th century literary figure gave a new dimension to Urdu writings. Not only was he a good poet, but his prose too had deep-rooted effect on the readers. His death was indeed a loss for all the lovers of his literary creations.
Are you feeling as if I am trying to write History in my own words? Okay, you are partially right because the point that I am going to make now needed a bit of introduction on these men.
People have a different way of abusing Devdas. The world did not let him Rest in peace the moment he died. Every male who refuses to shave is referred to as “Devdas”. “Arrey, I may not wish to yield the razor for umpteen reasons- for lethargy to absence of shaving cream- but does that make me a Devdas”? The answer is no. What the world refuses to acknowledge is that Devdas died with time and every time you try to equate another human being with him, you basically are killing him again and again. Not to mention the fact that the world thinks that every Paro or for that matter Chandramukhi is bound to have a Devdas. Is there a cause and effect relationship between all three of them? No! Drinking alone is being a Devdas, rebelling against one’s folks is being a Devdas, refusing Paro is also being a Devdas. Last, but not the least, visiting Chandramukhi after losing Paro is also being a Devdas. If that be the reason, movies like “Mumbai Matinee” and “The 40-year old…..” would never be made. Shocking was the day when my 80-year old grandmother remarked at somebody who went beserk after a foreigner, “He has lost his brains; bloody sex crazy Devdas”. God! We cannot imagine how many times both Devdas and Sarat Chandra must have turned in their graves.
But why is the world killing Devdas like this everyday? Do we have a right to crucify him in this grotesque manner every single moment in our lives? The answer is no! We all accept that his love for Paro was totally unadulterated. It was not like the “emotion” most of us have these days which is laced more with hormones and material benefits than with emotions which had no rhyme and reason and was mostly selfless. His “confusion” and his being “pulled apart” between family honour and love can be given the benefit of doubt. As the modern version of Paro reminds him ofhis confusion by saying, “Dev, log pyar karte hai, yeh pyar karma chahna kya hota hai (People fall in love. What implies when you say that you wish to fall in love)”? His loyalty quotient was so high that till the last day he kept screaming Paro at the top of his alcohol filled lungs which ultimately led to his death. This is unbelievable, isn’t it? Chandramukhi was a courtesan who fell in love with Dev (at least the women in Sarat Chandra’s words were sure of what they wanted) and tried to nurse him back to health. But to no avail. The Devdas saga had ended for Sarat Chandra.
Contrary to the world ridiculing him, Devdas was a man of courage. Let me tell you, it took a lot of courage for a Indian nobleman (even if it be a fictional one) to fall in love with somebody who was not of his family status. In today’s world where eco-socio-geo-political factors affect the equation between a man and a woman, such courage is hardly to be seen. Rebellion is not always courage. Perhaps people have understood the real meaning of the words, “If your father is poor, it’s your destiny, but if your father-in-law is poor, it’s your stupidity”. Applies equally to both genders.
Coming to Mirza Asadullah Khan “Ghalib”, his story is a complex mix. “Miyan Ghalib” became more famous after he died and created a following which a become a sort of religion. Followed equally in India, Pakistan and the Indian diaspora, his words touch the deepest corners of the heart. From the deeply motivating, “Khudi ko kar buland itna” to the sorrowful “Hazaron Khwahishen aisi”- Ghalib made a place in the heart of all his followers. A failed marriage, loss of seven children and his tendency to “stray” led him write prose and poetry which became immortal with time. His penchant for foreign liquor and his spendthrift ways made him a pauper towards the end of his life. He died a broken man. If you visit his grave, you can feel his spirit reciting couplets to you even today.
The world makes it a point to kill Ghalib every day. Any person who drinks and recites poetry is referrd to as “Ghalib”. Even if he is sloshed and recites the most pathetic lines ever heard, he will still be called Ghalib. What a bunch of losers we are? A drunk is a drunk, and a poet is a poet. A combination of both is a drunk pet but not Ghalib. Another way of murdering him is the host of collections that claim to be “Ghalib ke Gajalen”- my my, what a way of mudering a Ghazal and the poet. Lines which are capable of starting genocide are passed off as creations from the pen of this literary giant. What a waste!
Ghalib is the mascot of urdu poetry in India. During his lifetime, the man hardly got any recognition but after that there is hardly anybody who doesn’t know of him. He has been the inspiration of poets and pathetic poets equally. I once saw a man who tried to play down his heart break by sipping a bottle of fruit beer on the terrace with Ghalib playing in the background. The whole set-up was hilarious but between us there was once man who was ably supporting the heartbroken man. That was Ghalib with his words. Atleast the dead think unlike the living.
Both Devdas and Ghalib are dead but the memories are still alive. The memories are so alive that we kill them everyday with our actions. Their plight can be best described in a famous joke about a man who was cursed that he would turn in his grave every time his wife cheated on him. Very soon the man was hung as a ceiling fan in St. Peter’s office.
Needless to say, the man remains a ceiling fan and Devdas and Ghalib die a thousand deaths everyday.
P.S. The words are the personal opinion of the author and are not meant to harm or offend any person living or dead.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Yoga and the politics of “Gourd”!!!!
I was appalled when I heard that one of India’s esteemed practitioners of Yoga had declared his plans of jumping into the fray of the 2013 general elections. His rise from being a “humble” yoga instructor to civil servants to an ideologue in India (The days the media airs his views on everything from price rise to H1N1 virus) has been phenomenal. In the initial years we had him speaking on the benefits of yoga but with time this man has started walking on the “road to sainthood”. Roads were built after him, a fully dedicated television channel showing him live throughout the day gave strong competition to the TRPs of other entertainment channels and the “Who’s Who” of India would queue up for an appointment with him. The greatest shock came to me when 16 Governors and 20 Chief Ministers were present at the inauguration of a “Yoga University” started by him.
Popularity charts rated him as the “icon in the making”. “Pranayam” and “kapal bhati” started the day of millions of Indians. His gatherings attracted rich and poor alike. Entry could be bought (proximity to the dias was decided by how many zeroes one could add) or could be sought (The last rows were always crowded with poor people). I still remember that my sometimes “not so nice” father bought tickets to one of these gatherings. Two grands poorer, he forced me to wake up at 4 am in the morning. After walking for almost 2 miles through roads where there were no traces of human civilization we reached the venue. It resembled ‘Noah’s Ark”- the whole human, primate, canine and feline population of the city semed to be present there. Following queues depending upon how much one had paid for the tickets one reached the huge field in which the instructors were supposed to teach yoga. It reminded me of visits to Lord Balaji at Tirupati. Rich or poor, you can have a glimpse of God, but the waiting period was inversely proportional to the amount of money you paid for the darshan. Holy smoke!
The convention started with the lead speaker talking about the benefits of health. This was followed by instructions in exercises, and a combined lecture on the benefits of these exercises, patriotism and MNC bashing. “The whole war around the world is all about marketing of western products”- these words were capable of rendering quite a few people jobless and making “globalization” dead meat. The harmful effects of coke and pepsi were enumerated (Baba, whatever you say , I haven’t been able to give up my addiction to the colas till now) and equated to a bathroom cleaner (some right-wing organization , I later learnt had proved that the lavatory could be cleaned sparkling clean using a cola. Wow! Harpic finally has a competitor.)
Some exercises were equally tough as the words of the Baba. Trying them out could mean either a fracture or tying yourself into a “Gordian knot”. I had a tough time convincing my over-excited father to desist from trying them out. Had Baba come to know that his appetizer last night were three pegs of scotch, the invitation would have immediately stood cancelled. Meanwhile Baba was asking his disciples not to eat anything except “Gourd- bootle,green, or snake”. Phew! Dad looked at me and said, “Oye puttar, wouldn’t roti lose its taste without aloo gobhi or baingan ka bharta?” I smiled at him and replied, “Who asked you to buy these passes for two grand when you knew that he is going to ask you to stop eating all this”. Dad made a face. He looks cute whenever he does that.
Suddenly, there was movement on the dias. The Governor had arrived. The burly old statesman entered folding his hands and straightaway made a dash into the feet of Baba. I was shocked. If not for he, the head of state should have not knelt in order to keep the honour of the state. Anyways, Baba blessed him. Then started the “I praise you, you praise me” session. Governor spoke on the revolution Baba had brought in the lives of Indians while Baba talked about the contribution of the Governor in the progress of the state. A few others were also praised for seconds- Mr. X, who had donated Rs. 5 Crores to Baba’s fund and Mr. Y, who hosted Baba. Yak yak and blah blah later, Baba continued with his recitals.
When the day’s programme ended, I breathed a sigh of relief. I would rather die at 50 holding a glass of scotch rather than be stretching my limbs at 75. As we walked out, what I saw was something that made me shocked in disbelief. A temporary bazaar had come up with all kinds of health food and supplements being sold- lemon grass, organic juice and of course, derivatives of the Gourd-juice, pulp, boiled – in every form possible. There were counters selling medicines, natural cosmetics (I wonder when bollywood divas would be modeling for Baba) and organic food. People scrambled to buy all these products. Maybe Baba’s words confused them. He never asked one to buy these things. He talked about a way of life to be followed. But then the “rich” of the city had one thing in shortage- logic. They bought everything possible. This reminded me of an old ad put up by an IAS coaching institute- “Please post your application form to UPSC and not to us”. Attending Baba’s camp assured quite a few people that they were beyond the clutches of morality. Baba was a superman. You could buy “time” by bribing the superman- directly or indirectly.
Needless to say, we never returned for the remaining days of the camp. Dad recited the benefits of Baba with a glass of scotch in his hands and kebabs by his side while I enumerated the benefits of the exercises watching Sharon Stone send Michael Douglas into frenzy. Mom was probably the only Baba loyalist who cursed us and snatched the passes saying, “I will religiously go tomorrow”. Let me clarify- next morning the whole household woke up at 7. It was probably afternoon for Baba by then.
Baba was constantly in news after that. One day he would be instructing Americans while cursing Uncle Sam (American were dumb! Baba proved it) and on the other day he would be making Japanese perpetually bow to him in Tokyo (Don’t these Orientals get bored of bowing). His Yoga University was going on in full swing while his aurvedic medicine factory was feeding the whole of the country. Baba featured on all kinds of merchandise. I somehow felt that very soon he would beat Ernesto Che Guevara as the most featured individual on merchandise. Maybe someday Baba would be tattooed on “strategic places”.
One politico who tried to challenge Baba’s might by dragging him into a controversy featuring some labour problems and mixing of caracass in his ayurvedic medicine factory found no support from any quarters. Even, the print and the electronic media which is expected to be the guardian of the interest of the democracy chose to show a “kissing controversy” between a small time starlet and a obscure singer rather than “analyse” the allegation. Baba’s brand equity was at a all time high.
Baba had struck the heart of every Indian. Combining emotion, fear and good old marketing, he managed to successfully project himself into the messiah of the common Indian who lived an indiscipline life. There were many others who tried to do this before but the lack of a marketing effort took all of them down with time. Baba had learnt from his peers. He was not going to repeat such a mistake. Patriotic songs, public service institutions with nominal charges for the populace and strategic use of technology helped Baba conquer the heart of millions. From baldness to infertility to jaundice and cancer- Baba was the doctor for all these ills. Every convention would feature patients who hd recovered. Teary-eyes, they would thank Baba for it. TVC, Asian Sky shop and others, please pick up a few cues from him.
The funniest part came with the market dynamics changing with regard to a few products. The “Gourd” family gained the most. At my hometown eating a bottle-gourd was considered to be a sign of poverty. But with Baba’s onslaught even the rich found gourds unaffordable. It became omnipresent. Juice, pulp, picked and sweetened gourd began to feature on the racks of up market shops. Oh my god! Non-vegetarians who were earlier ignored were now treated as outcastes. A gentleman once told me, “Watch Baba’s programme every morning. You will get over your addiction for non-vegetarian food”. I said, “Baba said something about celibacy too. I hope you are following it”. Baba had an opinion on everything. When H1N1 invaded India, Baba appeared on Television with some herb which was found in wilderness. Overnight, the herb became a bestseller. One company even launched an IPO for selling the herb and its derivatives.
Baba was lying low for a while practicing yoga when he suddenly reappeared. This time he talked of politics and his vision for the General elections of 2013. The whole statement was beyond my comparison. Baba you are great. The only difference between you and a certain “behenji” is that she made her statues after she entered politics, and you are entering politics with you being omnipresent in millions of hearts. I have no opinion on your decision on entering politics but at the same time I feel that over exposure might hurt your “brand equity”.
In years to come Baba will leave an empire which could put to shame the management policies of many of the India Inc corporations. I have no understanding of yoga or ayurveda. I live an indisciplined life. But I have certain understanding of business and brand-building. Baba, you give marketing and PR professionals a new field to study. You give management gurus a new turf to understand, but at the same time confuse even the politicians.
Whether Yoga and politics can co-exist and whether the “politics of gourd” will survive or perish; only time will tell. But there is a part of me which will always say that you will be more successful in assuring people of hair growth at right place than economic growth at wrong places.
P.S. The views aired are personal opinion of the author and are not meant to hurt the emotions of any person living or dead.
Popularity charts rated him as the “icon in the making”. “Pranayam” and “kapal bhati” started the day of millions of Indians. His gatherings attracted rich and poor alike. Entry could be bought (proximity to the dias was decided by how many zeroes one could add) or could be sought (The last rows were always crowded with poor people). I still remember that my sometimes “not so nice” father bought tickets to one of these gatherings. Two grands poorer, he forced me to wake up at 4 am in the morning. After walking for almost 2 miles through roads where there were no traces of human civilization we reached the venue. It resembled ‘Noah’s Ark”- the whole human, primate, canine and feline population of the city semed to be present there. Following queues depending upon how much one had paid for the tickets one reached the huge field in which the instructors were supposed to teach yoga. It reminded me of visits to Lord Balaji at Tirupati. Rich or poor, you can have a glimpse of God, but the waiting period was inversely proportional to the amount of money you paid for the darshan. Holy smoke!
The convention started with the lead speaker talking about the benefits of health. This was followed by instructions in exercises, and a combined lecture on the benefits of these exercises, patriotism and MNC bashing. “The whole war around the world is all about marketing of western products”- these words were capable of rendering quite a few people jobless and making “globalization” dead meat. The harmful effects of coke and pepsi were enumerated (Baba, whatever you say , I haven’t been able to give up my addiction to the colas till now) and equated to a bathroom cleaner (some right-wing organization , I later learnt had proved that the lavatory could be cleaned sparkling clean using a cola. Wow! Harpic finally has a competitor.)
Some exercises were equally tough as the words of the Baba. Trying them out could mean either a fracture or tying yourself into a “Gordian knot”. I had a tough time convincing my over-excited father to desist from trying them out. Had Baba come to know that his appetizer last night were three pegs of scotch, the invitation would have immediately stood cancelled. Meanwhile Baba was asking his disciples not to eat anything except “Gourd- bootle,green, or snake”. Phew! Dad looked at me and said, “Oye puttar, wouldn’t roti lose its taste without aloo gobhi or baingan ka bharta?” I smiled at him and replied, “Who asked you to buy these passes for two grand when you knew that he is going to ask you to stop eating all this”. Dad made a face. He looks cute whenever he does that.
Suddenly, there was movement on the dias. The Governor had arrived. The burly old statesman entered folding his hands and straightaway made a dash into the feet of Baba. I was shocked. If not for he, the head of state should have not knelt in order to keep the honour of the state. Anyways, Baba blessed him. Then started the “I praise you, you praise me” session. Governor spoke on the revolution Baba had brought in the lives of Indians while Baba talked about the contribution of the Governor in the progress of the state. A few others were also praised for seconds- Mr. X, who had donated Rs. 5 Crores to Baba’s fund and Mr. Y, who hosted Baba. Yak yak and blah blah later, Baba continued with his recitals.
When the day’s programme ended, I breathed a sigh of relief. I would rather die at 50 holding a glass of scotch rather than be stretching my limbs at 75. As we walked out, what I saw was something that made me shocked in disbelief. A temporary bazaar had come up with all kinds of health food and supplements being sold- lemon grass, organic juice and of course, derivatives of the Gourd-juice, pulp, boiled – in every form possible. There were counters selling medicines, natural cosmetics (I wonder when bollywood divas would be modeling for Baba) and organic food. People scrambled to buy all these products. Maybe Baba’s words confused them. He never asked one to buy these things. He talked about a way of life to be followed. But then the “rich” of the city had one thing in shortage- logic. They bought everything possible. This reminded me of an old ad put up by an IAS coaching institute- “Please post your application form to UPSC and not to us”. Attending Baba’s camp assured quite a few people that they were beyond the clutches of morality. Baba was a superman. You could buy “time” by bribing the superman- directly or indirectly.
Needless to say, we never returned for the remaining days of the camp. Dad recited the benefits of Baba with a glass of scotch in his hands and kebabs by his side while I enumerated the benefits of the exercises watching Sharon Stone send Michael Douglas into frenzy. Mom was probably the only Baba loyalist who cursed us and snatched the passes saying, “I will religiously go tomorrow”. Let me clarify- next morning the whole household woke up at 7. It was probably afternoon for Baba by then.
Baba was constantly in news after that. One day he would be instructing Americans while cursing Uncle Sam (American were dumb! Baba proved it) and on the other day he would be making Japanese perpetually bow to him in Tokyo (Don’t these Orientals get bored of bowing). His Yoga University was going on in full swing while his aurvedic medicine factory was feeding the whole of the country. Baba featured on all kinds of merchandise. I somehow felt that very soon he would beat Ernesto Che Guevara as the most featured individual on merchandise. Maybe someday Baba would be tattooed on “strategic places”.
One politico who tried to challenge Baba’s might by dragging him into a controversy featuring some labour problems and mixing of caracass in his ayurvedic medicine factory found no support from any quarters. Even, the print and the electronic media which is expected to be the guardian of the interest of the democracy chose to show a “kissing controversy” between a small time starlet and a obscure singer rather than “analyse” the allegation. Baba’s brand equity was at a all time high.
Baba had struck the heart of every Indian. Combining emotion, fear and good old marketing, he managed to successfully project himself into the messiah of the common Indian who lived an indiscipline life. There were many others who tried to do this before but the lack of a marketing effort took all of them down with time. Baba had learnt from his peers. He was not going to repeat such a mistake. Patriotic songs, public service institutions with nominal charges for the populace and strategic use of technology helped Baba conquer the heart of millions. From baldness to infertility to jaundice and cancer- Baba was the doctor for all these ills. Every convention would feature patients who hd recovered. Teary-eyes, they would thank Baba for it. TVC, Asian Sky shop and others, please pick up a few cues from him.
The funniest part came with the market dynamics changing with regard to a few products. The “Gourd” family gained the most. At my hometown eating a bottle-gourd was considered to be a sign of poverty. But with Baba’s onslaught even the rich found gourds unaffordable. It became omnipresent. Juice, pulp, picked and sweetened gourd began to feature on the racks of up market shops. Oh my god! Non-vegetarians who were earlier ignored were now treated as outcastes. A gentleman once told me, “Watch Baba’s programme every morning. You will get over your addiction for non-vegetarian food”. I said, “Baba said something about celibacy too. I hope you are following it”. Baba had an opinion on everything. When H1N1 invaded India, Baba appeared on Television with some herb which was found in wilderness. Overnight, the herb became a bestseller. One company even launched an IPO for selling the herb and its derivatives.
Baba was lying low for a while practicing yoga when he suddenly reappeared. This time he talked of politics and his vision for the General elections of 2013. The whole statement was beyond my comparison. Baba you are great. The only difference between you and a certain “behenji” is that she made her statues after she entered politics, and you are entering politics with you being omnipresent in millions of hearts. I have no opinion on your decision on entering politics but at the same time I feel that over exposure might hurt your “brand equity”.
In years to come Baba will leave an empire which could put to shame the management policies of many of the India Inc corporations. I have no understanding of yoga or ayurveda. I live an indisciplined life. But I have certain understanding of business and brand-building. Baba, you give marketing and PR professionals a new field to study. You give management gurus a new turf to understand, but at the same time confuse even the politicians.
Whether Yoga and politics can co-exist and whether the “politics of gourd” will survive or perish; only time will tell. But there is a part of me which will always say that you will be more successful in assuring people of hair growth at right place than economic growth at wrong places.
P.S. The views aired are personal opinion of the author and are not meant to hurt the emotions of any person living or dead.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Sikkim Sonata
I started writing my travelogues after Dr. Watson, an established Physician and my esteemed friend and companion said that my anecdotes while on travel made interesting effects on the hearing faculty of people and could make interesting reads too. So, here I start with Sikkim Sonata-my first in the series.
Train journeys always have a topic of discussion-mostly co-passengers! My journey from Guwahati to New Jalpaiguri aboard the New Delhi bound Rajdhani Express had been uneventful. A pan chewing gentleman sat next to me who kept on screaming into his mobile phone and tried feeding me tit-bits which I just dismissed with the shake of my chin. As the train entered New Jalpaiguri my temper had risen to indecent levels. The gentleman (who I came to know as a wholesaler of spices during his conversation with me and on the phone) had bugged me with boring words and the bay where I had my berth was going to be filled with passengers boarding there. The waiter had served me a great meal thereby saving the spice-man from the upcoming harm and as I just smeared my parathas with some butter when one camouflaged “fauji” came inside and put a heavy bag next to my feet barely missing my toes. He was followed by three women in decreasing order of all statistics (except height which was inverse)- I later named them “naani”, “mummy’ and “bebo” (Not “babe” or “baby” because I had saved these for somebody more close to me). They were almost Russian Dolls saved only by the fact that “naani” had shrunk a bit!! Anyways, as they entered they grumbled (Is grumbling directly proportional with the age of female hormones?) over everything. My first look on them was returned with a volley of questions but I put up my serious face (the one in which I smoke a cigar and think away to glory) and concentrated on dissecting the pieces of chicken and rice given to me by virtue of my being a traveler in the train. The Ladies were followed by three more “faujis” who dumped more and more luggage into the bay (How do I tell them that it wasn’t the Bay of Bengal) and left. Then came two gentlemen with the ticket and checked the berths and then withdrew. They left the whole area and me to the mercy of these three dominatrices.
“Mummy” was in her early 40s and spoke with authority. She grumbled that people in India did not have any civic sense and class. Trains did not offer “value for money” and hooligans had captured the area under her seat. Suddenly a small man appeared out of nowhere and dragged three suitcases from under “mummy’s” seat and disappeared. “Mummy” had made her presence felt. After settling down- implying that every piece of luggage had been shoved somewhere or else (thankfully, not mine) and we were on an island surrounded by luggage on all sides. The ladies sat on one side and the gentlemen on the other side with me- they gave me some courage and hope that if these two can survive the onslaught for such a long time, I can definitely survive it for 20 odd hours. Lunch arrived and a game of “passing the parcel” started- this game was mandatorily to be played at mealtimes it seemed as if “Naani” was the winner in this game because she managed to pass the most of her food to her grandchildren “Bebo” and “Tarmohican”(Please be patient- I shall explain the meaning of “tarmohican”) and her son-in-law. “Naani” was the tormented matriarch of the family. On one side “mummy” ordered her and from the other “bebo” used her tongue. Few years back she must have been the real matriarch but then age displaces one’s position. Politics, I had learnt during my evolution was more of everything than political science. In the present case, it was physics-displacement to be precise.
Now on to “Bebo”. 20ish (20 to be exact-I used my investigation skills and checked the reservation chart to ‘calculate’ her age). She was blessed with age and sponsored by ‘Revlon’- a cosmetic giant of the 21st Century. Her face was hidden behind a layer of eye liner, eye shadow, mascara, blush, rogue, lipstick, cream and powder to mention the least. I must tell you that Sherlock had malafide intentions of licking her face but he showed restraint because he knew that she was a “honeytrap” and could kill him with a potent weapon called “cosmetic poisoning”. But I have a question to ask my ladylove- Baby, could you sleep with your make-up off. I am sure you don’t want me to die of “Cosmetic Poisoning”. Isn’t it? “ Tarmohican was “Bebo’s” younger brother- ok guys his name was Bharat (Oh! What a great name. The name reminded me of an actor of yesteryears who was known more by his screen name of “Bharat” and his ability to constantly hide his face away from the gaze of fans to tax inspectors). I named him so because he seemed a hybrid resultt of a failed attempt to cross Tarzan with “a Mohican”. His hair was like a Mohican (I hear that a Brazilian footballer by the name of Ronaldo has popularized such a hair dressing fashion) and he never was on the ground. I can’t call him Spiderman because he leapt too much in between the seats and air. I haven’t yet seen a man who has his lunch on the train with his feet on one of the berths and hanging in mid-air. Inspired by his daredevilry I took the liberty of naming him “Tarmohican”. But he was the most read among the whole lot. He had a “Diltonish” look (Now you are a jerk if you haven’t read Archie comics and let me tell you that I am going to quote a lot of references from them) and had a bundle of Xeroxed material with him (Exams in the neighborhood Dilton?). I later came to know that he was a student at Sikkim Manipal University at Dubai. Globalisation and computerization are two things which are beyond the analysis of Holmes. Thanks to them even Sikkim could be shifted to Dubai. Ms. Hope, you gave Bob a lot of hope but instead of China, Sikkim landed in Dubai!! The other cute thing about him was that he called “bebo” Sis!!!!!
The whole family wanted “naani”to go to the loo (cmon guys don’t force her) and tried all tricks under the train ceiling to make “naani” go to the loo. But “naani” wouldn’t budge. Even when “bebo” offered to take her “naani” declined. Wish “bebo” had asked me!! Finally the man of the house (let’s call him Papa) put his foot down (he had one foot in his mouth so he put the other down) and decided to lay everyone in bed. “Naani” was put opposite me where she would snore away to glory for the next three hours. “Mummy” took the middle berth above “snoring naani” and “tarmohican’ above his mother. Papa went out for a walk. I was the happiest. “Bebo” was to be on top of me(Let me revel in this metaphorical bliss). The only thing separating me and her was the thick bunk which if considered inconsequential could be made to disappear. I pulled my blanket and drifted off to sleep to be woken later by “snores of naani”. I would have killed her but she finally said what everybody had been waiting to hear- “I wanna go to the loo”. Yahoo!!! Euphoria arrived. Faces lit up. “Tarmohican” took her out on this walk to perdition while I smiled to myself. Finally was happening what everybody had been waiting for so long to happen. Should I have ordered Champagne?? Probably Yes!!!
“Naani goes to the loo” could have been given a cinematical form but I decided to leave this job to the Steven Spielbergs of the modern era. After all, I am a sleuth not an entertainer. I was more amused at the relieved look which was evident on five faces- four of them were relieved that “naani” went to the loo and “naani’s” because the rest of them spared her the ordeal of listening to them time and again. I, the silent spectator in the whole scene was the happiest. My head was spinning because of the constant pickering and I got some relief- rather most of it.
Tarmohican was lost in the papers he had brought. He would raise his head once in a while, crack a joke and then go back to his papers. Suspiciously, I peeked into the papers that he had brought along. On dog-eared xeroxed pages were scribbled lines of complex equations. Was Tarmohican, Albert Einstein in disguise?Oh my God! If this was true, I was with a Nobel laureate. “Shut up Sherlock, don’t act like a madman”, my mind said to me. Dejected, I waited for the waiter to bring me my evening cup of tea.
As the “high tea” arrived. The game of passing the parcel started again. This time the ex-fauji Son-in law (ex-fauji not ex-son-in-law) was the winner. “Mummy” collected all the winnings from her husband and quickly produced a bag into all the stuff went. Tea Bags, Sachets of coffee, sugar, skimmed milk powder and chocolates made their way into the planned place. The bag proudly portrayed its age-old capacity to gobble up all these stuff. It made me think of as to why we did such things. We never used tea bags at home. Sugar cubes were never a part of our daily cuppa and skimmed milk powder could never beat the freshness of the milk delivered by the milkman. But then why? Quick came the answer, “a penny saved is a penny earned”. All these small savings will one day add upto a treasure. Maybe when Bebo would get married, Mummy would proudly say, “The Groom’s family was served tea with the tea bags collected by me over a decade. What a savior and conservator I am” Ha ha. I now wanted to donate the stuff in my tray too. Bebo’s sweet face made me the “best Samaritan” around. But then mummy was the epitome of self-respect. She would ‘steal’ only stuff given out on her fare. Collecting from fellow-passengers was beyond her dignity. Phew! I sipped from the tetrapack of juice that came in the tray and I kept on sipping on it till the liquid in it disappeared and gave way to air inside. I made an irritating noise and attracted attention. Bebo looked at me with contempt. Eeeeks! I stopped and put away the blown up pack. Faking an element of embarrassment on my face, I smiled at all around. They all stared at me. Ohhhhhhhhh, what pleasure I derived being a creep!!
The next hour I pretended to read of “Animal Farm” by George Orwell. Every 2 minutes I would flip the pages, but in reality, all I did was listening to their conversation and casually glace at Bebo’s face. I know, you would be surprised but this was what I was doing. “Mrs. Tiwari is such a creep. She served Rasna to us yesterday. It was so cheap. It was just out of courtesy that I gulped it down” Mummy complained. “I did not even touch it” Naani commented. “Arrey you should have tasted the kebabs in the Khanna party. They were as hard as stones” Said Bebo jumping into the bitching session. What a letdown. Bebo jumping into the session meant such heartbreak for me. I had to jump and grab the pieces before they fell on the floor with a crashing sound. Now don’t assume that I was sad because Bebo had jumped into it. I was sad because I was not a part of it. I know, the eternally gossipy Holmes that Ms. Adler would never approve of.
I was looking for a topic to open my mouth and say something eternally intelligent when that blasted waiter came into the bay and said in his rustic accent, “Sir Soup”. “Yes, I know, you idiot. It indeed is soup. You put me into a soup. Now all I need to do is jump into and save me from drowning in it. Isn’t that what you want”, my eyes said to him as I picked up a cup of brown-red liquid that smelt of pepper and what Indian Railways called, “Tomato Soup”. Going by their analogy, “crow curry” could be passed of as “chicken curry”. Beware Holmes, beware. “Honeytraps” on all sides set by adversaries. On one hand I looked at Bebo and her folks with utmost affection and on the other hand my “survival instincts” pushed me away from all such “material” things. Anyways, I let myself out of it.
“Tarmohican” was still busy with his papers. He was the most likeable in the whole family. The most amusing part was his hanging from anything possible in the train. With his notes clutched in one hand, he would use the other hand to show his primate background. He was the second man who reminded me that we had descended from monkeys. The first one was a colleague who used to have more than a dozen bananas for breakfast. When I pointed out his quality to him, the fellow instead of thanking me, chased me with a pocket knife. How ungrateful people are, I had a first-hand lesson that day. Anyways, coming back to the present, Tarmohican’s antiques made me move my head the way he moved. Bebo noticed this and said, “Isn’t he cute?” Bingo! The first words from her divine presence around me. I smiled and said, “Indeed”. Oh angel! At your words I can even find porcupines cute.
Dinner arrived. The game of “passing the parcel” started. This time I was the loser. Naani passed her share of chicken curry and parathas to me saying, “Puttar, you are young. You can help me finish this tray”. Naani was probably an agent of the adversary. I politely accepted the casseroles but did not touch them as I did not want my gastrointestinal faculties to fail me in near future. “Tarmohican” hung himself while eating (hung himself as in not hanging by the noose, but hanging on anything he could find on the train). He will one day become a replica to the “hanging gardens of Babylon” and will be the first “hanging” software professional. Bebo nibbled on the pieces of salad while mummy and daddy quietly finished the whole course.
Now it was time to hit the bunk. I was dreading the snores of naani and eagerly waiting for bebo to “get on top” of me (not literally). Anyways, everybody went to their bunks and the lights were switched off. I slept my way to lalaland. Suddenly, there was a huge jerk. Everything moved and suddenly came to a halt. I clutched at something that I could find. The pull resulted in a scream that woke up everybody. “Since when did curtains started screaming”, I thought. Hell no! it was not a curtain. It was Bebo’s hair. Again a goof up! Oh God! Save me. Chanting a few hyms, I turned around and went to sleep. Damage was assessed after putting on the light. Different theories were propounded- from me being the culprit (that was Tarmohican’s theory- what a sleuth that kid was!) to Naani’s theory of the hair being caught somewhere (Naani you are so cute!). I sleepily turned around and stared at all of them and then pulled the blanket over me. I made them feel that my waking up was “collateral damage” that needs to be adequately compensated by switching of the light. Mummy instructed Bebo to tie her hair and the matter ended there. Lights were switched off and the night ended. Such peace!!!
I was asleep when the waiter served tea. This time there was no “passing the parcel”. What was there to pass to anybody? You wouldn’t have anything to share except 2 glucose biscuits and even mummy’s “collection bag” did not have the capacity to gobble up the excess water. What a waste? I left the bay and went to the restroom to get ready for the day.
The train bamboozled its way into the railway station at the stipulated time. I looked through the window to find my dear friend Dr. Watson waiting for me at the railways station. Porters hurried into the compartment and fought among themselves before soliciting passengers. I picked up my piece of luggage and moved towards the exit. Suddenly I stopped, turned towards the family and said, “Sorry Ma’m, it was me who mistook your silky tresses for the curtain. I apologise for the mistake”. Everybody looked at me in horror. “Tarmohican” was smiling though. After a few moments, Bebo killed the silence by saying, “It’s ok. I was not hurt”. I walked off scot-free and smiling.
Dr. Watson evaluated my smile and remarked, “Seems like you just returned from heaven after seeing St. Peter”. I smiled and said, “Sikkim Sonata” was indeed heaven.
P.S. All the characters depicted here are figments of imagination and any resemblance to any person living or dead is totally coincidental.
Train journeys always have a topic of discussion-mostly co-passengers! My journey from Guwahati to New Jalpaiguri aboard the New Delhi bound Rajdhani Express had been uneventful. A pan chewing gentleman sat next to me who kept on screaming into his mobile phone and tried feeding me tit-bits which I just dismissed with the shake of my chin. As the train entered New Jalpaiguri my temper had risen to indecent levels. The gentleman (who I came to know as a wholesaler of spices during his conversation with me and on the phone) had bugged me with boring words and the bay where I had my berth was going to be filled with passengers boarding there. The waiter had served me a great meal thereby saving the spice-man from the upcoming harm and as I just smeared my parathas with some butter when one camouflaged “fauji” came inside and put a heavy bag next to my feet barely missing my toes. He was followed by three women in decreasing order of all statistics (except height which was inverse)- I later named them “naani”, “mummy’ and “bebo” (Not “babe” or “baby” because I had saved these for somebody more close to me). They were almost Russian Dolls saved only by the fact that “naani” had shrunk a bit!! Anyways, as they entered they grumbled (Is grumbling directly proportional with the age of female hormones?) over everything. My first look on them was returned with a volley of questions but I put up my serious face (the one in which I smoke a cigar and think away to glory) and concentrated on dissecting the pieces of chicken and rice given to me by virtue of my being a traveler in the train. The Ladies were followed by three more “faujis” who dumped more and more luggage into the bay (How do I tell them that it wasn’t the Bay of Bengal) and left. Then came two gentlemen with the ticket and checked the berths and then withdrew. They left the whole area and me to the mercy of these three dominatrices.
“Mummy” was in her early 40s and spoke with authority. She grumbled that people in India did not have any civic sense and class. Trains did not offer “value for money” and hooligans had captured the area under her seat. Suddenly a small man appeared out of nowhere and dragged three suitcases from under “mummy’s” seat and disappeared. “Mummy” had made her presence felt. After settling down- implying that every piece of luggage had been shoved somewhere or else (thankfully, not mine) and we were on an island surrounded by luggage on all sides. The ladies sat on one side and the gentlemen on the other side with me- they gave me some courage and hope that if these two can survive the onslaught for such a long time, I can definitely survive it for 20 odd hours. Lunch arrived and a game of “passing the parcel” started- this game was mandatorily to be played at mealtimes it seemed as if “Naani” was the winner in this game because she managed to pass the most of her food to her grandchildren “Bebo” and “Tarmohican”(Please be patient- I shall explain the meaning of “tarmohican”) and her son-in-law. “Naani” was the tormented matriarch of the family. On one side “mummy” ordered her and from the other “bebo” used her tongue. Few years back she must have been the real matriarch but then age displaces one’s position. Politics, I had learnt during my evolution was more of everything than political science. In the present case, it was physics-displacement to be precise.
Now on to “Bebo”. 20ish (20 to be exact-I used my investigation skills and checked the reservation chart to ‘calculate’ her age). She was blessed with age and sponsored by ‘Revlon’- a cosmetic giant of the 21st Century. Her face was hidden behind a layer of eye liner, eye shadow, mascara, blush, rogue, lipstick, cream and powder to mention the least. I must tell you that Sherlock had malafide intentions of licking her face but he showed restraint because he knew that she was a “honeytrap” and could kill him with a potent weapon called “cosmetic poisoning”. But I have a question to ask my ladylove- Baby, could you sleep with your make-up off. I am sure you don’t want me to die of “Cosmetic Poisoning”. Isn’t it? “ Tarmohican was “Bebo’s” younger brother- ok guys his name was Bharat (Oh! What a great name. The name reminded me of an actor of yesteryears who was known more by his screen name of “Bharat” and his ability to constantly hide his face away from the gaze of fans to tax inspectors). I named him so because he seemed a hybrid resultt of a failed attempt to cross Tarzan with “a Mohican”. His hair was like a Mohican (I hear that a Brazilian footballer by the name of Ronaldo has popularized such a hair dressing fashion) and he never was on the ground. I can’t call him Spiderman because he leapt too much in between the seats and air. I haven’t yet seen a man who has his lunch on the train with his feet on one of the berths and hanging in mid-air. Inspired by his daredevilry I took the liberty of naming him “Tarmohican”. But he was the most read among the whole lot. He had a “Diltonish” look (Now you are a jerk if you haven’t read Archie comics and let me tell you that I am going to quote a lot of references from them) and had a bundle of Xeroxed material with him (Exams in the neighborhood Dilton?). I later came to know that he was a student at Sikkim Manipal University at Dubai. Globalisation and computerization are two things which are beyond the analysis of Holmes. Thanks to them even Sikkim could be shifted to Dubai. Ms. Hope, you gave Bob a lot of hope but instead of China, Sikkim landed in Dubai!! The other cute thing about him was that he called “bebo” Sis!!!!!
The whole family wanted “naani”to go to the loo (cmon guys don’t force her) and tried all tricks under the train ceiling to make “naani” go to the loo. But “naani” wouldn’t budge. Even when “bebo” offered to take her “naani” declined. Wish “bebo” had asked me!! Finally the man of the house (let’s call him Papa) put his foot down (he had one foot in his mouth so he put the other down) and decided to lay everyone in bed. “Naani” was put opposite me where she would snore away to glory for the next three hours. “Mummy” took the middle berth above “snoring naani” and “tarmohican’ above his mother. Papa went out for a walk. I was the happiest. “Bebo” was to be on top of me(Let me revel in this metaphorical bliss). The only thing separating me and her was the thick bunk which if considered inconsequential could be made to disappear. I pulled my blanket and drifted off to sleep to be woken later by “snores of naani”. I would have killed her but she finally said what everybody had been waiting to hear- “I wanna go to the loo”. Yahoo!!! Euphoria arrived. Faces lit up. “Tarmohican” took her out on this walk to perdition while I smiled to myself. Finally was happening what everybody had been waiting for so long to happen. Should I have ordered Champagne?? Probably Yes!!!
“Naani goes to the loo” could have been given a cinematical form but I decided to leave this job to the Steven Spielbergs of the modern era. After all, I am a sleuth not an entertainer. I was more amused at the relieved look which was evident on five faces- four of them were relieved that “naani” went to the loo and “naani’s” because the rest of them spared her the ordeal of listening to them time and again. I, the silent spectator in the whole scene was the happiest. My head was spinning because of the constant pickering and I got some relief- rather most of it.
Tarmohican was lost in the papers he had brought. He would raise his head once in a while, crack a joke and then go back to his papers. Suspiciously, I peeked into the papers that he had brought along. On dog-eared xeroxed pages were scribbled lines of complex equations. Was Tarmohican, Albert Einstein in disguise?Oh my God! If this was true, I was with a Nobel laureate. “Shut up Sherlock, don’t act like a madman”, my mind said to me. Dejected, I waited for the waiter to bring me my evening cup of tea.
As the “high tea” arrived. The game of passing the parcel started again. This time the ex-fauji Son-in law (ex-fauji not ex-son-in-law) was the winner. “Mummy” collected all the winnings from her husband and quickly produced a bag into all the stuff went. Tea Bags, Sachets of coffee, sugar, skimmed milk powder and chocolates made their way into the planned place. The bag proudly portrayed its age-old capacity to gobble up all these stuff. It made me think of as to why we did such things. We never used tea bags at home. Sugar cubes were never a part of our daily cuppa and skimmed milk powder could never beat the freshness of the milk delivered by the milkman. But then why? Quick came the answer, “a penny saved is a penny earned”. All these small savings will one day add upto a treasure. Maybe when Bebo would get married, Mummy would proudly say, “The Groom’s family was served tea with the tea bags collected by me over a decade. What a savior and conservator I am” Ha ha. I now wanted to donate the stuff in my tray too. Bebo’s sweet face made me the “best Samaritan” around. But then mummy was the epitome of self-respect. She would ‘steal’ only stuff given out on her fare. Collecting from fellow-passengers was beyond her dignity. Phew! I sipped from the tetrapack of juice that came in the tray and I kept on sipping on it till the liquid in it disappeared and gave way to air inside. I made an irritating noise and attracted attention. Bebo looked at me with contempt. Eeeeks! I stopped and put away the blown up pack. Faking an element of embarrassment on my face, I smiled at all around. They all stared at me. Ohhhhhhhhh, what pleasure I derived being a creep!!
The next hour I pretended to read of “Animal Farm” by George Orwell. Every 2 minutes I would flip the pages, but in reality, all I did was listening to their conversation and casually glace at Bebo’s face. I know, you would be surprised but this was what I was doing. “Mrs. Tiwari is such a creep. She served Rasna to us yesterday. It was so cheap. It was just out of courtesy that I gulped it down” Mummy complained. “I did not even touch it” Naani commented. “Arrey you should have tasted the kebabs in the Khanna party. They were as hard as stones” Said Bebo jumping into the bitching session. What a letdown. Bebo jumping into the session meant such heartbreak for me. I had to jump and grab the pieces before they fell on the floor with a crashing sound. Now don’t assume that I was sad because Bebo had jumped into it. I was sad because I was not a part of it. I know, the eternally gossipy Holmes that Ms. Adler would never approve of.
I was looking for a topic to open my mouth and say something eternally intelligent when that blasted waiter came into the bay and said in his rustic accent, “Sir Soup”. “Yes, I know, you idiot. It indeed is soup. You put me into a soup. Now all I need to do is jump into and save me from drowning in it. Isn’t that what you want”, my eyes said to him as I picked up a cup of brown-red liquid that smelt of pepper and what Indian Railways called, “Tomato Soup”. Going by their analogy, “crow curry” could be passed of as “chicken curry”. Beware Holmes, beware. “Honeytraps” on all sides set by adversaries. On one hand I looked at Bebo and her folks with utmost affection and on the other hand my “survival instincts” pushed me away from all such “material” things. Anyways, I let myself out of it.
“Tarmohican” was still busy with his papers. He was the most likeable in the whole family. The most amusing part was his hanging from anything possible in the train. With his notes clutched in one hand, he would use the other hand to show his primate background. He was the second man who reminded me that we had descended from monkeys. The first one was a colleague who used to have more than a dozen bananas for breakfast. When I pointed out his quality to him, the fellow instead of thanking me, chased me with a pocket knife. How ungrateful people are, I had a first-hand lesson that day. Anyways, coming back to the present, Tarmohican’s antiques made me move my head the way he moved. Bebo noticed this and said, “Isn’t he cute?” Bingo! The first words from her divine presence around me. I smiled and said, “Indeed”. Oh angel! At your words I can even find porcupines cute.
Dinner arrived. The game of “passing the parcel” started. This time I was the loser. Naani passed her share of chicken curry and parathas to me saying, “Puttar, you are young. You can help me finish this tray”. Naani was probably an agent of the adversary. I politely accepted the casseroles but did not touch them as I did not want my gastrointestinal faculties to fail me in near future. “Tarmohican” hung himself while eating (hung himself as in not hanging by the noose, but hanging on anything he could find on the train). He will one day become a replica to the “hanging gardens of Babylon” and will be the first “hanging” software professional. Bebo nibbled on the pieces of salad while mummy and daddy quietly finished the whole course.
Now it was time to hit the bunk. I was dreading the snores of naani and eagerly waiting for bebo to “get on top” of me (not literally). Anyways, everybody went to their bunks and the lights were switched off. I slept my way to lalaland. Suddenly, there was a huge jerk. Everything moved and suddenly came to a halt. I clutched at something that I could find. The pull resulted in a scream that woke up everybody. “Since when did curtains started screaming”, I thought. Hell no! it was not a curtain. It was Bebo’s hair. Again a goof up! Oh God! Save me. Chanting a few hyms, I turned around and went to sleep. Damage was assessed after putting on the light. Different theories were propounded- from me being the culprit (that was Tarmohican’s theory- what a sleuth that kid was!) to Naani’s theory of the hair being caught somewhere (Naani you are so cute!). I sleepily turned around and stared at all of them and then pulled the blanket over me. I made them feel that my waking up was “collateral damage” that needs to be adequately compensated by switching of the light. Mummy instructed Bebo to tie her hair and the matter ended there. Lights were switched off and the night ended. Such peace!!!
I was asleep when the waiter served tea. This time there was no “passing the parcel”. What was there to pass to anybody? You wouldn’t have anything to share except 2 glucose biscuits and even mummy’s “collection bag” did not have the capacity to gobble up the excess water. What a waste? I left the bay and went to the restroom to get ready for the day.
The train bamboozled its way into the railway station at the stipulated time. I looked through the window to find my dear friend Dr. Watson waiting for me at the railways station. Porters hurried into the compartment and fought among themselves before soliciting passengers. I picked up my piece of luggage and moved towards the exit. Suddenly I stopped, turned towards the family and said, “Sorry Ma’m, it was me who mistook your silky tresses for the curtain. I apologise for the mistake”. Everybody looked at me in horror. “Tarmohican” was smiling though. After a few moments, Bebo killed the silence by saying, “It’s ok. I was not hurt”. I walked off scot-free and smiling.
Dr. Watson evaluated my smile and remarked, “Seems like you just returned from heaven after seeing St. Peter”. I smiled and said, “Sikkim Sonata” was indeed heaven.
P.S. All the characters depicted here are figments of imagination and any resemblance to any person living or dead is totally coincidental.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Fasten your seat belts please!!
Flying has always made me nervous. The drive to the airport, the whizzing past of airplanes, the hustle-bustle at the airports, the intimidating crowds, the bus on the tarmac, the steps into the aircraft, the plastic smiles on the faces of the stewards and air-hostesses, the roar of the jet-engine, the sudden leap into thin air and the turbulence- a wholesome package that had become a part of my life. But, it made me nervous. As a child I always dreamt of flying in an aircraft but once I grew up and airline journeys became a part of my life, I found it lesser than less appealing. Hopping from city to city became a part of life. One fine day I would be on my desk getting ready for a hearing in one of the courts when somebody would shout, “Vinayak, you got a hearing at Mumbai high court tomorrow. So, pack your bags”. These lines would always be followed by a call to the company travel agent, “Khanna Sahab, one to Bombay. Tommorow early morning. Return next day evening”. Life was a roller-coaster. Time was flying.
But in spite of this busy schedule, there was one thing which I never missed. A fortnightly visit to Chennai to see my mother. The visit would always be on the second and fourth weekends of a month. It had become a time table. I left the office at half past five on Fridays, took a taxi to the airport and catch the half past seven Jet Airways flight to Chennai. The flight landed at half past 9 and by 10 o’clock I would be home to spend time with my folks. A few faces had become familiar in the course of time and we nodded to each other. The scene was somewhat similar today. I left office, got into the cab of a Sikh cabbie who played numbers sung by some obscure fellow who claimed to sing in Punjabi and finished the torturous journey in about 50 minutes. Entering the airport, as I handed over my ticket and my identification papers to the girl on the desk, she looked up to me and said, “Sir, there has been a minor goof-up with the issue of tickets. We are overbooked. So, we are moving you to the Paramount Airways flight departing at 7:55 P.M. It’s a first class ticket. Please collect your boarding card from the Paramount desk. Sorry for the inconvenience, Sir”. Before I could react, the next passenger nudged past me and I started looking for the Paramount Airways Desk. I had no reasons to complain. I was departing at more or less the same time, was flying first class and above all would be reaching in time to grab rice and sambar made by Ma. Life was on a roller-coaster.
Paramount promptly issued me the boarding card and directed me for the security check. The stern looking Security Official frisked me all around before letting me past him. I waited for the sign on the display board and soon an announcement made me get up from the seat. “All guests flying by Paramount Airways flight number PA 523 to Chennai are requested to proceed to gate number 7 to board”. Again, I was on the bus on the tarmac. These drivers seemed to me to be the most disciplined drivers on earth. I wonder how they would survive when they have to drive on the roads of Delhi. A cool breeze blew on the tarmac as I got down from the bus. This was the best part of every journey. I always tried to delay my embarking the aircraft as much as possible. It was bliss to stand on the tarmac. It felt light as the cool breeze blew past your face. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. A strong hand has disturbed my “solo titanic” pose. “Sir, please board the aircraft”, said a ground staff from the airline. His looks said, “Get on the flight, you upstart. You haven’t paid to shoot for Titanic here”. I walked up the stairs.
An air-hostess with a plastic smile greeted me inside the aircraft. “Good Evening Sir”. I emulated her with a equally plastic grin. I always wondered if these petite women suffered from face ache after putting up such smiles to 300 people throughout the day. A recent article had pointed out the stressful lives of these women, but for most of us on the ground, they were “angels in air”. Anyhow, I made my way into the first-class enclosure. The seats looked tempting. They were huge leather sofas. God!! I was flying royally today. Suddenly, I felt the presence of somebody behind me. Turning around, I saw a face smiling at me. “Could I take your coat please” said the face of an angel. Dressed in a trademark Paramount blue outfit, she brought the word “beauty” to a standstill. I would have stared more but the angel inside me poked me and said, “Come on Vinayak, atleast justify the divine name you have been bestowed with”. She sensed my embarrassment but did not let it show. I handed over my coat and she walked towards the coat compartment to find a place to store my jacket. I felt like a stupid schoolboy who just messed up his first glance at a girl. Oops, what a screw-up. Never mind, “why am I conscious”, I reminded myself as I settled into the comfortable seat.
The tense moments came as the plane taxied to the runway. The most difficult moments during the whole flight for me. The pilot was courteous enough to distract us by talking about weather, the duration of the flight, the names of the cabin crew and what a wonderful city Chennai was. But none helped me out. I was sweating. The jets came alive, the speed increased and kept on increasing, sounds were buzzing into my ears to the point that they might burst anytime. And then there was calm as the tyres were retracted and the plane leaped into air. The aircraft gained altitude and soon we were into the stratosphere. As the plane steadied, the Captain muttered a few more instructions. It was time for a nap. It was time for Shri Vinayak Iyer, Advocate and Solicitor to catch up on that beautiful nap that he was looking forward to the whole day. With the seat being so comfortable, there was no way I was going to miss it. If I was lucky, it was because “luck favours the brave”.
“Excuse me, Sir…..would you like to have your dinner now. We would be landing in 30 minutes from now”- the same silky voice woke me up. Her voice showed apprehension and my face showed irritation. “Some Orange juice please”, I instructed. “Nothing to eat”, I dismissed her. A few moments later, a glass of canned orange juice made its way into the foldable table in front of my seat. This time her face showed some irritation. Sleepily, I picked up the glass, drained it into my mouth and called for a refill. The refill arrived with equal irritation hidden behind a plastic smile. Now I sipped in consciousness. What a marked difference! “Theory of diminishing marginal utility” blah!!
Finishing the glass, I needed to use the restroom. I did not want to reach home tired or sleepy. Ma had his normal habit of cursing my lifestyle every time I arrived in a messed up state. She liked things orderly. As I walked up to the restroom, I found both the lavatories locked. “They are locked from inside. The red sign indicates they are occupied”, a voice said. I turned around to see the same “angel” beside me. Her voice had a major element of sarcasm in it and was covered with a “plastic smile”. I burst out laughing. She was a pathetic actor. I was looking right through her and she didn’t even realize it. Her expression now turned into one of “shock, awe and surprise”. But then she was paid to smile. Soon the “plastic smile” came back. I was barely able to control my laughter but in order to portray myself as a gentleman I decided to stop. The lavatories were still occupied.
“Don’t you guys get bored of flying” I asked her trying to be polite. “Well we do, but then we get paid for that and plus the thrill of visiting newplaces” she quipped back. “I have been travelling for the past 15 days and I already feel like a zombie”, I lied (The lawyer in me was a pathological liar, you know). A conversation started. I tried looking at her name-tag. She caught me gazing at the “wrong” place and said, “The name’s Akshara”. I hid myself and said, “Vinayak”. These were one of those moments when you feel that a tyrannosaurus rex should have eaten you up. But the dinosaur had become extinct. I had no assistance to cover my embarrassment.
Suddenly the door opened and an old man came out. Uncle should have taken some more time inside but then luck’s never on your side when you are talking to the “fairer sex”. I wanted to talk more, know more. The investigator inside me had woken up from a slumber. This was not my day. I was forced to go inside the lavatory to cover up my “confusedly genuine” intentions. When I came out she was checking the inventory. Although an air-hostess, her job profile was no better than a waitress. I did not know what to speak; I just blabbered out, “Can I have your number. Maybe we can speak sometime?”. A stern look grew on her face, “Sir, please return to your seat. If you prolong this conversation, I would have to call out for security”. I retraced my steps. Gosh!! I can’t let it happen. “Corporate Lawyer caught molesting air-hostess mid-air” could be the headlines the next day if I did not become Carl Lewis now.
The next 20 minutes till the flight landed were spent in acute embarrassment. Never in my life had I been rebuked like this. Well, I had never tried wooing an air-hostess mid-air too. As the flight landed and the doors were opened, she came to handover my coat. ”Have a pleasant stay in Chennai Sir” was all she said before she went off. I met her at the door again. Before I disembarked I gathered some courage and said, “Ma’m, I didn’t mean to sound rude or desperate. It’s just that the combination of orange juice and you make a speedball. Ciao”. She smiled and mumbled something which I did not hear. I was back to the tarmac, my favourite place. I did a “solo titanic” and boarded the bus. I wanted to be one of the first to be out of it.
The worst place in the airport is to wait for the luggage on the conveyor belt. It takes eternity before one’s luggage arrives. The threat of it being stolen or damaged looms over your head till you get it safe and sound in your hands. After a wait of a few minutes my bag arrived. Loading it into a trolley, I started for the exit when I heard an announcement , “Will Mr. Vinayak Iyer who has arrived by Paramount Airways flight no….report at the assistance desk”. “Now what? Oh my God! I am dead! She must have filed a complaint against me. I am gone.” I wanted to run away but that might only complicate things. I tried to remember every section in the Indian Penal code with respect to “outraging the modesty of a woman” and approached the assistance desk. When you pick a peppermint in a grocery shop by mistake and you are caught for it, a lawyer mind will always think about the harshest punishment.
“I am Vinayak Iyer. I was told to report here”. A man looked at me and smiled, “Happy Birthday Sir, Paramount Airways is happy to offer you a drop facility to your local address”. He also gave me a bag which undoubtedly was a gift hamper. “But it’s not my birthday”, I quipped in. The man looked around and said, “But our cabin crew gave the message that it’s your birthday. You are Vinayak Iyer na?” “Well, I am Vinayak Iyer, but it is not my birthday”. Now the man was confused. After looking at a few papers here and there, he said in chaste Tamil which when translated goes, “Champ, come on. Take the facility and go home. Make my job easy. I too have to go home. Don’t make my paperwork more difficult”. I tried to argue with him. Reasoning would not work. Then a voice behind me said, “Sir, please avail the facility. If you prolong this conversation, I would have to call out for security”. Turning around, I saw her smiling at me. Big time fixer she was.
“So it was you”, I asked her as I collected my stuff and we walked out together. “Indeed, Ihad to stop you some way or the other. Either you would have argued till I came here, which you did or you would have coolly taken the bag and walked off. In that case you would have left your number”. I smiled feeling like a fool. Women were smarter. “Now give me your number, I will call you sometime from a public phone. I won’t give out my number as of now. I hope that is okay with you”. I remained quiet and fished out my card. It had been a hard day for me. I was in no mood for arguments. She read it and looked at me “Advocate and Solicitor, whom do you solicit”. I just smiled. Before the smile ended, she waved her hand, smiled at me and dashed forward. A group of her peers were waiting for her. They got inside a cab and sped off. All I could see was a scarf that came out of the window and fluttered in the air for a while. I didn’t know whose it was or for whom it was. I found my cab and went home. Mom’s love mixed with sambar and rice went inside me and I hit the sack. Akshara was on my mind, but I wanted her to get off my mind. I managed to do the latter.
“Vinayak Sir, a call for you. Some prospective client” said Meghna, the receptionist on the intercom. “Please connect” I said and waited for the voice. We always like the “sound of prospective clients”. Money sounds good! “This is Vinayak Iyer, Associate Partner, how can I help you, Ma’m”, I said into the phone as I heard a female voice say “Hello”. “Mr. Iyer, I just misbehaved with an air-hostess mid air. I was interested in engaging your services to defend me”, the voice said. I was about to say, “Ma’m, we are a firm of corporate lawyers. We do not take up criminal cases” when I realized whose the voice was. Mind games! “Well now that you have misbehaved with her, you have no choices. You will go to jail, Akshara”. This was followed by laughter on both sides. After the laughter died she said, “How busy are you right now? Can we meet for lunch?” “I would have jumped and said yes but I am to brief a senior Advocate over lunch. Would an early dinner suit you?”, I replied. “Yes, but it has to be an early one. I have to end my day by 9 at night. I got to be at the airport at 4 in the morning tomorrow. Make it 6 pm at Geoffrey’s, Ansal Plaza”. “Done”, I said and then the phone clicked. I spent the whole day in a frenzy. Shri Manmohan Khurana, the Senior Advocate who I was to brief cancelled his appointment. I would have killed the old timer but for his legal skills without which our firm would go nowhere.
I left office at 4 p.m. I wouldn’t have met her in my black and white attire (too predictable and too recognizable). A quick change at home into a pair of levi’s and a white khadi shirt was followed by a quick decision between my Maruti Wagon R and my Enfield Machismo. I stuck to my bike and rode along to Andrews Ganj humming an old hindi chartbuster. I was there just before 6 p.m. I looked for her inside Geoffrey’s. I couldn’t find her. Then a hand went up and waved at me. My God!! She was unrecognizable without the make-up she put on during her work. She was pretty. The skirt and blazer had been replaced by a FabIndia Kurta and a pair of jeans. As I made myself comfortable into the plush chair, I could see her blushing. Well, I was blushing too. A new twist to my life’s tale.
“So, Vinayak Iyer, you wanted my number so that we could talk. So, here am I, in front of you, Shoot!” she said commandingly. Like an established lawyer, I started my opening arguments, “I am really honoured that you came all the way to see me. The call came as a pleasant surprise. I was in a fix as to how to react”. She spoke likea Defense Counsel when she said, “I did not come all the way to see you. I was in Delhi and I did not have anything to do. So, I fished out your card and called up”. How rude!! Truly, women are from Venus. We Martians cook so many stories to make them happy and look at the response from the Venetians. Always a letdown. Hiding my disappointment I suggested drinks. I was planning to avoid alcohol in case she was a teetotaler but her order of a “screwdriver” made me ask for my favourite “scotch on the rocks”. Three repeats later we had opened up quite a bit. We talked of backgrounds, of families, of education, of common interests and of course- our professions. She had a degree in Economics and was serving “geeks and goons” while I with my degree in History was also serving “geeks and goons”. We shared a common liking for the works of Hemmingway and Toni Morrison, poems of Neruda and Frost and could watch “Casablanca’ numerous times. Food was a plate of “Chicken Shaslik” for me and a “Paneer Shaslik” for her. She amused me over the fight with the chef for extra nuts and raisins in her “hot chocolate fudge”. The evening ended early for me and late for her. At half past ten, I dropped her off at her hotel. Expectations of a tight hug on the bike ride were never fulfilled as her hands were constantly on my shoulder and never moved in spite of constant breaking or accelerating. As I left, she waved with a smile. I was on cloud nine. Again in mid-air.
A few days later Akshara called again. A short call of pleasantaries. I enquired of her well-being and the call ended. Calls were followed by SMSes and futher calls and SMSes. The next time we met in Bombay. She shook all my bones by making me travel in a local train where the locals abused me in Marathi for not giving them way and then making me run at chowpati. We walked on Marine Drive where she talked nineteen to a dozen while I just nodded in appreciation. I hoped for rains like in movies but Rain God did not like me. Drizzles never happened. What a letdown. Almighty, why are you always so cruel to me? The day ended fast as always. She dropped me at the airport where I was taking a flight to Delhi. She smiled when she saw my ticket. I was flying Paramount Airways. “I am your master”, I teased her as I disappeared behind the security check.
Calls became frequent. My telephone bills went up manifold. The beep of SMS never stopped. My fingers ached from SMSing her. A delayed SMS would make her go crazy. I liked her possessiveness. Now I always travelled to Chennai fortnightly on board Paramount. Akshara would try and be on that flight.There was nothing said or done but we were behaving like a couple. Was I in love? I didn’t know. All I could say was, “I am stuck..stuck…at the sight of you..at the thought of you”.
I was in a state of slumber when the doorbell rang. I thought I was dreaming. It rang again. I dismissed it as a dream. It rang again. What a shrill sound. I went and opened it. My first sight were two huge bags followed by Akshara in her uniform. “I am on leave for two weeks. Can I stay with you? I hope you have a spare room for a guest”. I smiled, picked up the suitcases and let her in. One look at my house and she started yelling,”Except for the kitchen everything is in a mess. Lots of work to be done here. But before that I need to sleep”. I put her suitcases into the spare room, changed the sheets and tidied it up a bit. She opened the windows and let in some fresh morning air. Then she pushed me out of the room and bolted the door. I returned to my room and fell on my bed. Before I slept I looked at the watch. It was 3 am.
“Excuse me, Sir…..would you like to have your breakfast now. We would be landing in 30 minutes from now”- the same silky voice woke me up. I smiled and woke up. I made my way to the breakfast table where Paranthas stuffed with vegetables waited for me. “I couldn’t find many things for a spread, so make do with the paranthas now. I have kept a list of things I need. We would go out shopping once you come back”, her commanding voice intimidated me. As I got ready to leave I saw the list which was 3 pages long! Why do women have to shop so much. Do their hormones contain some secretion that makes them compulsive shoppers? I gave up thinking and picked up my briefcase to go. “Vinayak, Can you lend me your car. I need to finish a few things” she said making a coy face. I tossed the car keys, picked up the helmet and transferred the contents of my briefcase into a back pack and walked off to the parking lot.
In the evening she took me shopping. 4 hours of looking for things in the biggest up market mall in Delhi made me so tired that I lost my patience. But she hardly lost her zeal. After we came back home, she made me a light dinner. We watched “Casablanca” together. When the movie ended we chatted for a while on the balcony. Exactly at midnight she excused herself and went off to sleep locking her door. Was she Cindrella? “And what were you expecting dirty mind”. I smiled to myself and went to sleep.
The coming days were a state of bliss. We were living-in like a couple sans some things. Neighbours looked at us with smiles on their faces. Breakfast was always ready. She dropped me at the office every day. Meghna (the receptionist) announced that I had got married. Questioning gazes from acquaintances whom we met at different places were always dismissed with smiles. We walked, rode and drove around Delhi. She took me to watch plays while I took her boating in the Yamuna. We watched movies at Shakuntalam (my favourite theatre during my college days), ate at old places which had gone out of our social calendar by virtue of our student days expiring and walked around Lutyen’s Delhi. But one thing became a constant. Watching “Casablanca” after we came back home. She always went crazy at Bogart’s voice and laughed when I tried to copy him. She had this queer habit of poking me whenever she got a chance. And laugh aloud after she did that. A kid probably lived in her. I was falling in love with her without even caring what emotions she had for me. Truly, love was deaf, dumb and blind.
It would be frivolous not to accept the inevitable. It was bound to happen. I was shocked that there was an animal inside me but she cut me to size by saying, “the animal inside you is a pet”. Soon Vinayak Iyer and Akshara Deshmukh were man and wife in the true sense of the term sans the social sanction and the legal formalities. Two weeks just flew by. “Good times never last long”- proved to be an axiom.
As she got ready to leave I said to her, “Can you shift base to Delhi. We could stay together” She didn’t reply but picked up her travel bag. As I tried to move the huge suitcases she said, “Now that I have slept with you, are you throwing me out”. I dropped them and took her in my arms. After a few minutes she retorted “Mr. Iyer, your actions are spoiling my make-up. Plus, you ate up all the lip stick. It’s a Estee Lauder in case you don’t know.” “Screw you Askhara, I don’t care”, I said as I kissed her again. She drove to the airport with me by her side. I must say she drives like a Grand Prix driver which scares the hell out of me.
As we reached the airport and I unloaded her travel bag, the sadness on my face was explicitly visible. She made no conversations but kept on smiling at me. Then she started walking towards the departure terminal. I was irritated. Women would speak a lot in normal course, but never spoke when you wanted them to. Then suddenly she turned back and shouted at me, " I would be coming back the day after tomorrow. Make sure you don't mess up the house and wait for a late dinner". Then she blew a kiss at me and walked off. A smile came to my face as I opened the door to get inside the car.
The drive was fun. I was already counting backwards. The car smelt of her, the gear shift had her touch on it. As I eased my car into the highway, my cellphone beeped. A message from Akshara. My eyes lit up. It read, "I would be leaving my apartment next week. You want to share the rent or do I become your mistress?" She was such a fixer. I laughed and typed back after stopping the car (you sometimes want to follow the rules), "I can afford the rent but I can't afford a mistress. Look for a 'paramount alternative'. come back soon."
Life was on a roller coaster again.
P.S. All the characters mentioned are figments of imagination and resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.
Dedicated to Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler whose immortal love story remains incomplete.
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