31 days to a lifetime

Thank you for saving me and giving me a new life.

To a life of love, luck and happiness. 

Love me 3 time baby - but be Goa

A trip to Goa is almost always on my mind.

Its the sun, sand, food, pace and a general sense of well being that draws you to the little place with a big heart. This is my third trip to Goa this year.

The year started off with a bachelorette - 6 girls celebrating the last few days of a friends single life. Strangely, she'd always been double - but marriage is a whole different ballgame.

The second trip was my birthday in Goa combined with media awards that become cooler with the prefix 'Goa-fest'. In retrospect - feelings were mixed back then. But the sun, sand, food and pace created the general sense of well being.

The third time was spent with a newly wed couple. The circle was complete - started Goa with the wedding celebration. Ended it with Diwali. The core proposition of Goa continued even this time.

Had varied experiences each time. It was almost like a milestone.

I've stopped and assessed myself at each halt.

Homes for Sale

When a friend of mine was planning to buy a house, there were several variables that he was looking at. Whether it fit in his budget and the EMI calculation, the locality, the builders and proximity to work (which was flexible) and family (which was avoidable). All the jazzy, new age, promising buildings lacked in the four of his very basic requirements.

After several months of hunting, he found a house. A cozy, lived in house in a plush green, quiet society. He had to wait for several months before possession. Paperwork was endless, sometimes it was the bank else it was the society. He is an owner now and the days of flooring, wiring, painting, chipping, crafting has begun. 

It gets me thinking, had he bought the newly constructed house - he would just have had to move in and fill it up as he wished. But then, this way he gets to make his home the way he wants with the hard work and imagination even though its time consuming and one doesn't know how it will look by the end of it.

Am grappling with this for myself - new place or renovation? 

Or is it back to just paying rent.

When the Tewari's came visiting

Evenings in Allahabad - I do not miss them, but I cannot forget them either. Easily classifiable as when there was electricity and when there was none.

When there was electricity, there was a surge of life – children playing, maids gossiping, water replenishing, dog walking, cookers hissing. The flipside was the drone of crickets. Happy crickets. Sad crickets.

Since days would begin early, the evenings would miraculously blend into a new day. The only remote excitement was a yearly Miss Universe, exams getting over or a new fight around the block. Despite these high points, we ate dinner at 830 p.m, locked the main gates by 930 and were in bed by 10 p.m.

There was one particular feature which sent a heat and a cold wave in our house - the musical honk of a car and the clink at our main door, and a voice that said “Lalit!” which could be heard behind locked doors. It was almost like we were programmed to spring into life with the magic words.

The father would discuss politics. The mother would pull her husband’s leg. The daughter was solemn but a good listener and the son was almost always bored to death. My father would laugh at the expletives used by Mr. Tewari. My mother would make interesting snacks at wee hours of the night – and sing while doing so. I remember how our house was alive at midnight and that the other 11 houses slept.

I remember how I waited for Saturday nights – would hope and pray even in my sleep that they would come. There would be some mindless banter. There would be a late night. There would be a lighthearted exchange. There would be someone visiting us. Sometimes, my father would announce that we would go and see them – which would mean dressing up, a 20 minute drive and samosas at their place.

Their friendship continued for almost 3 decades after which things started waning. The Tewari’s were complete opposites – crass, corrupt, loud, wealthy and well-dressed. Over time, the differences translated into opinions. We stopped seeing much of each other. Kids moved away. Parents became more insular. My father confesses – he misses Mr. Tewari’s company sometimes. But then perspective fills him and he comments on not regretting the distancing.

With the current pace of life, I never have an uneventful evening. But I do owe them a part of me back home. With the Tewari’s – life became a tad bit little less lonely whether we had electricity, or none.

Understanding Excitement, Daydreaming and Uncertainity

I sat in the cabin of a man with a distracting belly who kept talking about a passion.

I must have been floating in and out of the conversation, but kept the animation alive with the 'head bob'. I find this a remarkably effective tool while indulging in selective hearing - which is a nice way of saying that someone only listens to what they want to hear. It also works extremely well when its clearly a one way conversation and only a passive audience is required. All I had to do was blink to show signs of acknowledgement.

The room was shrouded with media and marketing books which spoke of themes like  "Positioning: The Battle for Your Mind", "Influence, The Psychology of Persuation", "Blink: The Power Of Thinking Without Thinking". Stashed in between then were wine bottles staring back at me. They seemed to mouth "Drink Me". My eyes glazed over and wandered to the space I occupied in a place that looked like an Operation Theatre.

Everything was too white - white walls, white tables, white blinds, white tubelights. I could almost smell the disinfectant. Jelly Belly anyway seemed to be conducting an autopsey of sorts.

"So welcome to suxaM", snapped me out of my reverie. I smiled and mumbled a bunch of 'thank you's' and 'yes's'. I was goaded into a space where I was greeted with questions like "Where have you done your MBA from?", "What caste are you?", "So you must be great at numbers?, "How come suxaM?".

After the 'passion' harangue and self induced intoxication - I felt like a speck, lost in the the vastness of white, being observed by a superior, combined and more powerful force. The white hurting my eyes and each word at a decibel higher than the other.
 
 I was speechless - left wishing for a kind, smiling, dependable face.

A Language of Subtlety

Dullsville is home to a number of students from rural and small town India - the likes of Handia, Baliya, Mirzapur, Bada Gaon, Mutthiganj. They create an almost satirical image - with an odd mixture of wide-eyed innocence and bemused expressions or the by product of breeding wisdom and apathy.

As a classic example of an immigrant, I have an almost amused tolerance for those who move away from their native cultures and try and assimilate to a new one. The ability to observe and enjoy the quirks therefore comes naturally. "Engliss to Engliss" is an almost super human ability (an exchange in English).

Driving down familiar roads in Allahabad, I was struck by the number of 'language' institutes mushrooming all around.

'Indian Institute of Languages'

'Oxford School of Foreign'

'Vertex Language Academy'

'NASA School for Language'

Who was coming here was clear. What was being taught was obvious. How it was being taught was questionable, as the claim to fame for most was 'Spoking English'. How would the student achieve that flawless exchange - vrtual translation of sentences spoken in HIndi.

This is a subtlety in our Indianized English which has been captured by a number of writers thereby bringing alive characters, incidents and attitudes of communities. My personal favorites being a novel by Anurag Mathur: The Inscrutable Americans and Nizzim Ezekiel's poem Goodbye Party for Miss Pushpa.


The hero in Mathur's novel - gopal, hails from a small town called Jajau and the story begins with his arrival in the United states for his education. The use of Indianized English to describe his feelings, misadventures and state of mind is hilarious and infectious. In a letter to his brother he relates,

"How much I am missing one and all I simply cannot say. My head is eating circles with all new things. Two weeks are already proceeding and I am not even knowing. Also no one is bothering who you are and you are also not to bother. You are not believing, but I am calling respected Professors by first name. One is saying to me, ’’My name is Sam, not Sir Sam. The British are not knighting me yet.’’ Good joke I think. Brother, are you imagining if I am going to Great Principal of Jajua College and calling him by first name? I think he is dying of heart attack."

Later on he goes to explain:

"At Customs, brother, I am getting big shock. One fat man is grunting at me and looking cleverly from small eyes. ’’First visit?’’ he is asking, ’’Yes,’’ I am agreeing ’’Move on,’’ he is saying making chalk marks on bags. As I am picking up bags he is looking directly at me and saying ’’Watch your ass.’’ Now, brother, this is wonderful. How he is knowing we are purchasing donkey? I think they are knowing everything about everybody who is coming to America."

Ezekiel has also pointed out some such syntactical oddities of English with no limit to the potential meanings and consequent enjoyment of the poem.

Friends,

our dear sister
is departing for the foreign
in two three days,
and
we are meeting today
to wish her bon voyage.
You are all knowing, friends,
what sweetness is in Miss Pushpa.
I don't mean only external sweetness
but internal sweetness.
Miss Pushpa is smiling and smiling
even for no reason
but simply because she is feeling.
Miss Pushpa is coming
from very high family.
Her father was renowned advocate
in Bulsar or Surat,
I am not remembering now which place.
Surat? Ah, yes,
once only I stayed in Surat
with family members
of my uncle's very old friend---
his wife was cooking nicely ...
that was long time ago.
Coming back to Miss Pushpa
she is most popular lady
with men and ladies also.
Whenever I asked her to do anything,
she was saying, 'Just now only
I will do it.; That is showing
good spirit. I am always
appreciating the good spirit.
Pushpa Miss is never saying no.
Whatever I or anybody is asking
she is always saying yes,
and today she is going
to improve her prospects
and we are wishing her bon voyage.
Now I ask other speakers to speak
and afterwards Miss Pushpa
will do the summing up.

Cheers to English that makes you laugh as you read along. What to do we are like this only.

Bombay ka Bhiyya ya Bhiyya ka Bombay?

The train journey back home is always optimistic, despite being painstakingly long. 24 hours is a hell of a long time to at a stretch - lie flat, sleep, read, think, ration 'jobs' - or a blend of all of the above.

UP and Bihar bound trains are always visual and auditory treat. Either in the form of a newly married couple who shy away from each other's eyes - letting the occasional exchange of pleasantries or accidental touch define the institution in public gaze or the pan chewing male bragger who air of superiority has an incredible rub off on all the fellow passengers.

I always travel with Bhiyya's - eating, belching, arguing, digressing, staring, smelling, spitting- all in all, its quite endearing. This time, I was seated infront of an elderly couple - could be christened for ease of reference Gopal Ji and Kamala Ji.

They reminded me of the magician and his accomplice. Kamala Ji was ordered "So jao" as soon as we boarded the train (11 a.m) and Gopal Ji stayed guard, doing nothing, occassionally grunting. Every time she moved, he would carefully peek at her and gently mutter "So Jao". It almost seemed like he would cast a spell on her with the two magic words. And strangely enough - whenever the spell seemed to be broken, she would like rummage into the numerous 'potlis' and conjure up an elaborate meal.

The fantastic ends here. Gopal Ji is a station master at Bandra Terminus. Every morning he donns his black coat and little brass badge and lunch box. She on the other hand has never worn anything but synthetic sarees of the brightest possoble hues and the extremely prominent sindoor and mangal sutra for as long as she has known him. He has spent the past 30 years at the station, for the station and of the station. And he is the provider, for dear old Kamala Ji and her seven children - 5 daughters and 2 sons. The eldest daughter is 30 and the youngest son is 15 - which would mean a 1:2 ratio in terms of child birth: years. With pride they say "All born in Bambai".

During meals, they make conversation about the son Dharmendra, who is living up to the looks of the actor himself. The youngest daughter gives them utmost grief, for she is unwilling to get married, wakes up late and doesnt know how to cook. The daughter-in-law is obedient and respectful. All her daughters are blessed with sons, she mildly curses her own luck to have had five. If there were grandaughters - it would be equivalent to a family curse.

They have not had a hard life in Bombay. Courtsey an indian railways job which entitled them to travel all across the country with the seven children - on a railway pass (till they were 21 years old), flipping between gaon and Bombay was not a monetary hassle. They have their own mini UP - with bhiyyas and bhabhis, in the heart of the city. They talk of their land and cattle back home, the ailing aunts and an occassional notorious girl who ran away with someone. Some wishfully think of going back.

Kamala and Gopal Ji speak of relocating too. Their voices suddenly drop and one can sense the solemnness. Gopal Ji is up for retirement. Their girls are settled and the one room home suddenly seems smaller. Age is catching up. And they often get to hear of them being equivalents of infiltrators in forbidden territory.

One can sense the discomfort. After having spent 30 long years in a city which adopted them and which they adapted to, where they as people with families grew - have to suddenly think of the village where they sent money on a monthly basis, as home. Their primary home.

Kamala ji mutters something about how would their kids manage. With a certain amount of calm and finality, Gopal Ji says "Bambai humka sikhai di, unka bhi sikhai degi." (Bombay taught us, will teach them too). They both look at each other, convinced.

In Bombay, one has the chance of meeting many from eastern UP and Bihar. They leave behind families and farms and are armed with dreams and desperation. Most get absorbed as cab drivers, train drivers, milkmen, guards, dhobis. They work very hard, save money and travel to their native lands and in most cases to their wives, or children left behind. However, these long journeys are scant. Once, maybe twice a year. More than that could be potentially hazardous to careers and savings.

Sons of the soil is an elemental concept tying people to their place of birth and confers some benefits, rights, roles and responsibilities on them, which may not apply to others. However, when one is infused in the very DNA - how does one delineate the two?