Knocks and locks

After having sat through a rather disappointing watch of the movie “Fire”, one is left with a bunch of unsettling questions that seem to have no answers.

For starters – why is it that Indians just do not lock doors, especially when they are about to indulge or engage in activities that they do not want to be disturbed at? Have you noticed just how many lives have been ruined on celluloid, by accidental and not-so-accidental discoveries of what happens behind “un”locked doors? If one was to have a penny for every time a protagonist who was caught-with-a-sheepish/shocked-look thought “Damn! Should have locked that door!”, one would be very rich indeed!

Which brings one to the second question of knocking on said (un)locked doors. Why, O WHY, do people never EVER knock on doors before opening them?! It’s obviously asking for too much to pause mid-suspense scene in the slow-turning-of-the-handle-while-anticipating-nefarious-goings-on-on-the-other-side and KNOCK ON THE DAMN DOOR!  Besides, who are we kidding! Saying “please” and “may I” and “thank you” is considered being so formal. Aao-jao, ghar tumhara, so why bother with knocking-shocking, no?

*sigh*

Indians, as a whole, disprove of thanking for a cup of tea. Or excusing themselves to attend a phone call. Or requesting permission to take a seat. Or knocking on doors before entering rooms.

Why are we like this only?

Notions of Infancy

Does India, as a culture, allow its Indians to grow up?

Think about it.

Twenty-five year olds stay at home with the ‘rents if employed in the same city. Laundry and food, gratis. To even suggest moving out into a single pad would be considered a heniuos crime-against-the-hands-that-changed-your-diapers. Even if such a move would actually ease the daily tension of living that is inevitable in closely inhabited areas.

In more households than not, it is unheard of to even shut the door of a bedroom – especially if it is to accquire some “quiet time alone”. Such a concept goes against the grain of Collective Indian Living – and no, one does not refer to the rural lifestyle. In modern, today-India, an average family of four, having a son and a daughter, where both partents hold at least post-graduate degrees, a two-bedroom life-space would be considered more than adequate. After all, why can a brother and sister not share the same room?!

Are we as a culture, really so smug as to deny human beings the fundamental right to personal space and privacy? What is this “liberty”, “freedom” and “independence” that the Constitution guarantees if each one of the members of the adult, middle-class Indians is denied the right to being an adult by his or her own family? Where is this liberty if something as fundamental as choosing one’s life partner is not to be one’s right but an imperial order handed down by the Powers-That-Be of every Family? Where is that freedom when all one can “choose” to be is an engineer or a doctor? Where is that liberty if a mere evening out to have a drink with friends is constantly monitored with phone calls and text messages of “Beta, we are awaiting dinner for you. Have made your favourite rasam.” Why are Indians so sold on the ugliness of emotional blackmail and its accompanying power play?

What does it say about the culture as a whole? That we are so insecure about living for ourselves that we will eschew every opportunity to be responsible. Schooling? Someone else’s responsibility. Choice of Profession? Fikar not, Appa will choose. Marriage? Oh don’t worry! GrandFather and Great-Grand-Uncle-Thrice-Removed have long ago come to an understanding. Where to live? Here only – why do you want to waste “apni zameen”? Which car to buy? – Arrey! Whichever is the biggest, after all, family has to be able to travel together, no? When to have kids? – Shaadi ke baad do saal ruk liye – now you must have your first child. How many kids to have? – Eklauti santaan achchi nahi – hum do humare do. Ek ladka aur ek ladki.

So on and so forth.

It’s interesting to note how we, Indians, are not expected to take any decisions for ourselves. As children, young adults, grown-up members of society. It’s always someone else’s responsibility to make our choices for us. In fact, one could go further and say even the degeneration of old-age and the following decline into the Final Oblivion is for someone else to sort out. Why else would you have children if not to be your “budhape ka sahara”? Self-reliance is a blasphemous notion and independence the germ of all that is evil.

In a society that is now adapting to its Audis and INR 5 crore apartments, it’s disappointingly disturbing to see that these are still, at the end of the day, property of the Hindu (Un)Divided Family.

Food Talk

This first appeared on townlog.com - http://www.townlog.com/food-talk/#more-656

One of my favourite activities is to people-watch, that too, at cafés and eateries. We are what we eat, after all, but over the years, I believe I’d add “and how we eat” to that sentence.

Through all my travels – and there are many more to be done! – I’ve come to appreciate, cherish and treasure the plethora of sensuality that is Indian cuisine. Growing up in a home that thought as much as it lived, food was not just a fact of life – it was something to be learnt, discovered, achieved with skill and appreciated with gratitude. Even simple meals were a celebration in themselves – with all the trappings of a well-laid table to good conversation. Many a meal has lingered past the one-hour mark with discussions about spices and recipes and culinary influences. Therefore, to me, watching and digesting food are not just physical activities.

Obviously, when I headed to Italy, then, I was quite keen on the cuisine and their culinary ideas. After all, it is one of the oldest formal cuisines in the Western world and no, it did not disappoint me. Northern Italy is more Germanic than Neapolitan or Tuscan. Turin, the seat of the Duchy of Savoy, Milan, Como – all Alpine. It follows then, that so it the food. The infamy of long-drawn Italian meals is a delight to the observer – meals can last for up to three hours! To this day, it is perfectly acceptable to begin meals with an aperitif, moving on to anti-pasti. If you are Italian, you’ll most definitely do justice to anything that follows. If, however, you are not, this is the time to loosen your belt a couple of notches – trust me – you’ll need the extra space. Pasta and the main course follow. Then of course, there is the dolce – dessert – and coffee. Bitter, strong, fresh and knock-your-socks-off caffeinated! All this must be accompanied by voluble and animated conversation that runs the entire gamut of topics – not to forget frantic gesticulation! I have a theory for this – this physical activity keeps the calories in check and makes room for the grande finale – il gelato – the ice cream. There’s one thing Italy will always win the crown for – their ice creams. If you’re every lucky enough to find yourself in La Italia, treat yourself to a couple of slurps of heaven – it goes by the name of rum-and-raisin gelato.

Italians consider meals an occasion that borders on the sacred. It’s not just the food, it’s the whole act of being together that counts.

Back home, in India, although I grew up in a liberal household, I was quite aware that mealtimes are distinctly different for others. To an average Indian, food is sacred – religiously so. The most common form of charity in India – from the Jains to the Muslims, to super-orthodox Namboodripads to bhadralok Kolkata – is to feed. Pleasure does not carry respectable connotations in traditional Indian ethos and consequently – food is not a sensual treat. It is a religious duty – of the wife, mother, sister; a communal ritual – at the gurudwara, the iftaar, and the shaadi. It is a business – for the millions of Ududpi joints and the Dhabas that dot the unending lengths of India’s roadways. It is a much-treasured secret – like grand-mother’s recipe for fiery mango pickles and sago poppadums. But very rarely is it pure pleasure.  Yet – Indian food is unique in its integral structure – insofar as no other genre of cuisines is so precisely attuned to nurture and accentuate human life as Indian cuisines. The simplest of daal-chawal is a complex combination of proteins for strength, slow-releasing carbohydrates for energy, mustard seeds, asafetida and cumin as anti-histamines, digestives and coolants, not to forget the ubiquitous dollop of ghee to keep the softer tissues protected. Millennium of thought, experimentation and ideation has attuned food in every part of the vast geography of India to suit its inhabitants to the T(ea). We don’t share plates – jhootan – is a concept hard to explain to a non-Indian. Yet it makes scientific sense, as any modern-day medical practitioner will vouch for. To us, traditionally, using forks and knives is akin to committing sacrilege – food being sacred deserves utmost respect. Forks and knives are implements – ergo weapons. To use them to eat is therefore, an abomination, a sin. But that ensured extreme attention to hygiene – with clean, washed hands and only a select-few cooking and serving. Indians take food seriously.

Tanzanians do not. Food here is a luxury. If you eat twice a day, you are rich indeed! Zanzibar, the traditional seat of the Omani Sultanate, was one of the world’s largest wholesale spice markets for centuries. Cinnamon, star anise, clove, pepper, cumin and coriander, tamarind and bay leaf – all have a distinct and indelible presence in the history of this country. Yet curiously enough, Tanzania – the ungainly marriage of Tanganyika and Zanzibar in the mid-1960s – does not claim culinary expertise in tickling the taste buds. On the contrary, chipsi-mayai (eggs-and-chips) is rampart, washed down with warm Coca Cola spiked with Konyagi – the local sugarcane gin. The tragedy of Africa is nowhere as starkly manifest as in the lack of a distinct and indigenous culinary identity in Tanzania. Coastal areas of the country that have had Arab and subsequently, Muslim presence, for a while, manage a small variety of roast meats, lightly spiced. But the further inland one goes, the greater is the blurring of the food’s identity. It is indeed a loss of monumental proportions if a country, a nation, a people, cannot claim tastes and flavours as their own. Eggs-and-chips, black tea, Coca Cola, dry sponge cakes – all legacies of the Colonists. Chapatis, Lamb Curries and Pilau gifted by the trading Arabs and Indians. But what remains then of the Bantu, the Kihehe and the Hehe? These are the people who have lived amongst the unmodified genetic ancestors of the Indian mango trees and the Chettinaad tamarind trees for more generations than the concept of India has existed. Yet – tamarind does not manifest itself as tangy chutney or even flavouring in gravies – but a mere dried fruit for school-children to suck on, on their way home during dusty, hot afternoons.  Coconut is not a condiment – just a raw commodity to be traded off to distant shores. Meals are cooked in the open over charcoal fires, in large dented aluminum pots. Much daily news and gossip is traded while tapioca is deep fried. Breakfast is had when the tea is brewed – depending on how far the lady of the house has had to walk to fetch potable water. A funeral, a wedding, a christening are all to be remembered and commemorated for generations to come, by the number of days the food lasted and the amount of alcohol that was consumed. Eating is communal, enjoyed and celebrated because that occasion is a ticket to another few days of survival, for who knows when the next meal will be!

While  Italy serves it’s coffee shots with grappa at seven in the morning, South India’s filter coffee is a daily rite of passage for half a billion people and although kahawa originated in this ancient continent, Africa does not need a caffeinated boost to get through its day.  And while you nurse your morning cuppa, I bid you buono apetito!

Missing

The night air was warm. For a saturday night, the streets were surprisingly empty.

Dinner had been the usual – a bowl of pasta, hommade. They’d headed out for a drink as they were usually want to do. Sitting there, sipping beer, life washed over two souls. Two souls that had no intimation of what the future held. Two souls that hoped that life would take pity and make itself more bearable…

But for the moment, there was a drink to be had and an evening to be enjoyed. Her plain white dress was shy of the latest styles yet it did nothing to hide her curves. Quiet, tired eyes, her hair played in the occasional breeze, a pair of long legs streched under the table. Conversation lingered; neither could fool the other, the smiles did not reach the eyes.

Walking home, they bid their silent good-byes to times and memories, to tears and laughter, to cobbled streets and coffees. Each hoping the other wouldn’t notice the tears that threatened to spill over the rims of reddened eyes…

That night, they loved, held and slept with their eyes wide open lest tomorrow came ever too soon. Tomorrow, with its flights and its different destinies. Tomorrow with its endings. Tomorrow with its good-byes.

Good byes, which neither of them could say. It felt wrong. How do you bid good bye to yourself? But no, that is not them. That is red-roses-and-adolescent romance. This was not that. This was different. This was white hair and rocking chairs. This was dogs and farm houses. This was growing old together. So how did one say good bye to that?

Certainly not in words that were spoken. Tears would wash out all comprehension. A piece of paper. To say – what? No promises, no dreams, no hope. Just heartfelt, heart wrenching gratitude.

“I’ll miss you”… she said, in his ear, as the crowds milled around them.
“Not as much as I will miss you”… said his voice, pressed close to her neck, as he caressed her back one last time, letting her sob seep into him, holding on to the knowledge of the airport to keep his sanity…

Ten Symptoms Of Adulthood

10. You side step a puddle instead of splashing through it in glee.

9. You don’t slllurrrppp the dregs of chocolate milk shake in the cafe.

8. You don’t presume the cherries on all the desserts across the table are there for your picking.

7. You don’t “clap your hands” when you’re happy and you know it.

6. The nurse at the doctor’s clinic gives you the Nasty Eye if you pick a sweety off the bowl.

5. It takes more than a mug of hot cocoa to make you feel fuzzy and warm and it’s usually alcoholic.

4. Pocket money refers to the money in your pocket – literally – and not what you filch off mum in the five second breakfast before dashing off to school.

3. Boys are not “yuck” and vice-versa.

2. You don’t strip off offending pieces of clothing when you’re too hot or it’s floppy and in-the-way of whatever you’re doing.

1. Eating a lollipop attracts more attention than it should.

Introductions.

There are two entities that I introduce you to today. A friend. And me.

Actually, it goes like this. A friend wanted to put up a 100th on her blog and asked for audience participation in the form of questions. I – like the wonderful nutcase that I am – asked her things about us. Of course that turned out to be not-so-bright an idea since the rest of the world doesn’t exactly know me and my history with her!

But by then, the idea seemed really good! So instead, I sent across fresh non-topical questions for the 100th anniversary post AND a bunch of questions for her to answer to do as a guest post here! So now what you have coming up, is an introduction to the authoress and her take on me!

Natasha

She’s born half a day ahead of me – literally. She’s witty and quippy. She’s glamorous and so together. She’s elegant, poised and a very successful acreer-woman. She’s a child when it comes to enjoying the simple pleasures of food, family and friends. She’s taught me, laughed with me, partied with me and seen me grow up. I – in turn – have watched her come out of a relatively cocooned life to watch the world with honest eyes and accept with grace the fact that life deals different cards to different people. She is one of the treasures I cherish and is a mirror to my life – as clean as they come. Here’s her take on me.

Q. Why do you think you and I have lasted over so many years?

A. You mean apart from the fact that we have diametrically opposite tastes in men? LOL. Come to think of it, we have always been fiercely individualistic and still managed to be great friends. I guess one half of the trick is being honest about our opinions, likes and dislikes. And as ‘beauty-pageant-final-answer-type’ as it may sound, the other half is the inherent respect we have for each other. Of course being born on the exact same day must mean that somewhere deep down we’re not that different.

Q. What’s the favourite memory you have of any time we have spent together and why?

A. Hands down the silly NDA Ball we went for back in the day. Hell I still remember how excited we were about it and how minutely we planned the whole thing, down to the bloody makeup. Don’t think I will ever forget how my date freaked me out and yours won the title of Mr. NDA. The Cinderella treatment was a whole other issue! Remember that crazy girl we befriended in the bus, the one that later absconded with a rather cute cadet? God that was an awesome (and crazy) night!

Q. What’s the one mistake you think I have made that has had the biggest effect in my life?

A. Law school… duh!

Ok seriously, I think most of your decisions are made with other people’s best interests in mind instead of your own. As a result you’re always trying to do stuff that makes other people happy. Wish there was one instance in particular but there have been too many to pin down (you know that!). Which brings me to your next question…

Q. What’s the one thing about me that makes your really proud of me, presuming there is one?

A. I cannot even begin to tell you just how proud it makes me to see you rediscover yourself, the girl I knew back in college with a head full of dreams to make it big in life, with a passion to achieve great things.

The last few years have been difficult, having to deal with the responsibilities that circumstances forced on you and a few wrong choices you might have made. Every time you spoke of wanting to settle for second best, it made me cringe because I knew that was not like you at all.

Today I see you getting out of your comfort zone to transform your dreams into reality and it makes me so proud! You’ve wanted this for so long and no one deserves it more than you do.

Q. What’s the one thing you really want for me or to happen to me?

A. A few years back I might have said I want you to meet someone wonderful who gets you, the essence of who you are. However as they say, one gets wiser with age. Neither of us needs someone to make us feel complete, we’re a little too good for that!

So to answer your question – I really want you to become the person you have always dreamed of being… The kickass professional who works for the betterment of society while fulfilling her inherent need to make a difference to the world at large instead of some sellout attorney like most batch mates we know have landed up being J.

Q. What’s the one thing you think I can change about myself and should?

A. Can I mention two things please?

One – I think you let people into your heart and life too easily. It doesn’t take much for you to trust someone and that is not really the best trait to possess, especially if it has serious repercussions on your life later on.

Two – You need to experiment with the joys of colours and fashion. There are too many pretty clothes and styles out there for you to be stuck with the staid and boring!

Q. What’s the one thing you think I should not change about myself ever?

A. Your unique brand of craziness. I have never met someone so intelligent and so crazy at the same time.

Q. What’s the one thing you’re happy to have found/achieved/learned through me – presuming there is one?

A. Women can ride motorcycles.

Sharing a chocolate dessert and catching up on life with a friend is more fun than dolling up and going out on a date (sometimes

It takes a lot of balls to say ‘Get the F*$^ out of my life’ and mean it.

Living alone in a foreign land isn’t as romantic or fun as one might believe.

You can’t go wrong with a short black dress.

Q. What is the one thing you want for me and you in the next 12 months?

A. A dream vacation exploring the splendors of Europe together, replete with holiday romances, bouts of alcoholism and a visit to the Louvre.

Wanted: One Conversation Partner

Due to global warming and the sudden drop in obesity in Tonga, the following position is open. Interested candidates can forward their resumes along with expected returns and previous positions held to the author.

Position: Conversation Partner

Skills required: An ability to listen without a glazed look in the eyes. Talking is not a required feature.

Qualifications: Must know the history of England as published by Sellars and Yeatman. Should be aware of the Rising Yen. Is aware of the fact that Tom and Jerry is possibly one of the greatest inventions of mankind. Will help if possesses an ability to laugh at M*A*S*H* reruns. Must never tire of random ideas being the topic of the day. Should agree that Shakespeare is overrated.In fact, should agree that pretty much all “classic” literature is overrated. With the exception of the Greeks. And Wordsworth. Should know the origin of the Divide-and-Rule policy. No – the Raj is not the correct answer. Must never ever inititate a discussion on Really Bad Indian Authors And Unfortunately Winners Of Awards. An ability to sit through hours of silence is a pre-requistie. Must not interrupt meaningful viewings of Soppy Movies that induce late-night discussions on relationships. Or the lack of them. Must never question the purcahse of books even when there is clearly no space left to put them in. Must never reprimand said owner of books for wild tantrums when books are found to have been dog-eared, upended or (gasp!) written on by others. In fact, must never reprimand. Period. Should cherish the oldest copy of Wren and Martin’s for its sheer beauty. Must find Nabokov to be an Exceptionally Repulsive Mind. Should want to watch “Me Nathuram Godse Boltoy”. Should not want to watch trash cinema. Must know who Ertha Kitt was. Must find it incredibly sweet to name a child Pica Farhad. And smile at that. Must discuss the weather.

All of the above are man-dat-ory. If you don’t get the pun in that, don’t bother to apply.