Fighting Maturity

Caferati Bombay April ,'09 readmeet.

2009-04-12T09:57:00.000-07:00

A credit card for free.

2009-04-02T05:30:00.000-07:00

“ This is for you ma’am, compliments of the store”. The attendant at the cash counter handed me a credit card. I pushed it away as if it was on fire.
“ No thanks. I don’t use them much. And I have one already.”
The attendant looked at me pityingly. I always have this horrid suspicion that attendant kids always pity me.
Next twenty minutes were spent explaining to me, how , with the shop’s own ‘Privileged customer’ card and the additional credit card I was going to save thousands of rupees, not to mention earn brownie points and win free gifts like diamond earrings, DVD players, and a free trip to Goa.
“ And ma’am, it’s free!” That clinched the matter. A free card can’t hurt me much, can it?

After reaching home I pushed the unwanted card at the back of my desk drawer, and forgot about it. One year was over. And I started receiving bills for the never used card. I questioned the shop, and reminded them that they had said – Free card, no service charges.
“ Only for one year ma’am! Now you will have to pay the basic service charges even when you are not using it.”
“Alright! In that case I will cancel the card. I didn’t need it anyway.” Easier said than done as I soon found out. The question was, how does one cancel a credit card. I visited the bank to which the card belonged. I was told, as it was the shop’s promotional scheme, I must get the shop to cancel it. That made sense. The next stop was the shop which had gifted it to me.
“I would like to cancel this card please. I was told I must approach you”.
The attendant looked pained at my ingratitude.
“Ma’am, we can’t cancel it! You will have to send it to the bank which issued it.”
I marched back to the bank. I explained to the lady whose job it was to listen to people like me, that all I wanted was to have the card cancelled and no, it’s nothing personal.
The lady after consulting with a few others gave me a number in Chennai and asked me to talk to one Mr. Muthuswami.
“You see, the card was issued from there, therefore it has to cancelled from there.”
Fair enough, I thought as I dialed the Chennai number. It took me some time to locate Mr. Muthuswami, who when I expressed a desire to cancel my card, took it hard.
“If you have any complaints Ma’am, I will guide you to our complaints department. But please don’t cancel the card!”
After I talked to him for five minutes in a soothing voice, he was mollified.
“Cancellation is a very simple process. Just cut your card in two and mail both the pieces to us in Chennai.”

Finally! I was going to rid myself of the bothersome card.
I cut the card neatly in two pieces, and couriered both the pieces on the address provided by Mr. Muthuswami. Exactly a month later I received a replacement card. Reason? My old one got damaged when I cut it in two pieces!
One more call to Chennai and Mr. Muthuswami. This time I was rather sharp and Mr. Muthuswami was forced to accept the reality of the situation.
“ Ok ma’am, I will file the cancellation papers and do the needful. But are you sure you want to cancel the card?” I banged the receiver down.

In due course I got the intimation that the card was now null and void and I felt like I had stepped out of a long and traumatic relationship. A couple of weeks later I once again got a call, from the same bank, asking me-
“ Ma’am, you are being given a complimentary gold card as an Add on to your old credit card.”

Goa .

2009-03-22T07:32:00.000-07:00

I was in Goa two weeks ago. I had promised myself all sort of things. In reality, I just lazed.
I had carried four books with me for a five day vacation.

When actually there, I lazed in the room, by the pool, in the lobby, in my balcony. My friend was there on business and was on call most of the time, and I would lie on the beach on the deck chair all day long, and couldn't be roused to take any photographs, except this one. Getting the camera out of the case. sitting up on my deck chair, and shooting was just too much trouble. I allowed the sound of sea to fill my ears, the blue of sea in my eyes. No phone calls, except from my friend asking me where I was, and if I would be back for breakfast/ lunch/ tea/ dinner.

This idyllic state was short lived though. On day three the chair boy asked me, in what I considered a rather familiar fashion, if I needed sun lotion rubbed on me. I packed my book, hat, big bag and returned to the resort, and didn't go that way again. So I am a coward. Shoot me!

There was an assortment of guests as always. On day one, as I was celebrating my return to Goa after 4 years, I noticed two very young couples, newly weds of course, from Surat.The boys were posing in front of the bar, trying to look ubercool. I offered the boy my glass of wine. He was shocked and assured me that he didn't drink. But when I suggested, he can just pose with it, whats the point of posing in front of the bar otherwise? He was much struck by the logic of it and borrowed my glass, and later even the bottle. I sort of managed the photo session. By the time all four of them ( yes even the girls) had finished posing with my glass and the bottle, the wine had lost it's chill.

There was a group of mallu men in the hotel. Their interest in all the unattached females as very obvious. My friend, a somewhat conservative mallu babe, observed that, feeling that no one here would understand them, these guys were rather free with their observations and opinions.
With a Mona Lisa like smile on her face she continued to listen in to their conversation. Time and again she would tell me what they were arguing about.
" They are wondering who we are....
They want to ask us to join them for coffee".
" NO WAY !!!"
At one point she giggled, but suddenly sat up as her eyes popped open.
" What ???" I had to know.
" Lets go." she rushed me out of there, and after we reached our room, and she burst out laughing.
" What!" There was a limit to my patience. I was being left out of all the fun.
" These guys are really randy!" my friend announced,
" so ?" I mean guys on a vacation..... one understands.
" They were talking about taking a full body massage. One of the guys had one last night, he was telling the others how good it was. Please don't ask me to translate it."
Later when I came across the group again in the dining hall, I was tempted to ask them if it had been good for them......

Bum bhole!

2009-02-22T20:02:00.000-08:00

( By - Bachi Karkaria )

Indra can keep his corner office. The penthouse of the pantheon belongs to Shiva. Its decor bears the imprimatur of a Fortune-favoured designer, and yet, it's unmistakably bohemian. Shiva knows the rules to break them; he's awesome at shifting the goal posts.

He's comfortable with it;if you've got it, flaunt it; he can swim with the sharks, and still find place in his heart for the littlest minnow. He wears the suit of divinity lightly. Yes, Mahadev is a maha-dude.

We've gone through a mind-churning manthan, through asceticism and socialism which have been sucked to the bottom of the centrifuge, and up has surged the cologned freedom to live life on our own terms. In our new consumerist avatar, Ganesha is invoked to bless the triumphal entry of the Indian Elephant carrying the world in its howdah. We've shed our hypocrisy. Who other then to iconize than the patron saint of iconoclasts? Lord Shiva.

Hinduism's original persona of rinam kritva ghritam pivet loosely translated as 'Njoy'! had for long been suppressed by our pretensions of being an otherworldly, spiritual people who abjured the materialist high rise for the moral high ground.

It cost us dearly on several counts, from delaying the economic miracle to delaying AIDS control. But we've woken up and not only smelled the coffee, but learnt to make a Frappuccino.

Shiva is the original free radical.

Today's zeitgeist is unshackled creativity, thundering-hooves materialism, aggressive hedonism. Unlike the 60's version, it's not confined to the elite. Boley to, Middle India, even Mofussil India has abandoned itself to the multiplex of experience. Shiva is the god who segues most seamlessly into this spirit of our times.

He demands no rigid ritual of his bhaktas. He is propitiated even if you make a funny sound or face.

He lives life to the full. The Skanda Purana tells us of his rampant libido, not thinking twice before seducing even the wives of the rishis, and with no great subtlety either.

Yet, he is the paragon of conjugal devotion. When he went to make love to Parvati, the clinch lasted so long that time and the world came to a standstill. Witness his grief when Sati jumped into the yagna vedi; the entire earth trembled in the paroxysm of his rage.

Before the advent of sexist Manu-ists, Hinduism celebrated gender equality. Consider the deep symbolism of Ardhanarishwara, the fusion of Purush (Shiva) and Prakriti (Parvati). They cannot exist without each other, and together they create the most beautiful dance in the cosmos.

If todays liberalism presupposes a tolerance for the other, Shiva is the original free radical. Shivji ki baaraat is a rainbow coalition of the otherwise marginalized, an all-inclusive procession with the groom dressed in next-to-nothing, to the mortification of his would be mother-in-law. Shivratri is the celebration the wedding day of Shiva who defied convention every which way; look at his fondness for bhang and ganja. But it's really his attitude to boundaries which makes him the ultimate post-millennial god.

The observance of Shivratri says it all. Right up to the present, marriage has remained an alliance of families, not a matter of self-choice.

Unmarried women fast and visit Shiv temples on this night, praying for His intervention to fulfill their dreams even within the circumscribed boundary of parental choice. He is the only deity they can invoke to Thodi si lift kara de.

And married women appeal to Him for a bliss-filled conjugal life. Shiva doesn't subvert the boundary, he just elasticizes what you can do within it. Metaphorical poisons can be contained.

He drank the cosmic poison to save the world, but he did not swallow it and jeopardize himself. He may have been the untrammeled, even indiscriminate, lover, but he destroyed Kamdev who tried to break his samadhi.

His respect for the boundary is also there in the legend of the Ganga, whose hubris he trapped in his matted locks.

No deity offers quite as much with quite as much attitude. Shiva is cool. Linga over him.

p.s. - no wonder no man comes even remotely close to my Mahadude...

Tito and the spirit of Satsang

2009-02-12T22:13:00.000-08:00

Tito and the spirit of satsang.

“You want me to do WHAT?” I asked in a calm voice. Those familiar with that voice, recognize is as the Early Tsunami warning signal. Tito ignored the warning and blithely carried on.
“Why not! After all you claim to be a poet, so I thought, maybe it is more Your cup of tea than mine. I want it by this evening by the way, if you can manage it please.” That ‘Please’ was an after thought I could see.
“There is a difference between writing poetry and writing a Hindi bhajan to the tune of a film song you know! H-how could you even ASK me to do such a thing!” I sputtered. “And anyway, what do you need a bhajan for? If your mom having a satsang, My dad has loads of bhajan cds. Take any one of them. “
Tito looked mulish. His heart was set on a filmy bhajan.
“Ok, so take any bhajan from movies. Like Alla tero naam. That is a good one.
I have the CD right here.” I started to rummage thru my collection.
“ Nooo. That is a boring old bhajan. Everyone has heard it for hundreds of years.
I will look like a beggar singing that. Next, you will ask me to sing that beggar song from Dus Lakh. No way!”
I was a little mortified because that was the next song on my list. I decided to investigate a little. I had not noticed any spiritual leanings in Tito before.

“Tell me a little about it. I am not saying I will help, but call me curious.”

As I had suspected, it involved a girl. Her mom was known to hold a satsang every Friday night. Tito had attended last week and was planning to be there again this week. Realizing it will not be an easy task to dissuade Tito I asked him, what kind of bhajan he was looking for.
“It’s very simple! Do you remember the song from Jab We Met? Yeh ishk Hai, baithe bithaye.” All that might be simple enough, but a bhajan to the tune of Yeh ishk? Mind boggled.
“See, it goes this way, you hum the tune and start adding appropriate words to it. Like- maiyya hamari, sabse nirali, darshan dikha de maa! O rama !!!” Tito crooned the line repeatedly for my benefit.
“See how simple it is? I would have written the whole thing myself but got stuck after the first line, so thought that you, a poet can do it better. Will you? Please?”
“NO I won’t! This is no poetry! I do not know what to call this! Bastardization of poetry perhaps. But not something I would like to do!” I tried to slide out of the whole predicament.
“So what! What is a good song ? Good music and good words. When the good words are devotional, we call it bhajan. It is Your job as a poetess, to give good words. That is how most music Directors work anyway! So... write!. Please write this for me !”
“Oh Well! I will do it just this once. I do not want to see your face next Friday and you better find a girl friend with better taste than this, like Lit circle chicks or someone like them. I will be most happy to write a love sonnet for you.”
I had finally caved in. Tito had won and I was rewarded by a loud WHOOOOPIE! and a bear hug.
Completely ignoring my woebegone expressions, he took his leave,
“ Will come by around 8-ish. Keep it ready. I will need a little time to practice.”
“ Remember- you owe me one!” I shouted to his back.

I sat at my desk feeling mighty sorry for myself. I rued the day I wrote my first poem. Nay- I rued the day I learnt my alphabets! Why did I have to boast about my poems, and all that talk about my writer’s circle! In addition, just see where it had landed me! I strove to forget every word of every poem I had ever read as I kept humming “ Maiyya hamari” to myself, waiting for the spirit to come to me.
It was mortifying to see that this was not a difficult task at all! Within half an hour, my bhajan was ready. I tried humming it and found the words, which fitted perfectly in the tune. With grim satisfaction I messaged Tito” The Deed is done”. He messaged back- “Thankee thankee O bardess.”

Tito turned up around 8-ish as promised. Never before having seen him in a spiritual mode, it took me a few moments to recognize him. I do not remember if I have mentioned it before, but Tito is a good-looking dude and a natty dresser. Today he was his spiritual best. In long kurta and chudidar, he could be modeling for Fabindia.
He walked in, giving me a slow benevolent otherworldly smile. For a second thought I saw a halo around his head. It turned out to be the lamp behind him.
He sat on the sofa and asked me gently, ” Where is it?” In a trance, I walked to my room and got the paper with the lyrics. His mood was rubbing on me. I wondered if he was on some substance. His smile has stared to look eerie by now. He was by this time sitting with his eyes closed, his face serene.

With a slight nod of his head, he took the paper, scanning it started humming the words. The old Tito had emerged again. Sitting up straight, he said-
“WOW! This is GOOD! I never realized just how good a poetess you are! This will knock their socks off!”

“Maiyya maine saare jamaane ko thukra diya,
dekho mai chala aayaa!
Chhode maine moh- maya ke bandhan sabhi,
Hai tuney jo bulaayaa

Dekho na dekho mujhe kya mila hai teri chhayaa mein aakar.
Poochho na poocho mujhe kya hua hai tere charnon ko chhookar

Maiyya hamari, sabse nirali darshan dikha de Maa.
O Ramaa!”

He continued to hum as he put the paper safely in his pocket.

“My advice to you is, that you must start doing this professionally. Forget about the sonnets and stuff. There is a big market for this thing. Every auto and cab will be playing your songs. You will mint money!”
And before I could throw a book at him, he walked off.

Next week I wrote one more bhajan. Tito had become a star of his satsang. The girl and her mom are now his adoring fans. Like a tiger who had tasted blood, Tito kept coming back for more and I kept delivering a new bhajan every Friday evening.

Currently I am working on a little song, which I am sure will become a chartbuster.

“Maa tere charan, hum nahin chhodenge...
Chhodenge dum magar teri bhakti naa chhodenge!!”

Kala Ghoda is here...finally!

2009-02-08T19:37:00.000-08:00

After waiting for years...or so it seems, the Black Horse is back, and how !

I will keep changing the slide shows here as the events unfold.

Tito, Bipasha and a perfect cup of Tea.

2008-09-20T20:08:00.000-07:00

Of all the animals in the kingdom, Tito bought a cow. Go figure!
I have never met a guy more citified than Tito. Cows for him were the black and brown menace that obstructs the traffic.
He has a factory in a remote area which sounded like the outer regions of Heaven if one believed Tito. The only thing missing was a cup of tea because of the non-availability of milk. You and I would buy a carton of milk on our way to work. Tito is not you or I. He bought a cow.

“Tito, be reasonable, you are a Bombay boy. You weren’t even aware that cows had anything to do with that liquid you poured over your cornflakes. And then you finally did, you freaked out for a week. I admit that you can drive around a cow with great skill, but Keeping one? Be real.”
Tito considers my overall dumbness a nice foil for his razor sharp mind.
“ Arre baba, there will be a groom to do all the work. Think of it as milk for free! There is lush grass on our acres all year long, so the fodder won’t be any problem. Just open the gate and let the cow out. She grazes around for a while and comes home happy. Anyway, Narpat is taking care of everything.”
“ Who is Narpat?”
“ My right hand guy. He is a local, and very competent. He has helped me a great deal setting up this plant. I always leave him in charge when I am not there. It was His idea that we keep a cow. In fact, it’s HIS cow that I am buying. Mind you, he didn’t want to sell. These farmers get very attached to their cattle, treat them almost like their children. Very senti I find them. But I made him an offer he couldn’t resist. Now he takes care of her along with the factory.”
Narpat sounded like a smart man.

I didn’t meet Tito for a few weeks. One evening I got a call from him
“Hey! Whatcha doing tomorrow? Want to introduce you to Bipasha.”
“ Bipasha?? Don’t tell me you are getting married!”
Bipasha turned out to be Tito’s brand new cow.

We were at the factory next day. Bipasha greeted Tito with a delicate moo and flirty flutter of her lashes. He grinned like an idiot as he stroked her head. Bipasha very obligingly mooed some more and nudged him playfully. I could see that Tito had named her aptly.
Bipasha was a sexy cow if you like cows. Big soulful eyes, delicate pink nostrils, a cocoa brown coat. I was amused to see a tikka on her forehead, and a red bow on her tail.
I asked trying to pet her from a safe distance“ Have you ever tried milking her yourself ?”
Tito shook like jelly.
“ Milk Bipasha ! Of course NOT!”
Words seem to fail him at the enormity of my suggestion.
“Bipasha is very sensitive. Narpat’s wife is the only one who can touch her and She has known her since a baby”.
Ah! Narpat again, that meek man who had been following Tito around.
“And you pay her a salary for milking her own cow no doubt”. Tito looked uncomfortable at my sarcastic tone.
“err… yes, but she is My cow now. So I am paying her for milking MY cow. After all, the milk is the reason why Bipasha is here. ” He tried to sound reasonable.

Later, from where I sat in his cabin, I could hear him crooning “groovy kind of love” as he went around the factory.
I idly opened a muster in from of me. The words- ‘Bipasha Accounts’ caught my attention. The various items listed there proved interesting.
Red ribbon- Rs 10,
Cow bell Rs 50.
Rs.101 for the Pandit?
“We did Bipasha’s pooja..” spoke the former atheist.

Shaking my head in disbelief I read on - Vitamins, a new blanket, fresh fodder ???
“Wasn’t she supposed to just walk out and graze on your vast acres?”
“That grass may be good enough for other cows, but Bipasha needs a special diet. She gives 15 Liters of milk every day!” By now Tito had started to sound like the proud owner of the Empress of Blandings.
“ 15 Liters !! So what happens to all that milk?”
Tito looked puzzled.
“ What happens? Nothing! I give it to Narpat’s wife! Poor thing has three little ones at home! ”
“ And what is this ? 1000 for Entertainment ?? Don’t tell me you take her to the local disco! This is getting crazier and crazier!” I exploded.
“ Of course not! What do you take me for!” Tito said somewhat huffily.
“You see.. . Bipasha has …ummm.. needs”. He had turned an interesting shade of pink.
“ we.. ummm.. INVITE our neighbor’s bull for.... errr…”
“To boink her you mean !” I added trying to help.
He looked pained. “Don’t be vulgar. Besides, I didn’t know what else to write in the accounts!”
“ I hope she found him entertaining enough. Did you play the violin outside her shed while they were ...ummm…entertaining?” I quipped as I laughed my ass off!!
Tito maintained a dignified silence.
It was time for some straight talk now. Making my voice as gentle as I could I said-
“ Look dear, don’t you see what’s happening here ? You are being taken for a royal ride! That guy Narpat sells you his cow for a fat profit! Then his wife comes to milk it twice a day for a fat salary, and takes home all the milk for her fat children! What do YOU get out of it?!”
Tito looked pityingly at me and said slowly- as if talking to a retard-
“I get a perfect cup of tea.”

Photo Curtsy- www.wizardforyou.com.
----------------------------

An earlier Tito adventure can be found here-

'Tito and the call girls.'

http://soney-2.blogspot.com/2005/07/tito-and-call-girls.html

----------------------------

My celebrity look alikes.

2008-04-29T05:15:00.000-07:00

I happened to stumble upon this website which, among other things helps you find your celebrity look alikes.
Out of curiosity I checked out myself. I am like that, curious ! I always wanted to look like. Halle Berry. Don't ask me why! Maybe its that famous cat suit. Can't resist cats.

It was quite simple actually. One thing I have realized about web. Everything is always very simple. A couple of clicks of buttons is all you need to order something or accidentally send a spam mail to the whole world.

Directions said-
Upload a photo, full front. I did. Then the programme ran a face recognition. It was all very impressive. It gathered my image data and came up with this-

http://www.myheritage.com/collage

I think the programme needs to be fine tuned. A few bugs still seem to be partying in the system. I mean, how else can anyone explain the choice of my look alikes?
Now, I don't mind Julia Robert, Marion Jones is pretty cute too, especially her hairstyle. I have been toying with shaving my head since the mercury has shot up and if I am going to look like her I don't mind. But Ozzy Osbourne ??? Why Ozzy ? Why not Lennon ?

I have been practicing smiling like Julia ever since.

Vendetta.

2008-03-05T03:01:00.001-08:00

( She picked up the gun, and went stealthily towards the barred window, peeking out)

He- Where did you get that thing! Doesn’t look local.

She- I have my sources.

HE- I wish you would change your mind. This has to stop at some point.

She- Shhhhh. Lower your voice. You know it’s not possible for me to be objective and reasonable about this.

He- I understand … but think of the times. Men roaming the streets, in high spirits. You can’t hold a man responsible for what he does in the heat of the moment. So he lost his head! She shouldn’t have stepped out of the house.

She- Lost his head! Oh go and boil your head! Don’t preach me forgiveness.

How the HELL can you defend that man! He could have remembered who he was! Who she was!

He- Listen! All that is over and done with. She said she had forgiven him. If She can, why can’t you ?

She- How can I forget her standing there on the road.. surrounded by THEM .... I tried to go help her... But mom and dad dragged me back, they will barge in they said… don’t open the door they said. We closed all the doors and the windows and sat inside listening to the noise outside. All I could do was watch her from a slit in the window.

( Silence for a while as she waits at the window.)

He- Do you even know how this gun works ?

She – Haven’t you noticed the marks on the trees in the back yard ? My target practice !!! That’s His car parked right in front of our house. He will try to reach it. But I will get him before that.

He- Oh God !! I think you have gone crazy!

She- Shhhh I can see him coming out of his house. He is looking around.

I need to take aim.

( She aims and shoots )

She- (laughing loudly) Did you see that ? A perfect bull’s eye! I have never seen a man looking more surprised or annoyed ! And his face- bright red ! This is a great gun! Let me fill it with green now. He is still within the range! I am so glad he is all dressed up in a suit. Stupid thing to do on Holi.

He- Poor guy. He had an important interview today.

She- I knew.

He- Now he might have to miss it altogether. It’s too big a price to pay for a little harmless fun. All young men do this you know. Tease girls they like on Holi.

She- ( whispers )He is not paying for teasing her. He is paying for ignoring ME !

He- WHAT !

( Slumps against the wall with a sigh )

She ( grimaced ) - You know, I really loved him.

And if you need to know more about me, you only have to ask

2008-02-22T06:45:00.000-08:00

Banno tagged me, so here goes.

A -Available?

Depends on who is doing the asking.

B-Best friend:
Geet.

C-Cake or Pie?
Ice cream.

D-Drink of choice:
White and red wine, coconut water, coffee, hot chocolate, Chhaas, ganne ka juice

and bottles and bottles of ice water..

E-Essential thing used everyday:
My glasses, deo. and cell.

F-Favourite colour:
Black, red, white. All basics.

G-Gummi bears or worms:
None. Hate the chewy things that stick in my teeth.

H-Hometown:
Belgaum.... Benaras....Bombay......

I guess, Bombay.

I-Indulgence:
Sev-puri from the corner chaat guy. I will follow him to the ends of the earth.

M&B on a lazy Sunday.

J-January or February:
February and march. My time :)

All good things happen to me during this time.

K-Kids and names:
I would name them BRATS if I had them.

L-Life:
K.I.S.S. - Thats my philosophy for life.

M-Marriage date:
The date seems to have missed me.

N-Number of siblings:
Two.

O-Oranges or apples:
Oranges.

P-Phobias:
Roaches, creepy crawlies.

Q-Quote:

Anyone who thinks only sunshine is happiness

has never danced in the rain.

R-Reason to smile:
It increases my face value ;)

S-Season:
Winter ( what little we get in Bombay, I love it)

T-Tag three people:

The Blimp, Jugality, The Original Billi

U-Unknown fact about me:
Again.. who wants to know? The answers depend on that.

V-Vegetable you do not like:
Karela

W-Worst habit:
Procrastination, obstinacy

X-x-rays you have had:
A tooth.

Y-Your favorite food:
Italian. Pizza, pasta, the works!

Z-Zodiac:
Pisces.

The gay and lesbian writing in India.

2008-02-16T01:21:00.000-08:00

Perhaps the best session in the recent Kala Ghoda festival was “ Queering the pitch”, a discussion about gay and lesbian literature in India. The panelists were Sachin Kundalkar, R Raj Rao, and Maya Sharma.

R RAJ RAO is a professor in the department of English, University of Pune. He is the author of several works including Nissim Ezekiel: The Authorized Biography and Yaraana: Gay Writings from India.

Sachin Kundalkar is a Pune based, really talented young gay writer and film maker, writing in Marathi.

Maya Sharma is a feminist, a lesbian, and is an activist in the Indian Women’s Movement.

The panelists were articulate, came from different backgrounds, and above all, they didn't have an agenda. In fact, they have gone beyond agendas. Creative people, each one of them, they went about their chosen jobs as you are I would, teaching, writing, making films, whatever.

Moderator Vikram Doctor kept the conversational ball rolling

Raja Rao emphasized the need to look at gay literature as literature, and not a propaganda. It has to pass all the tests of a good story or a poem. He will never sacrifice the quality of writing for an agenda. Sachin agreed with him. He also mentioned that unlike straight literature, the gay characters in gay lit. remain unrepentant and happy till the end, without any feeling of guilt, or a desire to change. The songs of friendship always had gay overtones according to Prof. R.Raja Rao. " Yeh dosti, hum nahin chhodenge" according to him sounds like gay love, and it got a strong reaction from the audience which was quite amusing.

The most interesting aspect of this evening were the audience. For some reason they felt compelled to disclose their sexual orientation. “Hello, I am Rahul, I am straight…Hi, I am Nisha. I am straight but I have many gay friends …” etc, which sounded queerer that the queers sitting on the stage. And yes! That’s what they like to be called, and not the politically correct Gay. Its not a derogatory term anymore. According to Maya Sharma, what’s wrong with being queer? She likes being quirky!

I completely agree with Maya.

The festival of lights.

2007-11-25T04:36:00.000-08:00

Walking down the crowded streets of downtown Minneapolis fighting his way among the throng of shoppers didn't do anything to improve his mood. Christmas was almost two months away, they weren’t yet done with Thanks Giving, but the shops had already started their Christmas campaign. Prateek thought of Laxmi road back home overflowing with Diwali shoppers. Pushing his gloved fists deep in his coat pockets he walked on, blind to the people around him.

A star hanging outside a small shop reminded him of a similar lantern he had once made and suddenly he wanted to be back in Pune.

He could picture his little sister looking grown up decked up in a saree, Mother looking a little tired, she must have stayed up the whole night preparing sweets, dad dressed in dhoti and kurta, impatiently waiting for every one to get ready for the traditional breakfast.

The oil lamps would be lit in every window, and lanterns hung up high. There would be the aroma of food and smoke in the air which he would always associate with Diwali. The part he loved best was when early morning his mother massaged his head with aromatic oil before his bath. Sitting sleepily in front of her getting his head massaged made him feel like a baby again. The acute pang of loneliness shot thru his heart, leaving behind a dull ache which he couldn’t reason away. There were always reasons. It was a new job, no leave for another eight months, a position of responsibility, so on and so forth. Tears welled in his eyes as he walked on, isolated in his misery.

Peeking down the hallway, he was thankful to see Brenda’s door shut. Every day she and her sister Marge held court on the landing of her ground floor apartment, talking with every person coming in or going out, asking questions, and passing the time of the day. Every day he snuck in and out of his own place to avoid this rather large and friendly yet intimidating woman who was his landlady.

Everything about Brenda alarmed him. Her tall and large figure, her booming voice, her penchant for wearing colourful wigs, he just wasn’t used to women like her. She used to say cheerfully “we make things big in Texas” and laugh till her hundred and fifty kg frame shook like Jell-O and tears rolled down her eyes. She had once asked him if he had a girl friend and when he had stammered a ‘No’ had suggested gravely that her sister Marge was available. He heard the guffaw of their laughter as he escaped to his own apartment. The last person he wanted to face right now was Brenda or her even larger sister Marge in their multi coloured wigs.

The place he called home was a bare apartment with no furniture of any kind. A sleeping bag and his travel bags were stored neatly in the bedroom, his clothes were in the closet, books arranged in neat piles in a corner. His pride and joy were his new lap top and the music system. He had draped them with a couple of colourful scarves in an attempt to jazz up the place. He could write a book on minimalism, he thought wryly as he looked around.

The phone call home was harder than he had thought. Mom still hadn’t gotten over the fact that he hadn’t managed to get leave for Diwali. Cutting short her litany of ‘Just for a few days’ dad finally took over and asked about his new job, the place where he stayed, advised him to concentrate on his work. Maybe next year… after all, Diwalis come and go, air fare is so expensive, not to spend money unnecessarily. It all was so- so familiar. He could understand their disappointment and shared it. It really would have been wonderful to have gone home for Diwali.

He felt lonelier than before as he hung up, their voices still buzzed in his ears. He wondered what he should do tonight. Maybe call a few friends? Go for a movie? He didn’t want to be alone. For the first time in life he regretted his inability to make friends easily.

Someone tapped on the door. Brenda was outside with a small parcel.

“ Hello Pra-teek, This came for you in the afternoon” she pronounced his name slowly and accurately. “ Is it your Birthday? This looks like a present”

“ No ma’am, I mean-Brenda. Just some sweets from a friend for Diwali. Thank you very much”. He still hadn’t gotten used to the American way of calling every one by their first names, especially some one like Brenda, who must be at least sixty. He tried to close the door but Brenda wasn’t done yet.

“ Oh Diwali! I have heard of that. It’s a festival of lights, right? Where are Your lights? “ she asked as she peered around in the room.

“ Ummm- haven’t lit any here. Family will be celebrating back in India.” he mumbled. Brenda looked closely at him and went on briskly,

“ No no no no !!!! You must celebrate where ever you are! Celebrations are fun! Tell you what. You light the candles, I will go get some food which is just sitting in my fridge, and then we will have our own celebration. Maybe we can invite my sister Marge.”

Prateek felt like he was being bulldozed, but there was nothing he could do. Last thing he wanted was to have Brenda and Marge sitting in his apartment, talking in their loud cheerful voices. But he couldn’t even pretend to have a prior appointment. Brenda hurried away, and he looked around the room wondering where to start.

The candles were lit and the strains of sitar filled the apartment. He arranged the Mithai he had received in a plate with a few potato chips he found in the cabinet. He was actually humming as he got the chilled coke from the fridge. He quickly changed into Chudidar Kurta and went to open the door eagerly to welcome his guests.

Brenda had returned with a large food hamper. Marge ambled in behind her. Brenda was dressed in some kind of a red and green brocade kimono which looked more like a bathrobe and Marge had worn a long purple garment which looked like a silk tent. They both had tied silk scarves on their heads turban style in honor of the occasion. With large red bindis on their foreheads drawn with lipstick, and kohl in their eyes they looked very exotic.

Marge ceremoniously handed him a couple of boxes and a bottle of wine, and said,

“ Here, some chocolates for you, and how do I greet you ? Happy Dee-waa-lee or Merry Dee-waa-lee? I found this little Chinese lantern in my closet. How about hanging it up? Isn’t this a festival of lights? I have never celebrated Dee-waa-lee before. Let’s set the food on the plates, pour ourselves some wine, and then, Pra-teek, I would like you to tell me all about Dee-waa-lee”.

What price Physics ?

2007-10-27T10:46:00.000-07:00

I sold my Dad’s books today. I had lived with those books from the day I was born. Without understanding what they were all about I knew their titles by heart. I pronounced words like Quantum Physics like they were my friends.

The years passed and the books got old along with my dad. When he retired, the books from his office joined the ones at home. Dad found out that after working a life time as a physicist he was happier reading something else for a change and started reading fiction. Espionage, murder mysteries, the works. Physics remained in the book case.

Soon they were wrapped neatly and transferred to the loft. Dad now started saying, let’s just give away these books. When I asked, to whom would he like to give the books. He always said, some one interested in Physics of course! But that person always eluded us.

We explored various avenues seriously. College libraries? Sorry, these are PhD books, not much use to us, we teach only up to M Sc.. University Library ? Not interested. They already had loads of books which no one was reading in the first place. People kept donating useless books. And anyways, they teach different stuff now. How physics can change remained a mystery to me, but I understood the changing times. I still have ten cherished volumes of my Mom’s school encyclopedia which talks about- The Wonder of Radio. It was printed to be sold only in Indian Empire. We are talking a different era here.

I tried to palm the books off to the old college and school books dealer, by saying, these are for M Sc . He was smarter than me and asked, which year? The syllabus has changed 2 years ago. If the books are older than 2 years, he didn’t want them. I couldn't tell him that they were published in 1926.

Finally dad relented and said I may sell them to ANY book shop, but not to the raddiwala who buys old papers and other junk. I nodded dutifully.

Dad sorted the books, saving a few for himself. He saved his PhD thesis, the papers he had published during his thirty years as a physicist. My nephew had asked for them. Now my dad was emotionally free of the books. He asked me to do what I wished with them.

I knew that no book store will accept them. I packed them in a large bag and took them to that forbidden raddiwala down the road. He poured the books on the floor and thirty years of physics came tumbling out. He unemotionally piled them on his scales. I wanted to pull a few out and say, these are nice, in perfect condition. They had stayed on the loft all these years , they can continue to do that for a few more years.

For the first time in my life I was selling a book. Had never sold even my school books. They were always used carefully and passed on to some one, along with the notes in the margins. And here I was selling the books which had sustained us all.

I had to make several trips to the guy with my books. He weighed them all in front of me. The sum total of thirty kilos of physics was 180 rupees, at the rate of Rs. 6 per Kg.

I returned home with an empty bag. Dad asked me how much did I get. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. I said five hundred. Dad cheerfully said, “looks like we got a better deal than Dr Chowdhary. He barely got two hundred.”

The city where you live.....

2007-09-27T22:57:00.000-07:00

They were back as he knew they would be. He felt their restlessness in the shadows, waiting to come out. With a smile, he poured himself another glass. A glass of what, he didn’t know, and frankly he didn’t care. Anything to deepen those shadows. Then she would come. He downed the drink thirstily, some dribbled from the corner of his mouth. He wiped his chin impatiently and filled his glass once again.

She came to him every night, sometimes in the day too. He would take his first sip and sense the familiar flicker in the shadows, a swirl of colour, and a low hum of hundreds of butterflies buzzing. Some times blue, sometimes red, they always seem to accompany her. A few times just the butterflies had appeared. They had fluttered around him and the soft brush of their wings had made him wonder if they would leave a streak of blue on his cheek.

He would lie on the bed with his eyes closed and wait for the wings to brush his lips. Her kisses. He knew that she will not come unless he drank enough. She was there the shadows, watching, urging him with her kohl dark eyes, to have one more drink. He could hear her whisper full of need and wondered whose need it was. His or hers. The butterflies swirled around him, red, blue, yellow...

Just one hour away from her city. One hour had stretched into one day and then one night. He didn’t have the courage to go further. It was so peaceful here, in this hotel by the highway. He stood in his window high above the ground, and looked at the road stretched out towards the city. He could almost smell her in the air. He wasn’t sure why he was here. What exactly did he hope to achieve. He had forfeited the game by quitting half way. Now this was her city, her kingdom. He was an outsider. But since he had left her, he had been an outsider where ever he went. Was he going home? Where was home? He didn’t know anymore.

Then it started to make sense to him. He didn’t have to enter the city. It was enough for him to know that she was just an hour away, or maybe just a bottle away. He poured himself yet another glass. Here He was in charge. She was his to summon, his to take. Her arrogance left behind she will come as a woman desperately in love. This room, this bottle, this glass, it all made so much sense. All he needed to do was to take one more drink.

***

He felt the shadows around him getting darker. He could feel the restless movement of the butterflies, then swish of silks, a subdued tinkle of anklets, her fragrance. He tried to open his eyes, but someone gently closed them, with a soft caress on his cheek. He gratefully surrendered to the knowledge that she was here. He felt the glass touch his lips and drank thirstily. Sinking back with a sigh he was content to feel her fingers on his face, her warm lap cushioning his head as the mists enveloped him……

***

A whisper brought him out of his stupor. She was making her excuses and vanishing as always. He opened his eyes in panic, not today, not now. She will have to take him with her. He implored her, trying to hold her in his arms but she kept eluding him like a dream. Amidst the cloud of butterflies she got up, reached the window and looked back at him mistily as he implored her. He scrambled out of the bed and rushed to her. With a smile she beckoned and holding his hand in a tight clasp stood with him on the ledge. The butterflies exploded in a riot of colours as he felt his toes leave the ledge.

***

[I need help with this one. Don't know if it works. Reader's comments will be most helpful.]

The Captive.

2007-09-17T21:29:00.000-07:00

Then she was roughly pushed into a dark room. The door slammed shut as her head hit the floor. She lay there stunned, eyes smarting with tears.

The floor was cold, hard stone. Lying still for a few minutes she got her wind back. Her forehead throbbed as she sat up and a drop trickled down the side of her face. She wiped it recognizing the smell of blood.

Pushing herself forward, half crawling in the pitch dark room, she reached the wall and sat with her back against it, waiting for eyes to adjust to the darkness. She looked around, trying to see a pattern, a break in the shadows. There was nothing. No up, no down. Wondering if the knock on the head had blinded her she shut her eyes tightly and opened them again. The only difference was the swirl of colour when they were shut.

She took a deep breath and almost gagged. The putrid stench of the room was suffocating. It was the smell of rats, urinals and dark nights. It touched her like unknown fingers, making her flesh crawl. The bile rising in the throat almost choked her and she pushed it down with an effort. It left a foul taste in her mouth. Water… she wanted water. Gallons and gallons of Ice cold water, to drink, to wash and to splash in. She licked the dust on her lips and rubbed her face in an attempt to clean it. Legs buckled under her as she tried to stand. So for a long time, in the tomb like silence, she sat listening to her heart beats. Slowly they came back to normal, well..... almost normal. She tried to stand, seeking support from the wall, and this time she managed. Inching sideways along the wall like a crab she thought, she has to be a crab from now on, hiding in the crevices and under the moldy rocks.

The damp and rotting wall kept flaking at her touch. She kept rubbing her fingers on her jeans to keep them clean and moved on again, feeling her way along the wall. The ground felt uneven in a few places with stone slabs missing. She stumbled a few times but didn’t fall. She pretended she was a cat as she tried to see through the inky night. Her shoes touched something. She gingerly pushed it around, trying to figure out what it was. It rolled away with a metallic clang. She sat down and reached out, feeling with outstretched hand, fingers seeking in the direction of the sound. It had rolled a little farther than she had thought. Hating to leave the security of the wall, with her back still against the wall she reached out and groped around. Her fingers found coolness of metal. It was a light weight and dented metal cup. She searched for sharp edges. Sharp edges are useful, if used properly.

Her eyes kept scanning the darkness. That little patch to her right looked a little less opaque. Could be a boarded up window, she thought hopefully. Little by little she moved along the wall towards it.

She stared hard at it and noticed the lighter patch of darkness high above her. She decided to make a mark on the wall to find the place again later. The cup was still in her grip. With its edge she started to carve a long notch on the wall. The cup kept slipping from her fingers making loud clanging sounds. First time that happened, the sound paralyzed her, but soon she realized that there was no reaction from outside.

She had to keep finding the cup every time it fell. The darkness felt less threatening, now that she was learning to move around. It took her some time to make that notch deep enough to be found easily with the finger tips. The effort had completely drained her. Once again she rested against the wall.

A faint sound outside drove the sleep away from her eyes. A thin shimmer of light shone in the darkness. Crouched like a cat, gripping the cup like a weapon …she waited. The door opened a little more, and two people entered the room. One of them put something on the ground while the other one stood guard. His flash light searched around the room and pinned her down, blinding her. The light beam flashed on the objects on the ground. A cup and a few pieces of bread on a plate. The light beam arced around the room once again, briefly illuminating a grimy commode in a far corner and was switched off. The door slammed shut and once again the room was plunged in darkness.

Little Dancing Girl ( Art under fire)

2007-05-13T23:19:00.000-07:00

The arrest of the art student of Baroda School of arts for having violated the sensibilities of religious fundamentalists seems to have shaken people. But I had seen the beginning of this attitude ages ago. To be more precise, the day the little dancing girl vanished from our history books.
She is the finest example of Mohenjodaro and Harappa sculpture. But today, the educational websites run by the government, while raving about this fine piece, do not display her photos. You can check out this Vigyan Prasarak website as a proof of our academic hypocrisy.

http://www.vigyanprasar.gov.in/dream/august99/AUGUSTArticle1.htm

This sculpture from an ancient civilization says a lot about the technology of our ancestors. The dancer's jaunty little body standing in supreme confidence, the skill with which the sculptor has caught her grace and attitude are irrelevant to the learned people who plan our textbooks. Her nudity has made her unsuitable for our eyes. And this from a land where we worship the union of Linga and Yoni as Shiv Lingam..

Is she really so unacceptable? Can anyone monitor what images the children are viewing on the net? On that background does the nudity of the little Dancing girl seems so terrible that she is banished from our texts and websites?

A terrible rot has set in our thinking. In past few decades this has started happening more and more frequently. When one group protests about something, the other groups, not to be outdone, come up some weirder protests. Then we have public protests over the kiss between Shetty and Gere, protests over the shooting of Deepa Mehta's 'Water', some minor protests over Sania Mirza's short skirts, to name just a few. And along with this religious intolerance is the upsurge of pseudo religiosity which is more like cultural regression.

I had seen it coming the day the little Dancing Girl was removed from the history books, and I can predict where it is going too. Maybe now the artists will be commissioned to paint clothes on the nude sculpture on the walls of Khajuraho temples......
There is enough religious art in India to keep a whole generation of artists in business.

---------------------------------------

Crossposted on the Blog- Writers Against Terrorism.

http://writersagainstterrorism.blogspot.com/

By Design.

2007-04-18T08:14:00.000-07:00

We have been declared the Designers of the Year.

It all started this way. The brief said- open office, transparent glass cubicles, soft music etc, the silicon valley techy look. Simple 'nuff, we said. But taking indian Entrepreneur to silicon valley proved to be as difficult as Taking Ramji-bhai to London. We hadn't realized that everyone's hearts belonged so firmly to their Gaon !

The glass cubicles open to sky ( read ceiling ) felt oppressive to some. Some longed for their privacy and were unhappy about glass walls. Some, being more used to the carefree -'Raamu ho! Chaachi ho!!' style of conversation across the office resented the need for the hushed conversations, and communication via intercoms.

Soon it was apparent to us that various people had various issues with the design. So we decided to make a few changes and create a more congnial atmosphere which, while not exactly silicon valley, will be what any overworked indian Entrepreneur craves. An office and resort rolled in one.

The very first thing we did was to give all the cubicles bright red mangalore tiled roofs. Similarly, opaque films were put on the glass walls, to provide privacy to the occupants. A door was added. A small wall fan because the tiled roof now cut off the central a/c. As a good measure we also added a hand fan, for those especially hot summer days. If one craved company, one got up and went over to the village ...umm ...the office water cooler and passed the time of the day. If you wanted chai you can always holler for Raamu bhaiyya, or Durga chaachi.

The atmosphere around the office changed dramatically. People looked relaxed and eager to work, happy to be tucked into their own personal designer huts. The efficiency zoomed up overnight. Water cooler romances flourished, a few even cancelled their planned vacations, saying, "It was much more fun in the office". And last, but not the least, we have been nominated for the prestigious ' Designer of the Year' award for ruralizing the urban corporate design. The style is known as 'Rural-ban' ( to rhyme with Sundar-ban).
We look upon this project as something of a path breaker in the corporate design culture. Keeping in mind our stupendous success we are introducing a few new features. First, we plan to abolish the work desks. Working on khatiya with a laptop will add a new dimention to the corporate stratagies. For those who smoke,the office boys will be trained to handle chillums and hukkas.

Mahatma Gandhi said- India lives in its millions of villages. We are helping the cause in our own way.

The Bungalow.

2007-04-04T20:33:00.000-07:00

The bungalow stood on the street to my school. I used to dawdle while walking down that street, tying my shoe laces, or standing in the shade pretending to be tired, just to take a peek at it. Soon my friends became aware of my obsession and I came in for a fair bit of ragging.
Despite all my attempts I failed see anything beyond it's very high fence, and a tall gate. The bungalow remained completely hidden. No sign that anyone lived there. No maids coming and going, no sounds reaching outside its walls and massive gates. There was a tiny door on the side, and I had once seen a watchman come out to receive mail from the mail man.

I conjured up theories about the residents. It was Sleeping Beauty's castle waiting for that kiss. After reading Oscar Wilde the garden became a Selfish Giant’s garden. Or perhaps a reclusive aging star lived there a la Garbo. But no star had vanished from Indian horizons. Once, only once I had seen a long sleek black car gliding out of the gate and noiselessly joining the traffic outside. The gates closed as quietly as they opened allowing me a merest glimpse of a well kept lawn.

Then I met a girl who lived in a building adjoining to the bungalow. I asked her eagerly, “Can you see that bungalow from your house? “

“Oh yes” she replied in a tone that implied that it was no big deal.

“Can I come over? I want to take a look,”

“Sure! Anytime.”

I was at her house the next day, before she could forget about her invitation. She took me to her balcony and I took a good look. The bungalow was completely surrounded by tall trees and all I could see was a bit of a roof, a glint of sun on a window pane visible through the dense leaves, and a drive way. Even the front lawn was hidden from our inquisitive gaze, except for a small patch near the gates.

“We can’t really see much from here you know” My new friend confessed.

“Are there people living there? Children? Servants?“ I asked.

“A few people I guess. But not too many. I know there is a dog. I often hear it bark.”

That was the last time I attempted to see the bungalow. I went on to finish my school and my mind acquired other toys to play with. My routes changed along with my interests and I passed that bungalow without giving it a thought. It became a part of the unchanging landscape round me.

I was passing that way again last week. The tall tin sheets surrounding it told a familiar tale. The gates were now wide open. I could see a large house, mostly demolished and the rubble being loaded in trucks parked nearby. Soon a high rise building with hundreds of people will take it's place.

I wanted to see that bungalow just once, to ascertain whether it matched the images my imagination had conjured up.

The science of the ancients.

2007-03-21T11:21:00.000-07:00

A new project was about to begin, the design had been finalized, we had knocked down the walls and dug up the tiles, and the client, a rational man till now, dropped a stinker.

“ I have invited a Vaastu Pandit ( who also doubled as a pyramidologist). Hope you guys work under his advise.”

This was how it began. The man came with a pendulum, a divining rod, and changed our entire design. Put toilets where people were supposed to be, and back door where front door was supposed to be. The colours of walls, the paintings on display, the sizes of tables ( 6’x 3’ ? No! It has to be 5’11 ¾ “ X 2’ 10 5/8” ), the A/C frame ( Rose wood please. Fire energy, you see.). Copper pyramids were prescribed to be buried all over the place, 77 in all, (to subdue the water energies). Crystal pyramids were supposed to be installed later, once the office was ready. And last but not the least, No glass anywhere in the 1400 sft office. We fought over this one till he gave in.
“33 % only!” he admonished us.
By now my fiery partner was ready to sacrifice the Wise man to the Gods " On the full moon nights, under the Pyramids”.
In the end, all parties reached an agreement of sorts, peace prevailed, and came another stinker.

“ Before starting the work, apply a 2 inch thick layer of cow dung all over the place. Just see that it’s the dung of a good cow, and not that of a buffalo or ( God Forbid ! ) a bull.” This was to purify the place.

Now, 1400 sft ( doesn’t matter carpet, built up or super built up) place, meant a lot of cow. And I pointed that out.

“ If you can procure me the dung, I will see that it is spread” I said coolly. The cows in front on the temples seemed like a safe bet. Standing there all day long was bound to make them pious, god fearing cows. I had no idea what was considered ‘Goodness‘ in a cow. No hanky panky with a hunky bull ? Was it a done thing to enquire about her virginity? Anyway, a man was appointed by the client to get some ( plenty ! I reminded them. 2 inch thick layer needs plenty !! ) cow dung asap.

We closed down the work and waited for the dung truck to arrive. One week later, after getting his call, we all gathered at the work site. I looked around for the heap of dung. None could be seen. Then the assistant brought half a bucket of liquid slush which definitely smelt like dung.

“ This is NOT enough! We have to give a 2” think layer on 1400 sft! Bring me more!” I ordered haughtily.

Now it was the assistant’s turn to break down. Clearly the man had reached the end of his patience.

“ This is all I could get. Take it or leave it!” after he cooled down he told us his tale of woes. For a week he chased four cows and their attendants. Two of the women demanded 50 bucks in advance and vanished. Third one yelled at him saying- “the cow is constipated! What can I do ? “
“ This is all I could get, please accept and sprinkle it on the site and start the work."
I accepted the compromise, and the work started as planned.

A fortnight later, the Vaastu pandit arrived with further advise. I reported that the dung thing was done, and asked him, with a genuine curiosity- “ Do you really believe this will work ? That the place has been purified, and the business will flourish because of the cow dung?”

He declared profoundly- “ Yes. I believe in it. It always works. It’s a fool proof science of the ancients. It has to work.” Then a little pause, “ Provided the cow has been good, of course.”

He, as always, had the last word.

Hail the Indian media.

2007-02-14T03:17:00.000-08:00

This is a forward I recieved in my mail today. Even tho I shun forwards as a rule, the sender is not an irrisponsible spammer. So I knew it had to be important. It was.
Originally it was from Bharati Sharma of Sahara TV.

********************

November 29th 2006

This new is not very new or catchy...but the essense of it shouuld be eternal, coz it is a shame on the Indian media (nothing new I would say – unless they cover "trial by media" all is TRPs anyways)

By the time u guys read this news, the body of Major Manish Pitambare, who was shot dead at Anantnag, would have been cremated with full military honors.

On Tuesday, this news swept across all the news channels 'Sanjay Dutt relieved by court'. 'Sirf Munna not a bhai' '13 saal ka vanvaas khatam' 'although found guilty for possession of armory, Sanjay can breath sigh of relief as all the TADA charges against him are withdrawn'. Then many personalities like Salman Khan said 'He is a good person. We knew he will come out clean'. Mr Big B said "Dutt's family and our family have relations for years he's a good kid. He is like elder brother to Abhishek". His sister Priya Dutt said "we can sleep well tonight. It 's a great relief"

In other news, Parliament was mad at Indian team for performing bad; Greg Chappell said something; Shah Rukh Khan replaces Amitabh in KBC and other such stuff. But most of the emphasis was given on Sanjay Dutt's "phoenix like" comeback from the ashes of terrorist charges. Surfing through the channels, one news on BBC startled me. It read "Hisbul Mujahidin's most wanted terrorist 'Sohel Faisal' killed in Anantnag, India. Indian Major leading the operation lost his life in the process. Four others are injured.

It was past midnight, I started visiting the stupid Indian channels, but Sanjay Dutt was still ruling. They were telling how Sanjay pleaded to the court saying 'I'm the sole bread earner for my family', 'I have a daughter who is studying in US' and so on. Then they showed how Sanjay was not wearing his lucky blue shirt while he was hearing the verdict and also how he went to every temple and prayed for the last few months. A suspect in Mumbai bomb blasts, convicted under armory act...was being transformed into a hero.

Sure Sanjay Dutt has a daughter; Sure he did not do any terrorist activity. Possessing an AK47 is considered too elementary in terrorist community and also one who possesses an AK47 has a right to possess a pistol so that again is not such a big crime; Sure Sanjay Dutt went to all the temples; Sure he did a lot of Gandhigiri but then...........

Major Manish H Pitambare got the information from his sources about the militants' whereabouts. Wasting no time he attacked the camp, killed Hisbul Mujahidin's supremo and in the process lost his life to the bullets fired from an AK47. He is survived by a wife and daughter (just like Sanjay Dutt) who's only 18 months old.

Major Manish never said 'I have a daughter' before he took the decision to attack the terrorists in the darkest of nights. He never thought about having a family and he being the bread earner. No news channel covered this since they were too busy hyping a former drug addict, a suspect who's linked to bomb blasts which killed hundreds. Their aim was to show how he defied the TADA charges and they were so successful that his conviction in possession of armory had no meaning. They also concluded that his parents in heaven must be happy and proud of him.

Parents of Major Manish are still living and they have to live rest of their lives without their beloved son. His daughter won't ever see her daddy again. Finally Major Manish, to my generation is a greater hero, someone who laid his life in the name of this great nation.

So guys, please forward this message around so that the media knows which news to give importance, as it is a shame for us since this Army Major's death news was given by a foreign TV channel!!!

Kala Ghoda -Bazaar

2007-02-04T06:02:00.000-08:00

A lovely paper lamp was hanging in a paper goods stall.
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A studio in Pune displayed their funky glass artifacts. In fact this time funk seems to be the theme, as opposed to the traditional wares of past festivals.
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Hand painted glass lamp.
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The handmade paper good stall was one of the most crowed ones. People were going crazy buying notebooks. I saw a teenager begging her mom for this hand embroidered notebook while her mom reminded her of unused blank notebooks at home.
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One of my Fav stalls. This one had great ceramic ware. This laughing whale was so cheerful that I bought one for Divya.
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This was a lovely stall. Real real funky stuff.
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A Dhoom trunk from the same stall. I can see a Babli running from home carrying such a trunck.
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This stall made me wish to be 15 or less :)
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Ceramic magnets for the fridge!

Kala Ghoda- Sonal Mansingh

2007-02-03T23:30:00.000-08:00

I went to Kala Ghoda in severe conflict about what to see and what to do. This was one of the time when you feel like having a few clones and catch the whole show. But friend Ajita won, and we headed for Horniman Circle gardens to attend Sonal Mansingh’s Odissi performance.

The evening was cool and breezy, the gardens were filling up fast. We could see the patron Goddesses of the event, Brinda Miller, Devika Bhojwani and Sarayu Doshi flitting around, getting show started.

The ceremonial Lamp refused to stay lit. Finally the lamp was announced as “lit” behind the shelter of a file, and the show started. And what a show it was!

I was all prepared to give a nod to Culture and then rush over to watch Soparkar’s Troup “Dancing in the streets “. But that was only till Sonal started her first piece, devoted to Goddess Maatangi, the patron goddess of all arts. From now on “Bhavani Dayani” will always look like Sonal.

There was something of a sybil in her whole persona. Her goddess was not an ethereal being, soft and delicate. She was ageless, wise, compassionate, wrathful, powerful and sexy. A Mother personified every which way. She could vanquish the demons, and lift the mountain. The music, the shadows and Sonal’s body language, all added to the effect. I went ahead to sit on the ground right in front of the stage, catching every nuance every expression emanated by Sonal.

Some one had once told me that to understand space one must learn to dance. It wasn’t quite clear to me, till I watched her dance. Spaces kept shifting and changing as a pint size Waman, grew up to cover the earth and the sky in two steps and she effortlessly covered the entire stage.

Sonal took us through the age old stories of Krishna Leela and Geet Govindam. But for me the show had ended with Sonal as the Goddess Maatangi / Durga.

The Battle Royale.

2007-01-25T04:26:00.000-08:00

He is still there, watching her through the open kitchen window, with a reproachful look in his eyes. She is firmly ignoring him. She doesn’t take very kindly to anyone refusing to eat her cooking.

Amma loves to feed birds, and has kept dishes filled with food and water on her kitchen window sill. That is how the crow started coming to our house.

Amma had made something of a pet of this crow who sat in the kitchen window every day, waiting for her to feed him left over food, stale slices of bread, things which crows are supposed to eat uncomplainingly. Even this one did. Till one day he tasted chaklis.

While poking around in the cabinets Amma came across old packets of Chaklis. No one remembered purchasing them, maybe left over from Diwali. And by now the chaklis were several months old, and emanated musty smell of stale oil. We all refused to even touch them, and declared them unfit for human consumption. Amma’s thrifty heart baulked at such a waste, and she hated to throw out the good -well, the Almost good -chaklis this way. Finally she threw one chakli in the bird dish. Her crow was sitting there, waiting for his turn, ignoring the birdseed. He pounced on the chalki and caught it in midair gracefully and was a changed crow from that day onwards.

In the early days it was all fun. We would stand around and watch him crunch the chakli. Amma would say with grim satisfaction, "at least the chaklis were not wasted", and we laughed at the way the crow would call his cronies over. But soon, very soon, the chaklis got over, and then began a battle of wills. The crow refused to eat anything other than chaklis.

At first Amma was amused to see him sitting there, refusing the slice of bread in the dish, and later became exasperated. After that it sort of became a challenge to make that crow eat something. Instead of stale bread he was now being tempted with fresh bread. Instead of leftover roti, he now got freshly made one, warm from Tawaa. But he still held out for chaklis. He would just poke at the food and leave it uneaten. And after giving Amma, what we thought as reproachful look for playing such a dirty trick on him, he would fly away. I am afraid Amma took his rejection rather to her heart.

Days went by; we could see Amma cooing to the crow in persuasive whispers. There were jokes galore. We suggested she buttered the bread, or perhaps some jam? There were solicitous enquiries about the crow's preference in fruit. Will fresh ones do or would he prefer rotten ones. Dad loudly worried about the crow's cholesterol levels, and asked Amma to feed her pet nutritious food. At dinner time he would ask meekly, “Can I have one more roti? If the crow doesn’t want it, that is.” Amma took all this ragging in good spirit, but neither the crow nor she would give in. "I have brought up three children" was her refrain.

But it was clear that something had to be done. Amma was trying to discipline her crow with same ruthlessness she had shown while bringing us up.” Everything in the plate must be finished. There are children starving in the world. Eat up. This is good for you”. Maybe that’s why we loved our crow. My bossy Amma had met her match at last. We were having bets to see who wins. Meanwhile , the crow went on sitting in our window with sad look in his eyes. Amma too had started to look rather frazzled.

Finally this morning, just as I was stepping out, Amma whispered to me, “Get a packet of Chaklis, the broken ones will do. They are cheaper.”

Jaipur Lit. Fest. workshop.

2007-01-24T03:45:00.000-08:00

The writing workshop conducted by Jugal Mody was on the third day of the Lit. Fest. Jan 21^st .We were told by the organizers to 'Be There' at 9 'Sharp':) Sitting in Amchi Mumbai 9 sharp doesn’t sound like an ungodly hour. We are the people who catch 7.52 super fast.

So on the cold morning of 21^st, in the Pink City of Jaipur where even the sun was reluctant to show his face before ten, Rashmi Dhanwani and I marched to Diggi palace- the venue for the workshop. And I am glad we did.

The workshop was planned for anyone above the age of 18. The number of participants was limited to 25 and there were a few complaints about it, as the response to the workshop has been so tremendous that the management had to turn away lot of people. Jugal wanted to keep the number small so there could be time for interaction and feed back. Finally, extra participants were allowed to join, and the final count was 32. I could see a few familiar faces of other caferatii .

We all sat there, huddled under our sweaters and shawls waiting for our esteemed moderator to start.

Jugal- the moderator explained to the participants that he was not planning to teach them anything , but share with them a method of thinking which will help them to write better.

And we launched into the workshop.

For next two hours, we followed the moderator’s directions, pencils flying all over our papers, read aloud for every one to critique. Slowly even shy one lost their stage fear and opened up. The suggestions and comments were flying all around and Jugal running from person to person with the mic in his hand got a good work out. After a while people stopped waiting for their turn or the mic and started giving their comments eagerly. The atmosphere was charged with an excitement of the participants who were discovering that they could write. The moderator had made writing seem easy :)

There were all levels of writers. From skilled ones who had obviously done some writing before, to the very fresh ones, who were still discovering thrill of putting their thoughts on paper.

By now people had started walking in to watch what was happening. A few of them pulled paper and pen out of their bag and joined in. One of them was a French lady who had written her exercises in French but obligingly read it in English for our benefit.

After following up on all the exercises, everyone realized that what we had in our hands was a complete story. All day long I kept meeting these participants on the fest grounds. They now smiled at me like old friends, we had shared something fun an enjoyable.

The workshop ROCKED. Like everyone else, I too am planning to hold on to my notes on the exercises. There is a story in there.

Happy New Year to All

2006-12-29T20:16:00.000-08:00

HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL
HAPPY 2007.

It is that time of the year again. Making resolutions.
There are some I know I am going to break. So won't even bother to make them.
But there are some I am going to work on in this coming year.

I resolve to...
...Learn to Dream.
...Have faith that Dreams come true.
...know that within me I contain a universe.
...Have a better communication with those around me.
...Be appreciative of the contributions Others make in my pursuit of understanding and happiness.
...Be aware of their support and develope an attitude of gratitude.
...Explore my talents to the fullest.
...Learn to look inside me to understand the outer turmoil and negtivities.
...Be aware that Love is all around me and will be open to it.
...Be aware and open to each moment as I live it.
...not to chase the future. It comes soon enough.
...Know that the rewards I seek are NOT in future. They are with me today, here and now.
...not say I want to be happy.
...Say - ‘I Am Happy’.