“Aunty” Income-ben-see and the other Aunties!

The latest ‘clean-sweep’ that one is hearing of has been achieved, not by an aam aadmi, but by an aam ‘aunty’, affectionately called Aunty Income-ben-see!!

She is your common (‘aam’) friendly (except to dirt, filth, scum, and the likes) neighbourhood cleaning woman, wielding a special ‘jharoo’ (broom).

The pallu of her saree firmly tucked around her waist, she executes her job professionally and swiftly, zeroing in on dirt, muck and scum in no time at all, and sweeping it off with a flourish in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it action.

Now, don’t go getting the wrong impression about her being wealthy and all that by her surname:

"Income-ben-see"

No hidden wealth here, the ‘income’ in her name actually just means she executes her task in very little, or ‘kam’ time (in + kam, get it?), which is for all her sisters or ‘bens’ (and brothers or bhai's) to 'see' and learn from.

After her work is done, she is known to wave her broom and declare, “Don’t underestimate the power of a common aunty!!”, and dance to the (in)famous ‘jharoo dance, jharoo dance, jharoo dance, jharoo dance’ (sung to the tune of the ‘lungi dance’ song from Chennai Express).

For the latest clean sweep, ‘Aamchi’ (our) Aunty, being a choosy relative, opted to begin the cleaning process from the source or Centre where it emanated.

The reason for all the dirt at the Centre was another Aunty, who, because she had been sitting there so long, was covered in cobwebs, which wily spiders had woven all over, under and around her.

So much so that the spiders forgot she was an Aunty and mistook her for an old tree, or rock, or something that just stays put.

Very soon, this Centre Aunty became so cobwebbed that she could hardly be seen. Sometimes, she would call out for help to a bigger Aunty, who nodded her support sternly from afar (without smiling), but did nothing.

The reason was that this Big Aunty was busy watching over her little baba (baby boy) play ‘leader-leader’, and had even given him real people to play it with/over.

When some people complained that they didn’t want to play, but were hungry and wanted to eat, the little baba told them that lately, they had started eating too much.

Aunty Income-ben-see immediately saw that the Centre Aunty and her cobwebs would have to go. She fished out a ‘jharoo’ (broom) from the voluminous folds of her saree, and voila! All gone!

On seeing this, the Big Aunty's little baba , bored of playing ‘leader-leader’ (maybe because he just doesn’t know how to play the game, although no one dares tell him this), wanted a new toy: the ‘jharoo’ (broom) of Aunty Income-ben-see.

Big Aunty told the little baba that the ‘jharoo’ was useless, and not worth even  holding in his hand. 

However, little baba is not convinced and is now going to try and get one exactly like Aunty Income-ben-see’s.

Meanwhile, last heard Aunty Income-ben-see was seen heading toward a lotus pond, which she heard was full of muck.

Wonder how many lotuses, which are known to thrive the best in 'keechad' (filthy slush) will survive once she finishes her job..:)!! (this last line is courtesy a cartoon in Navbharat Times)

Chennai Express (ed)!!...Critics or Cynics??!!

My "to-blog" list is already running into several pages, but what has shaken me from the typo-hibernation is something so unexpected (and some may term it unblog-worthy) that even I am taken aback!

My close friends know that I am no fan of actor Shakrukh Khan's films. The ones that I have actually watched throughout can be counted on two fingers of one hand (Swades and Chake De!).

However, I was blown away by Chennai Express. What has surprised me is to see the flak it is receiving from film critics.

From the Times of India (which is normally always generous, making me wonder there's more to their generosity than appears to be the case), to Indian Express (no surprises there, it reserves going ga-ga over most films) to the Hindustan Times...all have more or less panned the film.

What's wrong with these people??!!

A completely clean, lighthearted film, full of puns (not those with a double meaning), performed earnestly by the actors, portrayed honestly by the director, loads of laughs, stunning locales, a beautifully uncomplicated world, and people are not happy??

For those who have not watched the film, Shahrukh plays a "halwai" on his way to Goa, with his grandfather's ashes. His plans undergo a drastic change when he helps Deepika, the daughter of a don from the west coast region of South India (Komban, in the film) , catch the Chennai Express. The problem gets aggravated due to Sharukh not knowing any Tamil, and Deepika's family not knowing Hindi.

I was hooked from the moment Rahul (Shahrukh), after helping Meenamma (Deepika) on to the Chennai Express, helps on one, then another, and then another fierce (and dare I say far, very far, very very far from beautiful)looking character onto the already chugging train....I mean, the comparison was so hilarious that I have just to think of his expression and howl with laughter as he spots each one, and nevertheless helps them on!

The conversation via song scenes between Shahrukh and Deepika had me rolling in my seat too. Especially when he uninhibitedly sings a love song to her in Hindi, never imagining that she will understand it, leave alone reply back, in song! Both Shahrukh and Deepika are similarly shocked later in the film when they both think they have hoodwinked the villain by communicating through Hindi songs to each other, when, to their surprise, the villain and his entire support party break into song and dance, in Hindi!!

There are several other small nuggets in the film, e.g., when he is caught on a boat smuggling oil to Sri Lanka, (that in itself is pricelessly imaginative!), the smugglers claim him as one of their own to escape the coastal patrol, and tell him "All is well", then, a split second later (like how a light bulb goes on in a comic over the head of a character), change it to "Oil is well!"

Shahrukh is the leading man, and yet he got away with being endearingly ordinary in most of the film. He was surrounded by people taller (including Deepika!) and heftier than him, but he behaved as a "halwai" or any other regular guy would have in the situation: run away, most of the time!!

I saw many others in the hall clapping and singing along with the songs, especially the children. The little girl next to me ( not more than four or five years old) was happily dancing..:)! Vishal-Shekhar have done a superb job. The picturisation of the Kashmir Main Tu Kanyakumari reminded one of a grand opulent musical,  with people in coulourful costumes, and dancing merrily and happily. The beat of the song is exactly like that of a chugging train, and the locale (Munnar or Coorg, it doesn't matter) was breathtaking.

Deepika looked stunning and suited the role superbly. The titli song was aptly soft and captured her emotions beautifully. To me, her acting seemed natural and her accent did not jar. She looked adorable in her "pavada" and her Kerala saree!

Some newspaper mentioned that Shahrukh had used the movie to crow about his other movies. The writer of that piece needs a special lesson in spoofs (maybe he/she's never even heard the word!).

The allusions in Chennai Express to his earlier films were completely in the lighter vein (like when he bursts into a Tamil song which are the opening lines of the song Dil Se, from the same film, and everyone around is shocked!! To them he excplains that when he sings from the heart--Dil se--these lines come out automatically!)

Then there was the scene when Deepika says she thinks he's fifty! Shahrukh's expression on hearing this is priceless! He has laughed at himself in the movie more than anyone else, which should always be appreciated in a person. He's growing up and growing older, and maybe, wiser! Whatever the reason, barring the trademark hands spreading mannerism, he was very much controlled in his performance throughout the film.

There was everything in the film that one has now learnt to expect from a Rohit Shetty movie, namely, comical situations, Goa (the Doodhsagar falls were passed off as somewhere further south), tonnes of one liners, amazing cinematography, and hummable peppy music. The only time I felt the director could have reigned it in was the end, which was so gory that it quietened the little dancing girl next to me.

However, the lungi song at the end made up for it. Without denigrating the superstar Rajnikanth, it made sure that although we had stood up to leave, we waited for it to end to walk out of the theatre!

The one reason people may be criticising the movie is because the jokes are so many and come so quickly and unexpectedly that they are over too soon for most. Which is a hundred times better than the crass and crude in-your-face jokes of films like No Entry, etc. And maybe that is why they should see it again! (And, no, SRK or Rohit Shetty have not paid me to write this!!)

Suddenly, I saw what Shahrukh Khan had been saying all these years in interviews, that he makes movies that he can watch with his kids, and I'm sure he'll watch this over and over again, cos one can't get it all in one go.

In fact, I'm going to catch it once more, something I don't remember ever having done before!!

With our politicians presenting farces every other day, and financial and climate gurus claiming doom the rest of them, Chennai Express offers a journey to a safe, fresh and welcoming world....!!

So, I'm going to get on the train baby, a second time!

Hello, hello!! Melbourne calling....

(written for a competition advertised by Melbourne Tourism. I won a pen drive in the shape of a Melbourne HOHO Bus!! Well, something is better than nothing, and I enjoyed researching Victoria, Australia!).

She lives in India, Bhopal (north) and has called up her aunt's husband, also in India, Nasik (west). Her aunt (father's sister) and he had visited Melbourne, Australia, the previous year. Notepad and pen in hand, she launches off her questions.

"Uncle, when do you think is the right time to visit Melbourne ?"

"My dear, I'm telling you this, your time to visit Melbourne is NOW! Don't delay!"

She smiles at the childlike excitement in the voice on the phone

"But it must be cold there right now! Isn't it winter in Australia when it is summer for us here in India?"

"No my child, it is now spring there, winter is almost over for them...ah Spring in Melbourne..." a few seconds of silence prompts the 'child', a woman in her mid forties, to wonder if the telephone line has suddenly gone dead.

Just as she is about to hang up and redial her awestruck relative, she hears him sigh....

"Ah....spring in Melbourne", he repeats. " .....gardens, trees, bushes, all blooming.... "

You know, just on hour's drive from the city is this heavenly place, called the Tesselaars Tulip Farm, with more than a million variety of tulips!!"

"But I thought that this kind of farm existed only in Amsterdam?"

"You know, before I visited Melbourne, I thought the same thing. There are many tulip farms around the world. In fact, at Tesselaar's,  I learnt that tulip farming is neither European nor Australian in origin, but actually Turkish!

No my dear, this farm is very much in Australia, and at this time, a sight to see!

It is not just about the flowers, its the whole experience.

For one thing, its a working farm, the owners of which open it up for the public for a whole month (mid Sept to mid Oct) every year!

Then they have all kinds of theme based festivals every weekend , the locals can even take their dogs, there is plenty to eat, drink and picnic among the tulips, and all at a very nominal cost! Do you know, children below 16 years can get in for free!"

"Oh Uncle, that sounds like a must-do! But you know what my husband will say...have we gone across the world, down under, just to see a million flowers?"

"Oye! You tell that husband of your this is no ordinary festival. He will understand when he actually sees them. Does he even know how much a million is, that....?"

"Uncle, please, no jokes about my husband...." she says in pretend annoyance.

She knows that her husband and her aunt's husband rib each other a lot, but share a wonderful, deep bond.

"Oh, all right,", and she can sense him smile as he adds, "but tell him that he will always remember this experience as his most 'colourful' !!. Its a riot of colours as far as the eye can see!!. People keep returning to see it every year..."

Check one: Tesselaar Tulip Festival

"All right, but tell me, what else can we do once we're there?"

"There is so much, where should I begin?"

"Start from what aunt and you did when you landed there. It was the same time last year, wasn't it?"

"Yes, that's right. Well, the first thing we did was to settle into our holiday home.

While there are a number of places available to stay in, from the very hip to the budget ones, I had 'homed' in on a very nice serviced apartment, in South Yarra.

Excellent service with bed and breakfast, and well situated. Once settled, we decided to explore our neighbourhood.

Do you know that Melbourne is close to a river,  the ocean as well as the mountains?"

"All three?"she asks, incredulously.

"Yes, all three. The city is situated along the Yarra river, where we were staying.

There are shops, art galleries, theatres showing plays, even places where one can ski! We saw several signs indicating workshops for kids in dance, theatre, music.....

We also went for a river cruise!  The city looks completely diffferent viewed during a boat ride on the river....."

Check two: River Cruise....she could definitely spend all her days cruising gently along such a river, she thinks....

"....the shops, oh, the kind of shops there....", Uncle is carrying on, " Southgate on Yarra riverfront was where your aunt and I went window shopping...all the international brands....it was a sight to see...you know, there is a even a shop where they sell vintage clothing flown in especially from America!

We  picked up some souvenirs from a lovely shop  at Federation Square."

Check three: Window shopping at South gate and shopping at Federation Square! Her itinery is taking shape, now all she has to do is seduce her family.....

Her Uncle's narration continues, "...you see, your aunt wanted to check out the city and its surroundings thoroughly, and we found there was so much to do!

We visited libraries (I tell you, I have never seen so many in a single city!), museums, saw some aboriginal carvings, even went to a circus, and an over 100 year old market called the Queen Victoria market, which is an open air one.

One can find anything from food to clothes to gifts to candles here.....I took so many photographs...."

"But how did you know where to go and what to do?" she asks

"Oh, there are so many Visitor Information Centres all over the city. We simply visited the nearest one, explained our interests, and then they helped us plan our itinery . They were very friendly and helpful.

That goes for all the local people we interacted with. Very well behaved, smiling and helpful."

Of course, my best moment in the city was when I went to visit the holiest of places, for me......the Melbourne Cricket Ground!

You know what the Australians call it? The 'G'!!

I had to pinch myself to really believe I was here....for a moment I closed my eyes and tried to imagine Sir Donald Bradman playing here, and me watching him...."

Check four: Melbourne Cricket Ground.....that would interest her husband more than anything else, she thinks...

"For you youngsters, there are many all night pubs and cafes, along the riverfront. That is the beauty of Melbourne. It is a city for all ages, for families wishing to holiday together...its cosmopolitan, as well as laid back...."

"Ok, got that. Uncle, Now, is there something in or near Melbourne that would excite my little Tanu?"

"Of course! ...So many. You see, to the east of Melbourne lie the Dandenong Mountain Ranges. It takes just an hour to reach them from the city.

Ah...Dandenong......"

Worried that her aunt's husband would decide to launch into yet another silent rhapsody, she quickly interjects,

"What can one do in Dandenong?"

"Ah, what can one not do there, my dear......when I went there with your aunt, we were transported into a land of  a picture perfect forest land, with lakes, rivers, ferns, humongous trees, bright feathered birds, quaint villages, and the sweetest train ride ever!!"

Her eyes have become misty, as her mind throws up visions of a forest like she had seen in the Steven Spielberg movie, "Avatar'.....but then she jerks back to the conversation.

"Train ride?! Into the mountains? Are you serious??"

"Yes, you heard right! Train ride. Its called the Puffing Billy, and is a century old one pulled by a steam engine!"

His voice is now dreamy.

"We went on it twice. The first time your aunt and I travelled first class on the "Steam and Cuisine Luncheon Train" upto Lakeside Station in Emerald Lake Park.

We had a good hour to explore before the train headed back. We saw families fishing, boating, walking, eating and just taking in the beauty of the place....."

That would make her seven year old daughter Tanu very happy, she thinks.

"The second time", her uncle is saying,  "we went right up to the destination station, Gembrook. The train rode through thick Australian bush.

Do you know that each and every person who works for the Puffing Billy is a volunteer?!"

"Really?" That was such a passionate thing to do, she thinks, to work as a volunteer on a steam train.

Now they are silent together, she with him on his mental twists and turns on the storybook train....

Her mind goes back to her childhood, of getting coal in one's eyes and lungs, of unmidfully sticking her head out of the train window, of hearing the chugging of the train coaches and the shrill whistle of the engine.....this was something the family would love!

Check five: Puffing Billy to Dandenong

Pulling herself out of her reverie, she asks,

"Uncle, what about the ocean? You said that Melbourne is close to the ocean too."

'Yes, dear, the Indian Ocean lies to the south-east of the city.

In fact, one of the first things that your aunt and I did was to drive along the Great Ocean Road. Do you know, it was built by soldiers in the early twentieth century, and is almost 240 kilometres long?

The coastline offers a visual treat, and there are so many villages along the way, from quaint fishing villages to ones with art galleries, shopping malls, Victorian era buildings...

The local people recommend Torquay, which is just at the beginning of the Great Ocean Road, and has one of the best surfing beaches in Australia, called Bells Beach."

Check Six: Surfing (or trying to) at Bells Beach...her teenage son Aadarsh, who had declared he was too old to holiday with the family, could be lured by this prospect.....

".....and they have these rocks called the twelve Apostles, fascinating rock formations that rise out of the ocean........you need plenty of time to drive down the Great Ocean Road.....and...."

Her mind is now furiously calculating....visas, tickets, airfares, staying costs, eating costs, travelling costs....

Her aunt's husband's is now saying,  "You know, you can see the city from a hot air balloon as well!"

She is amused at how like her teenage son he sounds right now!

"Your aunt and I were taken up in this hot air balloon in the wee hours of the morning to catch the sunrise over the city! Your aunt tells me it was the most romantic ride she's ever taken with me!

People even hire helicopters, and old vintage planes, and new ones to fly to islands, along the Great Ocean Road, to catch the breathtaking scene from the air."

"Is there anything that you wanted to, but couldn't do?"

"Plenty, my dear. We realised we did not have enough time for a Tree Top Tour, around three hours from Melbourne, at the Great Otway national Park. It is an almost 2 kilometere walk on the tree tops in the Forest. Maybe we will also visit Tasmania the next time we are here, as the ship leaves from Melbourne

We also could not make it to Swamp Wallaby, that is just 90 kilometeres south of Melbourne. I'm told one can see the Eastern Grey Kangaroo there as well. We plan to visit there on our next trip."

Check Seven: Swamp Wallaby....spotting a kangaroo was a must do on a visit to Australia!

"Uncle, that's a lot to do for the entire family, thank you so much! Now, I can't wait to get started on the mission, "Visit Melbourne". I want us all to experience each and every thing that you have described....." she smiles into the phone, thinking that maybe one visit wasn't going to be enough.

She can sense him smiling back, with his parting shot, "Just tell them, like I told you, "your time to visit Melbourne is NOW!"

http://www.visitmelbourne.com/in, http://www.partyboatcruises.com.au/

The Monsoon Traveller.....……(written while listening to strains of Khwabon ke Parinday/Der Lagi Lekin-Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara )

It’s that time of the year when walls, buildings, markets, people, (most) gadgets start to annoy and coalesce into a list of 100 extremely avoidable and irritating things…..

Nature’s loud, noisy signals have a Pied Piper kind of effect, luring the monsoon traveller to use any means to get away….

Paying heed, she tosses deadlines and projects over her shoulder, and strides out with just her purse, the car keys, and a CD of monsoony tunes…..

The rain and wind are executing a perfect ‘jugalbandi’, with one picking up automatically where the other drops off……

The traveler knows exactly where to go, and has no recollection whatsoever of the numerous paths she takes until she reaches it, an almost uninhabited expanse of green ….

On a sunny day, the place reveals itself as a stunning combination of mountains and sea for miles around.....today, she can barely see a few metres ahead of her

The road now has trees on either side that spread out their branches to form a tunnel over it, and resembles an artist’s palette, with pink, orange and purple flowers of the bougainvillea, gulmohar and jacaranda trees  hiding the grey tar from view…….

The sky is similarly obscured by the tree branches that are almost interlocking with the force of the wind, seeming anguished at being shorn of their colorful load…..

As she emerges out of the tree lined tunnel, she sees bits of mountains on her left that look like they're floating on clouds, while on her right is a vast expanse of emerald green paddy fields, each plant expanding its height and width to the maximum to receive heaven’s blessings....

By now, the rain drops have merged into a steady seamless and voluminous outpouring, forcing the monsoon traveler to look for a shoulder on the flower strewn road, and stop….the music from the CD player seems unnatural..she switches it off, and sits silently, absorbing the ‘ragas’ and ‘sargams’ of Nature….the wind orchestrating the movements of the pouring water with such beauty and ease....

Smooth as silk while falling gracefully in thick sheets, the water displays greater ferocity after hitting the ground, hurriedly flowing over impervious land and filling up nooks and crannies, and gushing down slopes. Its stops by at old haunts: pools, ponds and hollows, adding freshness to the older, silting lot, then races on to keep its date with the rivers and the sea in the distance...

Remaining in the car seems restricting...she gets out impatiently and starts walking away from it into the pouring rain, wanting to make as much distance from it and her, …..within minutes the rain has swallowed it, leaving her wondering if she actually rode it….

Balancing herself on the mud ridges between neat rectangles filled with ankle high paddy plants, she bends low to pluck out a rain drenched bright green, exhilarated stalk....

The coconut trees on either side of the rectangular parcels of land sway their arm-like branches in mock anger, the wind no match for their tensile trunks…..the green coconuts too look complacent, while the brown ones get ready to make the downward plunge at each gust!

As the rain turns from sheets to drops again, the monsoon traveler's eyes make out a lone mud house in the distance, with its roof of overlapping mouldy blackish green clay tiles, the continuous pattern broken by a small space on each sloping side by a sheer Perspex one to let in natural light….

Up close, the house discloses a pond on one side. The pond water accepts the falling bulbous drops unconditionally, rippling with pleasure every now and then, nudging the joyous, nodding lilies, who play co-host to the bombarding raindrops, deftly allowing them to slide off their glazed sides….

The reverie of the traveler is broken with the sudden opening of the single door of the house…a hand, belonging to the wearer of a colourful printed sari beckons her to come and sit out the rain in the spacious and clean verandah, and disappears, to emerge a few seconds later with a small steel glass with a steaming hot liquid...coffee….

The two women sit side by side, nursing their glasses, sipping and gazing, no words exchanged, no words needed…..the rain slows down to a drizzle, but neither is in a hurry…

Suddenly, the wearer of the bright printed sari nudges the monsoon traveler and points at a now visible rain tree….two golden orioles are engaged in a perfectly executed though swift rain dance, making it almost impossible to follow them, their golden yellow standing out against the washed green of the tree…..a disgruntled roller bird sits on a nearby branch, all puffed up, not amused by the frivolity in his neighbourhood….

The monsoon traveler sits for hours, spellbound, in that verandah, long after the rain has ceased, ….her companion has left to light the cooking fire…

The sound of her own voice surprises her, as she breaks into a wordless song, a conversation between her and the elements, just like every other being around her……

O Chetan!...Letter of despair, outrage...and envy!

(this post is written purely in jest, and if you read carefully, you will find that I am laughing at myself)


Dear Mr. Bhagat (may I call you Chetan?)


Your next book is out, and none of mine are.


This is an honest, open letter telling you about my (until now) closed feelings concerning your writing.


I heard that you are quoted as one of the most influential figures in the world. Don't ask me where I got this statistic from---maybe I heard it on the radio...but I smirked to myself (hah!) as I set out to test this fact.


To my utter and horrific surprise, my grocer's college going son has heard of you and has recently bought your first book Five Point Someone! He, who comes from a family where no one has ever read more than the printed price labels in their grocery store! He says it was referred to him by his friend who told him English is not so difficult after all. And how would he know?!


Why am I sooooo worked up, you ask? Well, I cannot tell a story in "five points" like you (isn't that what the book is about?), so bear with me. You may have to allow for certain creative detours, a bit of analysis (heard of those things?) as well. Promise that you'll stay on and not leave midway? All right, here I go.


Recently, my cousin called to tell me of her ordeal. She used to work for a women's magazine and got laid off some months ago. Two weeks ago, she managed to get a part time job as writer for a social networking website, and do you know the brief her employers gave her? Exactly that, i.e., be brief, to the point, and forget about fancy writing! Of all the nerve!


Let me tell you that she is extremely well read, has been a student of Literature, studied at the best schools and colleges in the world, and can throw in words, phrases, puns, and other such things like other people do frisbees (the good ones, I mean, the ones that are good at throwing and catching frisbees.....I mean...you get my point, don't you?).


I'll have you know that she and I have (she more than I) been taught English by the British themselves, with a few Irish and Germans thrown in (read 'Nuns'), who helped us pick our books with care ("English is best written by British authors"), and even had us write reviews about those that we had read, which they rated ("five on ten is the highest this class will ever get from me"). 


When Shakespeare, Milton and Keats got too much for us, we were advised to relax with the writings of P G Wodehouse (What's that you're asking? Who is he? You don't know P.G. Wodehouse??), who wrote things like,


"The..... was a tubby little chap who looked as if he had been poured into his clothes and had forgotten to say 'when'!".....from his book "Very Good Jeeves."


Got it? The humour, I mean...see, that's one of my points. 


People, most people, like the grocer's college going son, just don't get it, the subtle humour, and ask stupid questions like 'what?', when they really should be asking 'when?" What's that? Its utter rubbish, you say?


Mr. Bhagat, you do know that English was brought to India by the British, and was supposed to be spoken, read, and written in a particular way? 


Writers were supposed to laboriously go through tomes of classics and poems (because we had never ever seen a Daffodil in our lives, and we took a long time to understand when 'when' didn't mean when!). 


No one could just get up and decide to become a writer!


We were supposed to write about the grocer, his family, their daily doings and the goings on in their lives, (and not for him) from an expert observer's point of view, as a skilled craftsman, who would dig out a worthy word for every activity, every nuance....e.g., 


"Suddenly overcome with lassitude and ennui, the immensely banal and prosaic nature of his work struck him like a bolt of lightning, and he wondered what would ensue if he simply threw off the yoke of generations, and declared a sa famille( that's French...writers in English have to know a bit of French, its the rule!) his prurient thoughts!"


See?  Such labour, such effort, finding uncommon words and elevating (I could have used 'lifting' here, but I didn't......now that's what writing, real writing is all about!) an ordinary existence and sentence to one worthy of being in a book.......See?


And all was so well in our world of words, that we never realised when (and here I mean the normal 'when')  it ceased to exist outside our minds.


You, an IT (tech) guy, just kind of stole up upon us, and literally wrote us 'discerning' folks off! 


Do you know how many people, especially techies, dream of writing books that earn a bomb, and retiring thereafter? I know, I live in a place that is swarming with them. 


Their point is (and that's the annoying thing about them; they always talk, without fail, in points!), if you can do it, so can they! You've gone and given hope to people who have probably read just one book in all their lives----yours! Imagine!


So dear Chetan, sorry, Mr. Bhagat, its time we (as in 'wordy' writers), woke up from this ennui, this lassitude, or even this langour, this tediuosness....what's that you say? Can't I use simple words? Oh, all right....


Its time we woke up from this boredom (simple enough?), brought upon by a certain jobless state, where people like us, a diminishing band, are reduced to being 'brief', and to practicing our craft in secret.....


How, you ask? Oh, don't tell anyone, but we send mails to each other with beautifully concocted, embroidered, delicately and strategically placed words here and there, that only we understand and that other people call funny.......last time I sent one, two people actually read it (one was my husband who I forced it upon!)


So, my last point is (you're still there, I hope), tell me, no teach me, how to unlearn, simplify....tell me how to write for the grocer's, the mason's, the......the......heck, even my own nephew has read you! Tell me, how do you write for such a wide range of readers?


For, you see, in all our learning the language and the craft, we forgot to pay attention to a small, though vital detail....we completely overlooked the reader! 


(I tell  you, my nephew, who has read your books, wouldn't have spent more than a few seconds on this piece of writing...so can you see how serious this is?).


So dear Mr. Bhagat, astute businessman-cum-writer that you are, would you please share your secret (how you know exactly what my grocer's college going son and nephew are interested in), so that I may be as widely read as you, and perhaps even replace you as one of the most influential persons in the world (in case you decide to take a vacation from writing)? Please?


Hey Chetan, er, Mr Bhagat? What are you taking those notes for? What?? You've got an idea for your next book after reading my post? You're going to write about would-be writers? Hey, what's going on in that clever mind of yours? Remember, you got that idea here....remember, you'll have to pay me royalty...come back, listen, let's work this out...hey!

If I were a Kargil war widow.....

If I were a Kargil war widow, I would be perplexed at a few things emerging from the 'Adarsh' Housing Society scam.....

• Why was Colaba chosen as a location for building houses for war widows? (Ideally, I would have liked to live in a place that provided, among other things, a strong social support network. Especially now, with my husband gone, I would have preferred to stay in familiar surroundings rather than an alien city. That would make me ask my next question)

• How many Kargil war heroes were from Mumbai? How many of their widows even knew of this scheme?

• Were the flats meant only for the widows of officers, or for those of persons below officer rank (PBOR) too?

• Assuming I was allotted a flat in "Adarsh', how would living there actually be for me?

• If I as an officer's wife would find it difficult to survive in a place which is said to have one of the highest costs of living in the country (my husband would have been a young man in his thirties, and maybe a young father, who at the time of his death wouldn't have had a very substantial saving), could  the wife of a PBOR even think about it? 

• How many of us would have then sold our respective flats to the highest bidder, and bid adieu to Mumbai?

Questions that haven't been raised by even the media, because like every other Mumbaikar and metrophile, it is completely consumed with the fact that some people who didn't deserve to, got a flat in a prime location.

If I were a Kargil or any other war widow, I would be dismayed that the term 'war widow' , instead of being used with great caution and respect, had been (mis)used to throw people off guard and stop them asking too many questions.

I would be indignant that the term could also be associated with something as murky as a scam

I would wonder how many cases of real need would now be viewed with suspicion because of this one incident.

I would wonder how one act of greed could bring such indignity upon the service and the war that my husband and others like him gave up his life for.

I would find it very difficult to remind the public that they need not get cynical about the Armed Forces just because of the greed of a few men. 

With passing time, and scam upon scam, who knows how long my child/children and I would be able to view the Armed Forces and the country as my husband saw it, worth dying for......

Thinking like two, or maybe more.....

What was the "wisest" advice given to you before you went for that crucial job interview?

I remember one well meaning friend asking me,

"Think hard, would you hire yourself?"

Another one quipped,

"Try and think like the interviewer. What does he/she want? What are they looking for in an employee?"

As if it wasn't enough that my blank mind had forgotten what and who I was, like a cruel joke, I now had the added burden of imagining who and what my interviewer(s) was(were)! If they didn't know who they were and what they wanted, did they have any business interviewing me in the first place?

Such sane questions occurred to me only after the mind numbing experience of being grilled over a slow fire, glad that my anatomy was not any the worse for the ordeal.

I'd heard of the saying that one has to be cruel to be kind, and I decided whether my well meaning friends had been one or the other only after the outcome of the interviews.

I digress, hugely. Let me try and get to the point I'm trying to make (and at the moment I'm thinking just like plain old me, not like any of my readers, I swear!).

Vishwanathan Anand claims it, job seekers swear by it, and many other successful people vouch for it...being two, or sometimes more than two, people.

Perfect case for schizophrenia, you say?

Wait a minute. Vishwanathan Anand, our very own Chess hero, claims he always thinks what his opponent will be upto. Not that his opponent doesn't do the same.

Look all around you. The people who know other people better than they know themselves always seem to have the upper hand. Which is why the majority of human beings are happily engaged in this engaging sport!

I no longer find those American movies that have control of all the people of the world as their core theme, stupid. That is what everyone around is engaged in, after all!

Doesn't the lawyer think of what his opponent must be up to? Ditto for the politician, the marketing person, the advertiser, the maidservant.....the list is endless...Seems like everyone is trying to second guess everyone else, and trying to know them better than they know themselves! Insane!!

Well, its often been said that there is a thin line between sanity and madness.

Many celebrities claim that well controlled madness has helped them achieve fame and success.

The only differene between such people and those locked up in asylums being that on account of their amazing abilities, their 'strange' behaviour is explained away as 'eccentric'.

I cite some of my observations of one such 'strange' behaviour--thinking like two, or maybe more, people, and its consequences....

In the days of instructive teaching, in my sepia tinted memories, I can almost hear my teachers saying (with advancing age, they appear, horror of horrors, en masse in my mind's eye, instead of individually, all mouthing the same words!)

"Think like the examiner. Imagine him/her surrounded by mounds of answer sheets. Imagine if he/she has had a fight with his/her spouse. Your different answers will only irritate him/her. So, just write as I'm telling you to. Believe me, I have been teaching board classes for 10/20/30 etc. years."

So, at such a young age, I and many others like me, were already thinking like two. Sounds similar to 'eating for two" when you're expecting a baby, but with comparatively less than happy outcomes.

After school, you feel you have left thinking like two behind for good, when you discover the gory truth.

Two is the minimum you think like. You have to think like the boss (that's if you've gone past thinking like your interviewers), the boy/girl-friend (oh yes!), the prospective in laws, the customers, the neighbours, your domestic help ......

Strangely, a little bit of sanity returns when one gets married. After a certain period of time(different for different individuals) if you're married, you have at least two or three people less to think like-namely, your spouse(sometimes the activity ceases within hours of tying the knot!), your in laws, and for a brief period, your children.

Of course, the hiatus is short lived, as, once your children become teenagers, your sole preoccupation in your waking hours as well as when you're asleep, is to think like them, and try and pre-empt and second guess their every decision, failing miserably at most times, but like an obsessively compulsive (or compulsively obsessive-take your pick) person, going on trying till they are well past that dreadful period. The fact that your own parents never succeeded in this herculean task doesn't occur to you at all.

After a certain period of time, when you are exhausted thinking like everyone around, you realise that you were so busy thinking like so many other people, you've forgotten to think like yourself, almost completely. Mid Life Crises! (I wonder who comes up with such scary names for life's simple processes?).

So you now spend the rest of your life attending Sri Sri Ravi Shankar Art of Living Sessions, wondering aloud, "Who am I?" !! Round robin, but still thinking like two!

All that hoopla just because God gave you a brain so you could think for yourself like yourself, but you taxed it heavily by thinking like others. All that time and money wasted on shrinks, gurus, and retreats, when all you have to do is stop and say, "From today onwards, I'm only going to think like me, for me", and hey! Presto! The crises is gone!

Let me end this piece here and now, before you split up even further than you already have, and try thinking like me...Meanwhile, I have to go back to thinking like you readers...What must you be thinking of this piece, will you forward it to others you know, will you be interested enough to leave a comment.....??!! Have a good day!

Who Else am I not-Part Five: "The Bell(e)s of St. Mary's"

All eyes in the school refectory (dining hall) were on the tiny bell in Sister's hands.

The hands of the girls were busy too. It was bath day for Class twelve.

Boot camp drill would have been shamed at their crack readiness for bathing in a matter of minutes, between finishing lunch and running helter skelter towards a separate building reserved for the activity, the Bathhouse!

Unseen by Sister's eyes, hands were busy undoing what could be undone without any indecency involved--hair, shoes, etc., so that minimum time was wasted once in the bathrooms.

All conversation ceased as THE moment drew close. Slowly (many a times I felt  Sister deliberately slowed the entire motion for dramatic effect), the hand holding the bell started to rise.

It's tingle was lost in the clamour of chairs being pushed back, girls getting behind them in a trice and pushing them in again, the fast-forwarded-at-a-speed-of-32x recitation of the after-meals prayer, followed by the sound of screaming and running out of the refectory, past the library, dodging the huge stone pillars, towards the bathhouse.

In the two years that I spent there, no amount of admonishing by the nuns ever made us stop doing this, including the yelling.

The reason was simple. Hot water was switched off after around ten minutes, leaving us with as much icy cold water as we wanted. I wonder if you've ever tried washing your face with icy cold water in the hills, leave alone have a bath. For some minutes, the face falls off the mind's sensory map. It's the closest to 'rigor mortis'  a living being can get!

The older girls knew exactly which bathroom had a big fat spout, that gave double the amount of water in ten minutes. Many had favourite bathrooms, and they had a common understanding amongst themselves not to "bag" the other's.

 Joining a boarding school at an age when the survival skills of most of its older boarders were honed to perfection (there were many who had been there since class one) was tough.

I joined St. Mary's Convent, Nainital, also known as 'Ramnee'(established in the year 1879, on a piece of land owned by a Col Ramsay, from which the word 'Ramnee' came about) for two years, a couple of days before all the girls returned from their winter holidays. So I had the opportunity to check out its grounds, the field, the classrooms, the infirmary. I was already feeling quite settled by the time the first batch of girls and their trunks and holdalls made their way up the wooden staircase and into the dormitories. I was ready with my welcoming "Hello, fellow boarders" smile.

I got a stare, and looks that said,  "Who's she?", or, when I persisted, some giggles and another look that said, , "What's wrong with her?"

The girls, some of them in their eleventh year there, must have felt like being welcomed by a stranger in their own home.

The two years of boarding school made me realise I had a lot to learn, as well as a lot to teach, in life. The 'belles' of St. Marys' came mostly from wealthier backgrounds than my fellow students in previous schools, and one that was certainly wealthier than mine. Many had experienced a life of travel outside the country, but I found few that had traveled extensively within the country like me.

Friendships were difficult to form at that age. I was lucky to have two other new girls besides me that year. We stuck together, and had the most memorable two years ever. One of the girls' parents lived close-by, and I have many memories of us rushing off to their place, enjoying her mother's cooking, and roaming the countryside. Twenty eight years on, the bond has only grown, to include our husbands and children. That is something I shall always thank the school for.

Academics, to me, was an insignificant part of the whole experience of being in a boarding school, as I proceeded to drink it all up to the maximum in the meagre time I had.

I have never seen a hotel housekeeping staff as efficient or dedicated as the housekeeping nuns of the school. We girls were spoilt rotten, as we had our clothes washed, ironed, and neatly arranged in our cupboards by them. Twice a week we would get a fresh set of clothes, our shoes were polished by the smiling old Samson, our trunks were packed tidily.....I think I appreciated this effort only when I started looking after my own house

A few years ago I revisited the school with my husband, and was amazed to find how fully we had lived our lives in such a small area. Each minute of our lives was accounted for and organised, and we made the most of what we had, despite the outwardly stiff demeanour of the European nuns (they did let down their guard at times, and give us a glimpse into their softer sides, except a few like Sister Christine), and the sullen behaviour of most of the Indian nuns, barring just a couple (the unhappy mix of a small difference in our ages and a big difference culturally made for many explosive encounters, and what was often dismissed as  girls-will-be-girls behaviour by the old guard was considered gross misdemeanour by the latter lot).

More than a bunch of buildings and fields, the school was a storehouse of stories, traditions and customs that were carefully preserved and shared by the European nuns, especially by Sister Josephine. An ex Ramnee-ite herself, it was rumoured that she chose to become a nun  after the death of her fiance in World War Two.  Another nun, Sister Christine, whose father was in the British Indian Army, used to live in the house that is now the Municipal Hospital, on the hill facing our school.

An example of how a sense of connectedness with the past was woven into our lives at the school was the visit to St John's Church in town.

The year that I joined was the centenary of the massive land slip of September 18,1880, that had caused the demolition of an entire hill near what is known as Mallital (malli = high, tal = lake; higher end of the lake).

(Nainital before the landslip in 1880)

Sister Josephine spent an hour with the senior girls describing the entire horrific event, bringing it alive so realistically that I could almost see the helpless victims disappearing into the vortex of the muddy earth! It was after this description that we walked down to the church for a prayer service, in memory of the victims. I felt like the land slip had happened the day before, and not a hundred years ago...

(Nainital after the land slip in 1880)

As I grew older, I realised Ramnee and Sisters Josephine, Pia, Margaret and Dominica did have more of an effect on me than I had thought they would.

At the end of school when our character certificates were being written by Sister Josephine, she told us that she would never ever write anything negative for any girl, because, for the discerning person, it was not what she wrote, but what she didn't, that counted!

Ramnee and my other schools may not have made me a brilliant pupil, but they have given me a healthy, vocal conscience, and a sense of fair play that has made itself an integral part of my being . Subconsciously, I try even now, to live up to the values exhibited by these indomitable, spirited women.

The buffet that life had spread out for me was soon to get more interesting, as college, and marriage awaited.....of course, I had no inkling, as usual!

Who Else Am I not? Part Four-'Living in Shangrila'

My first day in Yangchenphug High (then Central) School in Thimphu, Bhutan,  was declared a national holiday. A Bhutanese national had committed suicide by jumping from the bridge in the city into the Thimphu river below.

This was the capital of Bhutan, and the entire nation mourned the death of the suicide victim, so rare was the occurrence.

The people seemed very happy with whatever they had, and the Gross National Happiness factor, that made headlines the world over recently , was very much in evidence all around us at the time.

The world as we had known it so far,  was left behind, as we began our relationship with the only place that could come close to the legendary 'Shangrila'.....

The sound of the deep Bhutanese 'dungchen' (long trumpet) and the Tang Du (drum) intruded our conversation one Sunday morning.

(http://img147.imageshack.us/img147/1042/dungchenqe9.jpg)

It was now two months since we had been living in a house on a hilltop in Simtokha, that overlooked the scenic Thimphu valley and river, seven kilometers before Thimphu, the capital city of Bhutan.

Our house faced a lawn edged by a wired fence, from where the hill fell unnaturally sharply, interrupted by a broad road. It had been cut to make way for the national highway, which, at the time, was the fastest road link from the capital city to Phuntsholing in the plains.

Below the road, the hill continued as before, gently sloping down to meet the river.

(http://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/01/1c/70/bf/thimpu.jpg)

At the time, the river banks boasted of apple orchards with apples that were so maroon in colour that they appeared almost black. During the apple season, sometimes at night, we could hear mountain bears grunting with pleasure as they feasted on the fruit.

That morning, my brother and I ran out to see what was happening, but our vision was hidden because of a curve in the road. 

A procession seemed to be headed our way. The wind carried the sounds of Buddhist chanting, guttural, slowly getting louder and louder. 

We hung patiently onto the fence, sure that something interesting was just about to unfold, and what luck that it was to happen so close to home!

Suddenly I shouted, "There they are!", as the first bit of red and orange of the monk's robes flapping in the wind appeared round the corner.

Slowly, as if it were a stage show, a line of monks appeared, followed by another, then another. After them, clad in a striped regal 'Kho' followed  a very handsome young man (who, we learnt later, was the king, His Majesty Jigme Singye Wangchuk).

I don't remember whether he wore a crown or other 'kingly' items. Viewed even from that distance, he clearly stood out. He, in turn, was followed by a group of around fifty or more men, (at that distance, I couldn't make out if there were any women in that group), all wearing the national dress for men, the 'kho".

The image of that 'royal' spectacle, with the smoke from the incense burners in the monks' hands  rising up and lingering in the air, their orange and maroon robes and scarves fluttering nervously in the breeze, is still vivid in my mind.

They all made their way down slowly to the banks of the Thimphu river, and carried out a couple of hours prayers, punctuated by periodical blowing of the 'dungchen', chanting, and beating of the 'tang du'.

The next day, when we went to school, we learnt the reason for the elaborate ritual.

There had been no rain that year, and the king, a representative accepted by the largely agricultural population as appointed by the Almighty, had gone to the banks of the sacred Thimphu river to pray to the Rain God.

Bizarrely, it did rain the very next day!

School for me meant putting on the 'kira' (the Bhutanese national dress for women) five days a week.

For a first timer, it was no less frustrating than wearing a saree (which at that age of course I had never had the pleasure of donning), and coaxing that one elegant fold in front was the result of forty five minutes of hard labour. Despite all our efforts, the Bhutanese girls looked like they were born in them, and we 'foreigners' like uncomfortable lesser beings.

I often wore my normal clothes underneath, so that when I reached home, I could just rip off the whole garment, and run off to play.

(http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/58/Bhutanese_Girls_in_National_Dress.jpg)

It was strange to be called a 'foreign' national in school.

My school followed the I.C.S.E. pattern, and while the second language in the ninth and tenth grade was Hindi for us Indians, it was 'Dzongkha' for our Bhutanese classmates.

Since they were larger in number, their Dzongkha teacher took class in the classroom itself, while our Hindi lessons were conducted in the Physics Lab.

The first time that I had a period in Hindi, I wondered why my Indians classmates ran out as soon as the bell rang. I took my time collecting my books, and was about to leave, when the Dzongkha teacher walked in.

He looked at me like Cyrus Broacha looks at a new 'bakra' on MTV.

Using sign language, he asked me to stand in front of the class, and wish everybody in the local manner (bowing down with hands outstretched, and saying loudly, "Quuzzu-zam-bola"), modelling it for me. He wouldn't let me leave until I had demonstrated it perfectly, according to him. The next time round, I was more than prepared to flee as soon as the bell rang for our Hindi lesson!

I tried not to miss a single day of school. The 'naughtiness' we indulged in was at times innocent (once on our return from a class picnic, the boys stole apples from an orchard, and were nearly hacked with a 'khukri' by a zealous Nepali guard!) and at times ingenuous (we tried to use a periscope to see what specimens were laid out for us in our Class 10 Biology practical!)

A self contained world, unmindful of what chaos existed outside its frontiers....truly Shangrila!

Who Else am I not-"The Two Idiots"

The next decade was a blur of places, names, people, schools, uniforms, teachers, exams, report cards.....

The one thing that remained constant in our lives were the Himalayas.

In this time, my father went from Udhampur, through Kalimpong(a second time), and Phuntsholing(Bhutan) to Thimphu (Bhutan)

By now I had started taking the weather, always ranging from pleasant to cold, the breath taking view, and the non polluted environment for granted.

Whenever we visited our cousins in the plains, I longed to get back to ‘our’ side of the continent.

Academics appeared to be the only "black lining in our silver cloud", as we joined our new schools at any time of the year. Sometimes, after more than half the academic session had elapsed!

It never occurred to my father that my mother, my brother and I should stay back in a place to complete a session, and I will be eternally grateful to him for that.

In a way that was good for all of us in the long run, he felt strongly about the family staying together at all times, whatever the consequences.

Our regular traipsing all over the Himalayas with our parents had two very happy consequences, in my opinion.

The first was that academics became an inconsequential matter in our household, though not deliberately.

Our school life just could not match our experiences outside the classroom.

Though our parents sang the usual refrain of “you must come first with 90%”, they were easily distracted by the other options available.

Udhampur saw my father come into his own (he was a trained classical singer, an amateur actor, and a stand up comedian), whether it was announcing tambola at the Chinar Officers’ Institute, singing popular duets with officers’ wives and /or daughters, having musical evenings at home (where everyone sat on mattresses covered with white sheets, and ate pakodas while listening to classical and film music), or writing and acting in humorous plays.

He was all over the place, and, as a consequence, so were we.

The second was that, with my father’s penchant for travel, and despite my mother’s distaste for it, we were enjoying holiday weekends long before the phrase became popular in India.

Srinagar was on our monthly calendar, so, at least once a month, sometimes twice, breakfast would be in Batote (two hours from Udhampur), late lunch in Verinag (just after the Banihal tunnel-now called the Jawahar tunnel), evening would include a shikara ride on the (then) beautiful Dal Lake, and dinner would be in the cosy Officers’ mess situated on the main road running along the lake.

This was also the time when we were visited by hordes of relatives and friends.

Kashmir, and the expansive and generous nature of my father was too loaded a combination to miss out on! Thanks to them, we visited Vaishno Devi four times, and seemed to practically live in Pahalgam and Gulmarg!

How could school and boring text books ever match up with this?

The occasions when our father would glare at us before signing our report cards were tiny blips dismissed by the radar of our minds!

Kalimpong the second time round was very different compared to our previous stay there.

This time, we had to stay in a colony built by my father's organisation for its personnel. While my brother and I did have a good time, I missed staying in our previous house on the hill above the 'Kali Mandir'. In my mind, that was the ‘real’ Kalimpong.

I believe that the beauty of a place can only be felt by seeking out and absorbing its native, local flavour, which was absent in the colony.

After the gay abandon in Udhampur, with the happy informality of the Indian nuns, getting back to the strict and at times unsmiling demeanour of the European nuns was difficult.

Academics could not be overlooked here, as long as they could help it. So, life did get a little tough for my brother and I, when we failed in, of all things, Moral Science(I had to read up the Holy Bible in a couple of months) and Nepali(the only thing offered to us as a third language)!

Though I got back with my old classmates, I noticed now what I had missed, and what may not have been as distinct, earlier.

The boarders were THE people to be in the school and dayscholars merely incidental (I saw the other side of this world only after I attended another school as a boarder myself, later on). For the boarders, spending five hours a day with 'dayskis' as we were called, could not compare with spending every waking moment with each other.

I remember being extremely envious of their midnight feasts and after-school activities.

Some other things about round two of Kalimpong will remain forever etched in my mind.

The omnipresent Kanchenjunga was everywhere. I didn't remember taking note of it as a child, but now its beauty seemed inescapable. Like the sea, this majestic mountain had different moods, and just when you thought you had seen them all, it surprised you with a completely new one!

Our school song, which I loved to sing, was sung to the tune of the Scottish National Anthem (of which I learnt only a couple of years ago!).

Our uniform included a light blue beret, and made our uniform look the smartest I've ever worn to any school.

On the 15th of August in 1978, we girls put up an 'Ai-Ki-Do' (a martial art form) performance in front of the Town Hall, to the tune of 'Kungfu Fighting' by Carl Douglas!

At home, life continued as before. My father was undeterred in his zest for travel. So, it was no big deal to visit Gangtok for the weekend, or to be woken at 2 a.m. in the night, be bundled in the back of a Willys jeep (now Mahindra), and be driven to Darjeeling in time to see the sun rising behind Tiger Hill!

Like I mentioned before, my cloud was made of special sterling silver!

Very soon, we were off again, this time to tranquil and breathtakingly beautiful Bhutan...!!