toot! toot!

A train ride of closed minds.
Of astonishingly self-congratulatory tones.
Of loud unashamed hypocritical proclamations.
Of being the only protesting female voice amongst many baritones that insisted that golden were the days when rajasthani women walked miles balancing 4 pots of precious water on their head. "Guardians of culture", they called them, and were disgusted that the working taps they had installed in a few villages now were "killing tradition".
As I returned from Bombay (Mumbai’s is an insipid compromise of a name), as usual, I hoped that the train driver falls sick and does not arrive, thereby causing the journey to be happily cancelled (juvenile idiocy that stems from childhood prayers that Dad doesn’t turn up to pick me up after school, so I could explore that nearby park all by myself).
But as luck would have it, the signal turned green, last minute bye-byes turned frantic and teary, the stationmaster’s white uniform whizzed past, and the platform disappeared into green shrubs and incomplete railway tracks stuck up in defiance in the air. As if on cue, everyone in the compartment checked his/her bags, smiled weakly at a neighbour who seemed most likely to nod/grin in response. The perfunctory "where are you going?" and "why had you been to Bombay?" later, common ground was found and conversation shaped up over numerous cups of watery chai and kaapi.
A very young girl sat by the window; a hindi Amar Chitra Katha comic book lay open on her lap, but her eyes kept dreamily scanning the world outside the window. The two army men who sat by me tried to keep their erect sitting position, their hands neatly folded across their chest. But when everyone began taking off their chappals and slouching into easy-to-day-dream poses, they gave in too.
A pot-bellied middle-aged man sat by the young girl (who was being brought back from her in-laws home), noticing disapprovingly how she had scrunched up her saree so she could squat. "Must be her father," I thought. She caught his look too, and decided she’d change into more modest jeans and a shirt- she was going to her own home anyway.
As she left the coupe, her father began contemplatively, "Who wears sarees these days… It’s all western culture. We are slaves of USA…" Hmm… where have I heard THAT before? Of course, the desi man dishing it out was bursting out of his wrinkle-free pants and casual-formal shirt.
But this was the peg the old muslim man (who, hearteningly, was in crisp white dhoti-kurta with old pan stains and some tell-tale beedi seared holes near the seam) was waiting for: "Saree hi aurathon ki shaan hoti hai. Hamare zamaane mein ladkiyan saare gaon ki shaan hothi thi. Jab ek ladki maike chod jaathi thi, tho saara gaon rota tha… wo thi un dinon ki bath… aaj kal kaun kambakhth apne padosi ka naam jaantha hai?"
16 hours of tearing apart social change, bad-mouthing Pakistan ("their population is just as big as our fauj, so we can crush them like little dirty ants"), spitting on "cowherd" Laloo, playing up pristine Vajpayee, one-upmanship philanthropy stories (though every beggar who came around was shooed off rudely), occasional singing of "mere desh ki dharti" and "aye mere watan ke logon"....
I who choke up when Chaurasia plays the Jaya He of the anthem, suprised myself at how many uncontrollable giggling fits I had to muffle.
A software engineer (who lay on his tummy on the upper berth, sticking his head out from one side, and playing the perfect Shakuni catalyst to the whole debate), made sure that every time the passionate exchange dwindled or got repetitive, he came up with gems like "But aren’t the women of today equal to the mardh?",
"How can one wear a dhoti to work if one is a software engineer?",
"Uncle, this is the computer & Internet age!"
and the crown— "How come your daughters can go to a dhandia function at midnight, but cannot go to the disco at the same time?". (wah! wah! just doesn’t cover it)

A train journey of political speeches. I'm moved to laughs. My vote is in.

when an elephant rode on a mouse

After tossing and turning restlessly in bed for a whole night, I finally made my decision. I would not drown the clay Ganesha in a bucket of water in the backyard. The reason, of course, was my mother’s winning argument: "We already have only 2 decent buckets in the house. If Ganesha sits in one bucket for a week, then how to wash clothes??"
So I checked the newspaper for alternatives they might have for ecologically concerned, but bucket-deficient people who had a Ganesha idol to dunk. Ulsoor Lake** was mentioned as one such solution. Images of shorts-clad jawans wiping sweat and green goo off their body while cleaning up the stinky, hyacinth filled, silted lake a year ago flashed in my mind. But I read on: "An area would be clearly separated from the main lake and will be set aside exclusively for immersing the Ganesha idols."
And so, the lake it had to be. Rather, the tank-in-corner-of-lake-generously-alloted-for-marrying-religion-and-ecology it had to be. So the idol securely placed in the leg-space of my Scooty, I rode my way to the said tank. All the while, I was painfully balancing my legs in the air (thanks to amma’s "Don’t keep your feet anywhere near the idol!"). I’m still amazed at how everyone on the road had the same reaction to my antics:
Absent looking around to find where the loud metallic clanging was coming from >> Realisation that it’s my bike >> Double take on seeing my bike gymnastics >> Idiotic, self-satisfied grin >> Ganesha idol noticed >> Instant look of forgiveness
Now, as soon as I parked my bike near the lake, a young man walked towards me.
I noticed that his pants were wet knee-down. I nodded and stepped aside.
He touched his hand to his lip, then to his chest, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply. Then he lifted my Ganesha, faced it frontwards, stuck it to his chest, and walked towards the tank.
I scurried after him.
At the edge of the tank, he paused and gave me a brief, blank look.
I subtlely touched my handbag.
He turned away from me, and walked into the tank. He went upto a point where the water level was such that his pants wouldn’t get wetter. Now he turned toward me, but looked skyward. Dip, dip, dip. Thrice. Then he floated the idol away.
I looked into my bag and fished out a 10 rupee note. He took the money and went back to the parking lot. We hadn’t spoken even once.
I looked around. A middle-aged brahmin man, dry as a bone, his face purple, and his strained veins popping in a V-shape in the middle of his forehead, was hysterically yelling at a little boy (also wet knee-down) in tamil: "You are not supposed to touch Ganapati till we reach the edge of the tank! Who asked you to take it from me here itself?? Now I have to do puja from beginning, you dirty idiot!!"
He swung his hand violently towards the boy’s face.
I turned away. But I heard the sharp sound of hand on cheek.
I walked quickly towards where some more men wet knee-down were having silent conversations with more people bringing Ganeshas on bikes.
....
**The municipal corporation has put these little ads on street lamps all over town, that applaud Bangalore for being ‘The City of Gardens’, ‘The City of Lakes’, ‘…IT’, ‘…Pubs’, ‘…Parks’, ‘…Kempegowda’(courtier who planned the city). Although I love Bengloor with all my heart, I must confess that the corporation is a big fat liar. But I must say, they’re clever with colours. The City of Gardens board is green, the lakes board is blue, and the Kempegowda board is golden yellow- to signify royalty, of course.

Winner: big, green, ugly

Always thought Puss in Boots was a british kitty. Hmmm... Then he did some heart-wrenching dilated pupils, ogre butt-licking, shaking his boot-y and even ricky martin. umm, isn't he puerto rican?. Oh well, as long as they didn't plug a Spanish mole on PIB's face, get him to wear low-cut shirts, grunt-sing and litter with a tennis player/model.
This Zorro-cat was loved! I can't wait for more Shreks, donkeys, evil fairy godmothers and fairy-tale mishaps. These should be documented. It's time bedtime stories were jazzed up!

weakend lite

It was unsettling to see an astonishingly still lake. I even dropped a leaf on it to see if it floated in some particular direction. (but no needle-- learning from The Edge... that hopkins, alec baldwin bear movie)
How-come-it-doesn’t-sound-like-noise cries of monkeys and birds. Tents are pitched on the lakeside, complete with teakwood cots, shampoo and coat hanger (!). A Shikari Shambu hat is handed to you and a lantern is shoved into your hands (no electricity. You’re supposed to grope your way around to the attached bathroom).
But there was the random angry elephant that gave us the spine tingling thrills with earsplitting trumpeting as it crashed down trees right in our jeep’s path, leaving us stranded there for hours. And running around with 8 wild kids (not wild= mowgli wild, but just regular city kids going crazy in the shock of discovering open space and a water body that’s not a bath tub)… err… point was: Running around with 8 wild kids will guarantee that at least 3 will fall “accidentally” into the lake and splash around there. Until a panic-stricken boatman runs down madly gesturing them to get out because… ulp… CROCODILES are there!!!!!!! Mad clambering out later, nervous giggles fill the air as we dismiss the boatman as an old fool believing in tall tales. But no one ever ventures for a swim after that.
A thorough city-bred, I sigh and moan and rave about a liberating weekend in the jungle. “The city pushed me to the brink,” (said with an appropriately dramatic tired tone, hair-clutching and leg stretching) “I needed to get out.”
Bunkum.
Ask anybody in the city.
Mad rushes must be kept alive, missed lunches must be whined about and smoke-induced chest congestion must be taken to the hospital where the wait makes you read 1996’s “current affairs” in a dettol sprayed magazine.
The rain must be braved with a blue plastic cover copiously protecting the head, all just to make sure the bus isn’t missed. Arguments with automen must have “anecdote” written all over them and while laughing over it with friends, it must be cocktailed with the neighbour’s automan experience that was unfairly funnier than your own.
Page 3 faces must be trashed over tea (and the disgust is probably real too) but on coming face to face with one, embarrassingly garbled sentences must spew forth. Potholes and fly-over projects that never take off must be complained about to every person who is even remotely associated with the press—“As a journalist, you MUST take up this issue” over and over and over again. Theatre-owners must go on strike and pirated CD fellows must get all pricey and charge triple.
Cubbon park must be visited by an old greying couple quietly taking a morning walk, by 2 mummys catching up on each other’s lives over their kids’ “mummy! See! Lizard!” and “mummy! I want bhelpuri!”, and by those who want to just stretch that wonderful day out, but can’t think of a wallet-friendly place.
I’m an old city fool.

sign up..

Is cynicism a good thing? As an occasional cynic, I nod from ceiling to floor.
Does it impede unbridled happiness? Why no. A scoff, a cough-like "ha!", a crossing-of-hands and a mental rolling-with-dry-laughter makes my day.
There's an all day, every day triumph because I don’t expect to find the gold locket in the packet of chips anyway. A whooping thrill when a leaf hits me in the face because, well, that means the leaves are still around. Calm nod to the lorry driver I’ve just missed being killed by, since I don’t hope that he’ll stay on the right side of the road, and anyway, I’m alive. Oh, am I by any chance, seeing the bright side? Thought to ponder, but no. By assuming to be only met by the dark side, any non-dark side is a happy bonus. But when the bonus comes, I don’t think the taxman will come with his axe.
Someone defines a cynic as a person who has taken off his/her rose tinted glasses and crushed them to the ground, thereby improving vision considerably. (audience: wry laugh) I never wore rose tinted glasses. Or even those sickly yellow tinted ones. (Yellow is beautiful only in aging books too brittle to be held. And when it’s a submarine). Therefore, dumb definition thrown in bin.
Cynicism's there because it's easy. To shake the analysis out of things, to bypass the post-mortem and to start with nil. That way, anything can only be an addition.

Rather be sittin' just forgettin' it
-Moby