There are certain things that you are proud of. This ‘thing(s)’ can be anything. They could be something materialistic, something achieved, something gained, something unique or something fought for. But the point that I am trying to make is that this pride is pretty much unshakeable. The mere mention of it makes you beam with pride, and automatically, as if on cue, your chest swells up and your head arcs up with pride and admiration. Also, you turn totally irrational and illogical in trying to prove any person wrong that maligns it.
Now, most of you are aware of how proud I am of my city. By my city, I mean Bombay. Irrespective of the bad roads, bad climate, incessant rains, massive traffic jams, lack of personal space, crumbling infrastructure, and other such problems that are weighing down Bombay, I am really very proud of the city. I take pride in the famed resilience (though, I have changed my stand on it now. I feel this resilience is quite idiotic, and the people responsible should be taken to task instead of suffering silently), the food, the crowds, the sea-fronts, the night-life (I am not in touch with this for quite some time, but I hear that it is, as usual, rocking), the bambaiyaa lingo, rude manner of talking, the helping nature of people, the film industry, and many other things that are associated with it. I can rave on and on about them. Out of all the things that I am full of pride for about Bombay, the one that tops the list is the transportation. There are many modes available, and though I am proud of the trains and buses as well, I am a tad bit partial about the taxis and autos.
I have been put through many harrowing experiences with taxis and especially autos in other cities, and have also heard and read about them from people from various cities all over India. But, I have never come across anyone who has had a horrible experience in Bombay. In Bangalore, the auto-walla makes you feel like he is making a big favour on you by taking you to your destination, and hence, he has every right to over charge you, even though his meter is already rigged to overcharge you. Ditto is the case in Pune. The biggest problem in Pune is to actually find an auto willing to take you to your destination. The difficulty is equal to the difficulty in finding vegetarian cuisine in China, if not more. Recently, in Pune, there have been many cases of arguments with auto-drivers ending with the passengers in hospital. Hitch-hiking is a concept alien to Bombay. It is as alien to any Bombayite as an original movie idea is to Bollywood. I learnt the distinct and crucial use of the thumb in Pune. In Bombay, all you need to do is come to the shoulder of the road, and lift your arm perpendicular your body. Within seconds, milliseconds sometimes, you will have many autos screeching to a halt, thereby causing vehicle behind them to veer dangerously and colourful expletives to fly. Seldom do you get an auto-walla who refuses to take you to your destination. And the refusal is done with such grief, that you too feel sorry for causing him so much sorrow. Taking an auto ride with fixed fares is another unfamiliar concept in Bombay. If an auto is taken with fixed fare, then the fare would be less than the average meter fare for that destination, and that too, over a long distance ride only. Overcharging is another demon that we Bombayites do not worry about, and night fare is also 1/4th extra of the meter fare, and the auto/taxis adhere to these rules strictly.
But, we are not here to discuss the righteousness of the taxis/autos of Bombay. No sir, we are here to talk about how I have lost pride in them recently. While coming back from my last out-station trip, I required a cab to take me to my house from the station. All the cabbies and autos outside Bandra Terminus refused to come to my area on meter fare. They had all come to an agreement by which they had fixed the fare to a particular area, and refused to accept anything below that price. And just like in movies, there was not a single cop in sight when one was needed. The pride in me was brutally murdered, and after the shock and trauma subsided, I brokered a deal with one of the cabbie, and got home. But, all through the way, my head was hung with shame.
During my stint in Bangalore, a bad auto experience which got me unnerved, resulted in the below conversation in my head, or something on these lines.
*BM - Bangalore Mayor.
*MM - Mumbai Mayor.
BM: How are you? How is your city?
MM: I am fine. The rains had disrupted the city yesterday, but we are getting along.
BM: Things seem as usual there then. I have called you regarding a problem here.
MM: Tell me, I am all ears.
BM: There is a new type of terror which has taken over my city. This terror has been a cause of concern for quite some time, and matters have now gone out of my hands.
MM: Anything that I can help you with?
BM: Actually, it’s only YOU who can help me. Can you send me a dozen of your auto and cab drivers to Bangalore to tackle the growing menace of the revolutionaries here? The city is in their iron grip, and causing terrors in the hearts and pockets of people.
MM: Hah, such a problem!! Don’t worry; I will dispatch two dozens of each right away. They will have rid your city of the menace within no time, and restore transportation in no time. They were quite effective in other cities too.
BM: Thank you. Here’s my gratitude for your help; 1000MW of power.
MM: Thank you.
MM hangs the phone and immediately picks up the red phone which is a hotline to auto and taxi union offices. They, in turn, pick out the best two dozen auto and taxi drivers and brief them about the mission on hand, and dispatch them in an aircraft to Bangalore immediately. And within some years the Mayor of Bombay becomes the Chief Minister of for overcoming the power problem in the state. Everyone is happy.
Now, this conversation will never take place, not even in my head. Because, the pride is lost; it has died a painful harrowing death. Please bear two minutes of silence for it.
P.S: Notice how I refrain from using Mumbai in place of Bombay. I guess am still stuck to the old name.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Monday, September 1, 2008
Thousand miles
Though the title is analogous to something deep and meaningful, be rest assured this is far from it. This post is actually a travelogue of the trip which I took over the past long weekend. And for the title, well, I travelled a little more than 1600 kilometres, but a post title as ‘1600 kilometres’ seemed senseless to me. So I converted the kilometres to miles and arrived at this title. Now you see the logic in it.
Day 1:
The journey began on Thursday afternoon from Pune to Mumbai. This being the last working day before the long weekend, everyone was geared up for some or the other location to hit. After all, this was the first chance of a holiday since May Day. I should have anticipated the crowd and left earlier than I actually did. It took me a full 90 minutes to get a vehicle to take me to Mumbai. Not that there was a dearth of transportation, but the presence of touts at the rendezvous point had sky rocketed the prices for any vehicle other than the state transport buses, which were already full. With due credit to NWKSTRC, I made it just in time to home to throw out the dirty laundry from Pune, pack some clothes, put on a fresh pair, shove some food into my growling stomach, and rush to Dadar to catch the train for Ahmedabad. The train journey was fine, except that it was late by half an hour and a toddler in my compartment took ill and bawled through the night, automatically vetoing everyone’s sleep. Next day morning, I overheard someone say that the kid’s mom was a ‘Jeans Waali Mummy’, and hence the all-night bawling. Quite an expression, I say.
Day 2:
Reached Ahmedabad by 7 AM, and boarded the cab which was booked for taking us around. Within 10 minutes of disembarking the train, we were off to Himmatnagar, a small town, some 2 hours away from Ahmedabad. A special mention must be made here of the good conditions of the highways of the state. There was a heavy downpour in the state some days back, but even then, the roads were in excellent conditions. I have driven and/or navigated in six-seven states of India, and feel that it is relatively safer to drive on Gujarat highways. I had a discussion with my driver too on this, partly to keep myself and the driver awake and active. I have had quite a few experiences of drowsy drivers on my regular trips from Pune, that I lose my sleep, by default, whenever I am in any vehicle smaller than a bus.
By 9.30 AM, we reached my uncle’s village. It is a small, sleepy village, nothing more than a speck on the state-map. After some breakfast along with a couple of hours of rest, we were off to the local temple. Once we were back from the temple, we had our lunch. The taste of the food was different than the food I usually have. In fact, it was different than what I have at home too. A discussion was promptly started on this, and the general consensus was that ‘Everything tastes different in village, and tastes better too’. Later, we were off to Mahudi. The best thing about this place is the offering to the Lord. It’s a sweet delicacy, which is to be completely consumed in the temple premises itself, post-offering. When I was a kid, I used to insist going to this place for this sole reason only. The next location on the agenda was Aaglod. They have a very beautiful temple here and the peace and serenity is something for which people often go to the Himalayas, or so I felt.
The next place to visit was the highlight of the Day-2. It was the visit to the farm. This farm belongs to the uncle at whose house we were put up. This uncle is a tax professional from Mumbai, and farming is one of his hobbies. Actually what started out as a wish-fulfilment has become a hobby for him and it also gets him out of the hustle-bustle of Mumbai for at least a week, every month. His father had a dream of having a mango farm of their own, and in order to fulfil this wish the farm being discussed was developed.
No matter how many times I visit this farm, it never ceases to amaze me. On one side, you have the sprawling mango trees, with raw mangoes hanging on the branches by the dozens, and on the other side you have the egg-plants, lady-fingers, lemons, oranges, sweet-limes, custard-apples, papayas, Indian gooseberries, bitter-gourds, spiky-gourds, fennel, bamboos, etc, etc. I was born and brought up in Mumbai, and seeing all such wonders from nature in their natural form simply amazes me. Earlier, I used to think that after the initial visits, the amazement might wear off, but no, I still stare at nature’s abundance with wonder. After taking a walk around the whole farm, I took out a char-pai, and spread myself on it. Believe me when I say this, nothing relaxes you more than a quick nap on the char-pai, under the shade of trees, in the middle of a big farm, with a gentle breeze blowing along with the occasional cry of peacocks and mynas.
After the walk back from the farm to the house, we had a quite dinner, and were off to sleep by 10 PM. The surprising thing here is that I dozed off to glory at 10 PM. I never get sleep that early.
Day 3:
Day 3 began with the gentle cry of the peacocks, which had entered the neighbour’s courtyard. Another surprise that hit me here is that no one in particular seemed to be bothered about the peacocks. Peacocks are part of this village, as much as stray dogs and mosquitoes are part of big cities.
After a sumptuous breakfast, we hit the roads for our next destination, Ambaji. It is a two hour drive from Himmatnagar, with lush, green farms on either side of the roads. It looked like the farms in Punjab shown in Hindi films, albeit the crop was different. Enroute, we made a stop at Posina. This place too has a temple. The problem here is that Posina is a very remote tribal village, and today being Poornima, it was day of festivities for the local-folk. So, the entire village had gathered at the centre of the village, dressed in their traditional best. How I wish I had a camera in my hand at that time, and I would have got a picture for you. No amount of words would do justice to describe their attire. It like, you have to see it to believe it. Another shocking thing was the precariously perched cell-phone in the dhotis. Cell-phone penetration figures are indeed true. The other problem was our driver. Now this driver had some incidences in his past with the people of this particular tribal caste, and hence he had turned as white as a chalk on seeing the crowd. His condition was analogous to the condition of the driver who had seen the wild elephant in the middle of the road during our trip to Wayanad. Anyways, nothing untoward occurred, and we were safely allowed to pass, but we did get some crazy and weird looks.
This day was one of the rare occasions when there was a Poornima, accompanied with a partial lunar eclipse. I do not know what effects do eclipses have on people, but what I do know is that temples all over the world shut down, approximately 12 hours before the eclipse begins. We knew that Ambaji temple would close by 4 PM, but were not quite sure of it. On reaching there, we straightaway made our way to the temple. Had we been late by 15 minutes, we would not have got to enter the temple. Like the cliché goes; ‘Made it just in time’. Once the temple business was over, we took to the local market for some browsing.
They make a mean masala-ultra-spicy-phudina-jaljeera-soda here. These are ones which are not meant for the weak-stomached. While on my second glass of this concoction, I saw a young tribal boy who was holding the hand of an equally young tribal girl and sprinting towards me. This couple was being followed by all the folks of that community present and the others present in the market joined the crowd. I couldn’t make the head or tail of this. So, while on my third glass of the stomach-exploder, I enquired with the vendor. He said this is an age-old tradition of the tribal community of Banaskanta (the people living on the banks of river Banas). On the occasion of festivals, young prospective groom grabs the hand of the girl whom he likes, and if the girl accepts the pitch, she runs along with him; otherwise, she simply jerks her hand free from the boy’s hands. Now, if she accepts the boy’s proposition, the entire community witness to this, runs behind them to prevent this mad-dash to marital bliss. The community does not even make a half-hearted to catch them, but are simply following tradition. This, my friends, is their version of a marriage. This simple act of running away by the couple binds them in holy matrimony for the rest of their lives. No kundli matching, no background checking, no income inquiries, no purohit, no mahurat, nothing at all. As simple as that. And the bonus to the parents is that they don’t have to spend a single rupee on the marriage ceremony. Thinking of the bride, she is only given a few nano-seconds to make the decision of a lifetime, but nevertheless, she makes it. I am sure this is the simplest and easiest way to get married.
Our return train to Mumbai was from Abu Road. The journey from Ambaji to Abu Road is a 40 minutes ride, and we reached well before the scheduled departure of the train. Here too, we made our way to the local market. Abu Road is quite famous for the Malai-Ghevar and Rabdi. They are very very tasty, and can make any foodie go weak in the knees. I ate some, and got quite a lot of it packed for home. The train was 15 minutes off schedule, but it did cover the time gap. The train ride was pretty slick. My family had not yet decided to whether to crucify me or break off my limbs, one at time, if their experience of the Gareeb-Rath turns out to be ghastly. In the end, all I can say is that I am still alive, and all my limbs are intact, thank you.
Day 4:
I was awake before the train reached Mumbai city limits. I spent the time staring aimlessly outside the window. As soon as the train trudged in to Bandra terminus, I was hit with this stark realization that the past three days flew by in a wiz. Tomorrow, I will again be on my way to Pune for regular office. I had bought the tickets and made the plan for this trip months in advance. But, on recalling the past three days, I had a broad grin on my face. All the efforts were really worth the trip.
Day 1:
The journey began on Thursday afternoon from Pune to Mumbai. This being the last working day before the long weekend, everyone was geared up for some or the other location to hit. After all, this was the first chance of a holiday since May Day. I should have anticipated the crowd and left earlier than I actually did. It took me a full 90 minutes to get a vehicle to take me to Mumbai. Not that there was a dearth of transportation, but the presence of touts at the rendezvous point had sky rocketed the prices for any vehicle other than the state transport buses, which were already full. With due credit to NWKSTRC, I made it just in time to home to throw out the dirty laundry from Pune, pack some clothes, put on a fresh pair, shove some food into my growling stomach, and rush to Dadar to catch the train for Ahmedabad. The train journey was fine, except that it was late by half an hour and a toddler in my compartment took ill and bawled through the night, automatically vetoing everyone’s sleep. Next day morning, I overheard someone say that the kid’s mom was a ‘Jeans Waali Mummy’, and hence the all-night bawling. Quite an expression, I say.
Day 2:
Reached Ahmedabad by 7 AM, and boarded the cab which was booked for taking us around. Within 10 minutes of disembarking the train, we were off to Himmatnagar, a small town, some 2 hours away from Ahmedabad. A special mention must be made here of the good conditions of the highways of the state. There was a heavy downpour in the state some days back, but even then, the roads were in excellent conditions. I have driven and/or navigated in six-seven states of India, and feel that it is relatively safer to drive on Gujarat highways. I had a discussion with my driver too on this, partly to keep myself and the driver awake and active. I have had quite a few experiences of drowsy drivers on my regular trips from Pune, that I lose my sleep, by default, whenever I am in any vehicle smaller than a bus.
By 9.30 AM, we reached my uncle’s village. It is a small, sleepy village, nothing more than a speck on the state-map. After some breakfast along with a couple of hours of rest, we were off to the local temple. Once we were back from the temple, we had our lunch. The taste of the food was different than the food I usually have. In fact, it was different than what I have at home too. A discussion was promptly started on this, and the general consensus was that ‘Everything tastes different in village, and tastes better too’. Later, we were off to Mahudi. The best thing about this place is the offering to the Lord. It’s a sweet delicacy, which is to be completely consumed in the temple premises itself, post-offering. When I was a kid, I used to insist going to this place for this sole reason only. The next location on the agenda was Aaglod. They have a very beautiful temple here and the peace and serenity is something for which people often go to the Himalayas, or so I felt.
The next place to visit was the highlight of the Day-2. It was the visit to the farm. This farm belongs to the uncle at whose house we were put up. This uncle is a tax professional from Mumbai, and farming is one of his hobbies. Actually what started out as a wish-fulfilment has become a hobby for him and it also gets him out of the hustle-bustle of Mumbai for at least a week, every month. His father had a dream of having a mango farm of their own, and in order to fulfil this wish the farm being discussed was developed.
No matter how many times I visit this farm, it never ceases to amaze me. On one side, you have the sprawling mango trees, with raw mangoes hanging on the branches by the dozens, and on the other side you have the egg-plants, lady-fingers, lemons, oranges, sweet-limes, custard-apples, papayas, Indian gooseberries, bitter-gourds, spiky-gourds, fennel, bamboos, etc, etc. I was born and brought up in Mumbai, and seeing all such wonders from nature in their natural form simply amazes me. Earlier, I used to think that after the initial visits, the amazement might wear off, but no, I still stare at nature’s abundance with wonder. After taking a walk around the whole farm, I took out a char-pai, and spread myself on it. Believe me when I say this, nothing relaxes you more than a quick nap on the char-pai, under the shade of trees, in the middle of a big farm, with a gentle breeze blowing along with the occasional cry of peacocks and mynas.
After the walk back from the farm to the house, we had a quite dinner, and were off to sleep by 10 PM. The surprising thing here is that I dozed off to glory at 10 PM. I never get sleep that early.
Day 3:
Day 3 began with the gentle cry of the peacocks, which had entered the neighbour’s courtyard. Another surprise that hit me here is that no one in particular seemed to be bothered about the peacocks. Peacocks are part of this village, as much as stray dogs and mosquitoes are part of big cities.
After a sumptuous breakfast, we hit the roads for our next destination, Ambaji. It is a two hour drive from Himmatnagar, with lush, green farms on either side of the roads. It looked like the farms in Punjab shown in Hindi films, albeit the crop was different. Enroute, we made a stop at Posina. This place too has a temple. The problem here is that Posina is a very remote tribal village, and today being Poornima, it was day of festivities for the local-folk. So, the entire village had gathered at the centre of the village, dressed in their traditional best. How I wish I had a camera in my hand at that time, and I would have got a picture for you. No amount of words would do justice to describe their attire. It like, you have to see it to believe it. Another shocking thing was the precariously perched cell-phone in the dhotis. Cell-phone penetration figures are indeed true. The other problem was our driver. Now this driver had some incidences in his past with the people of this particular tribal caste, and hence he had turned as white as a chalk on seeing the crowd. His condition was analogous to the condition of the driver who had seen the wild elephant in the middle of the road during our trip to Wayanad. Anyways, nothing untoward occurred, and we were safely allowed to pass, but we did get some crazy and weird looks.
This day was one of the rare occasions when there was a Poornima, accompanied with a partial lunar eclipse. I do not know what effects do eclipses have on people, but what I do know is that temples all over the world shut down, approximately 12 hours before the eclipse begins. We knew that Ambaji temple would close by 4 PM, but were not quite sure of it. On reaching there, we straightaway made our way to the temple. Had we been late by 15 minutes, we would not have got to enter the temple. Like the cliché goes; ‘Made it just in time’. Once the temple business was over, we took to the local market for some browsing.
They make a mean masala-ultra-spicy-phudina-jaljeera-soda here. These are ones which are not meant for the weak-stomached. While on my second glass of this concoction, I saw a young tribal boy who was holding the hand of an equally young tribal girl and sprinting towards me. This couple was being followed by all the folks of that community present and the others present in the market joined the crowd. I couldn’t make the head or tail of this. So, while on my third glass of the stomach-exploder, I enquired with the vendor. He said this is an age-old tradition of the tribal community of Banaskanta (the people living on the banks of river Banas). On the occasion of festivals, young prospective groom grabs the hand of the girl whom he likes, and if the girl accepts the pitch, she runs along with him; otherwise, she simply jerks her hand free from the boy’s hands. Now, if she accepts the boy’s proposition, the entire community witness to this, runs behind them to prevent this mad-dash to marital bliss. The community does not even make a half-hearted to catch them, but are simply following tradition. This, my friends, is their version of a marriage. This simple act of running away by the couple binds them in holy matrimony for the rest of their lives. No kundli matching, no background checking, no income inquiries, no purohit, no mahurat, nothing at all. As simple as that. And the bonus to the parents is that they don’t have to spend a single rupee on the marriage ceremony. Thinking of the bride, she is only given a few nano-seconds to make the decision of a lifetime, but nevertheless, she makes it. I am sure this is the simplest and easiest way to get married.
Our return train to Mumbai was from Abu Road. The journey from Ambaji to Abu Road is a 40 minutes ride, and we reached well before the scheduled departure of the train. Here too, we made our way to the local market. Abu Road is quite famous for the Malai-Ghevar and Rabdi. They are very very tasty, and can make any foodie go weak in the knees. I ate some, and got quite a lot of it packed for home. The train was 15 minutes off schedule, but it did cover the time gap. The train ride was pretty slick. My family had not yet decided to whether to crucify me or break off my limbs, one at time, if their experience of the Gareeb-Rath turns out to be ghastly. In the end, all I can say is that I am still alive, and all my limbs are intact, thank you.
Day 4:
I was awake before the train reached Mumbai city limits. I spent the time staring aimlessly outside the window. As soon as the train trudged in to Bandra terminus, I was hit with this stark realization that the past three days flew by in a wiz. Tomorrow, I will again be on my way to Pune for regular office. I had bought the tickets and made the plan for this trip months in advance. But, on recalling the past three days, I had a broad grin on my face. All the efforts were really worth the trip.
Monday, July 21, 2008
O brother, Where art thou?
Well well well, look who’s here?! Finally the blogger has decided to grace us with his presence. The blogger must have been pretty bogged down with work and would have absolutely no time for even a breather. I make this statement in lieu of the unabashed audacity with which the blogger used to come late to office, leave early and spend the (almost) whole of Fridays along with the weekends at Mumbai for the past six weeks!!
On the blogger’s defence, I agree that I have been relatively jobless and activity-less for almost two months now. My daily tasks were as many as those done by Garfield on any regular day. I come to office late, spend my day blog-hopping, leave office early and disappear right after breakfast on Fridays. The primary reason for the inactive blog is that nothing interesting happened with and around me to blog about. To add to the misery, I have been diagnosed with Writer’s Block [sigh]. Many a times it happened that I powered up the word processor, and after putting up some 200-300 odd words [PJ: 200 and 300 are even numbers, then how can they be odd words, eh?], gave it up and continued with my usual endeavours, which are, naught. The proof of this are the several half completed posts lying in a folder on my computer. And, this atrocious crime was committed keeping best interests of the blog and the visitors at heart. There is no ill will involved. I did not want to subject the visitors to crappy material. I want to serve the visitors here with the best of matter, both in quality and quantity.
A-ha, the blogger is trying to mislead by using the sympathy factor. There is a hidden counter embedded in the blog which is proof to the paltry number of visitors , and the ‘Archives’ section is proof that the number of comments on the posts is so meagre that is would be a disgrace to even mention them. How can you say that you wanted to post something meaningful and purposeful, when the visitors are virtually non-existent and comments quite negligible?! And, a crime is a crime, is a crime, period. Whatever may be the reason, the topic of discussion here is that a felony has been committed and it simply cannot be overlooked.
People, I plead guilty, as charged. But, a thought must also be given to the dearth of inspiration and support. I promise to increase the frequency of posting, but would require help and support from the regular as well as from the mute visitors of this blog. Do forgive me this time as I resolve to post more often. Right now, I require your support to prove my poor defence strategy. You; yes you, can throw the brickbats and/or pledge your support in the comments section. Remember, no matter how small a contribution, it always helps. So please do not refrain yourself and have a go at the comments section.
P.S: I have become too lazy to write and am somehow trying to justify it. This post is a poor effort to cover my track, and a shameless act to get people to comment here. Maybe it might motivate me to write frequently.
On the blogger’s defence, I agree that I have been relatively jobless and activity-less for almost two months now. My daily tasks were as many as those done by Garfield on any regular day. I come to office late, spend my day blog-hopping, leave office early and disappear right after breakfast on Fridays. The primary reason for the inactive blog is that nothing interesting happened with and around me to blog about. To add to the misery, I have been diagnosed with Writer’s Block [sigh]. Many a times it happened that I powered up the word processor, and after putting up some 200-300 odd words [PJ: 200 and 300 are even numbers, then how can they be odd words, eh?], gave it up and continued with my usual endeavours, which are, naught. The proof of this are the several half completed posts lying in a folder on my computer. And, this atrocious crime was committed keeping best interests of the blog and the visitors at heart. There is no ill will involved. I did not want to subject the visitors to crappy material. I want to serve the visitors here with the best of matter, both in quality and quantity.
A-ha, the blogger is trying to mislead by using the sympathy factor. There is a hidden counter embedded in the blog which is proof to the paltry number of visitors , and the ‘Archives’ section is proof that the number of comments on the posts is so meagre that is would be a disgrace to even mention them. How can you say that you wanted to post something meaningful and purposeful, when the visitors are virtually non-existent and comments quite negligible?! And, a crime is a crime, is a crime, period. Whatever may be the reason, the topic of discussion here is that a felony has been committed and it simply cannot be overlooked.
People, I plead guilty, as charged. But, a thought must also be given to the dearth of inspiration and support. I promise to increase the frequency of posting, but would require help and support from the regular as well as from the mute visitors of this blog. Do forgive me this time as I resolve to post more often. Right now, I require your support to prove my poor defence strategy. You; yes you, can throw the brickbats and/or pledge your support in the comments section. Remember, no matter how small a contribution, it always helps. So please do not refrain yourself and have a go at the comments section.
P.S: I have become too lazy to write and am somehow trying to justify it. This post is a poor effort to cover my track, and a shameless act to get people to comment here. Maybe it might motivate me to write frequently.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
What’s in a name?!
A name is a word, term, or phrase by which somebody or something is known and distinguished from other people or things. – Encarta Dictionary.
A name is a label for a human or animal, thing, place, product and even an idea or concept, normally used to distinguish one from another. – Wikipedia.
Name is the first thing that a baby learns to react to. Babies, even before they learn to speak, or for that matter, even crawl, are able to identify their names and react to it when called.
The other day, I was discussing about names with my friend. We were talking about how people have weird names and what was the weirdest name we have encountered. Somewhere in between, she nonchalantly declared that she will name her kids with names that are quite common and easier to spell and pronounce and would not spin-off to anything goofy or hideous. Now she herself has a name that is the Marathi word for a flower-pot, and the actual noun is really funny when uttered, but I have been forewarned with dire consequences if I mention her name here.
I, myself, have had quite a few problems with my name. Now, I have an Islamic name even though I am a Hindu. I have absolutely no issues with my name being from any community, but it gets on my nerves when people do not comprehend the proper articulation of my name, irrespective of whether it is said on the phone or in person, or for that matter, even spelt out to them by me.
I face many issues when I utter my name to someone and that person is trying to write it down. First and foremost, people do not have the patience to hear the complete pronunciation from me. Then they get the spelling all wrong, and lastly, they themselves give a shot to pronounce their interpretation of my name, eventually making it all a big mess. I even resorted to taking extra pain to explain, like,
Even after this, most of the times, my name comes across incorrectly. Maximum people get my name as ‘NISHANT’. There is this one friend, V, who for close to two years called me ‘Nishant’ even though she sends me emails regularly. Other common distortions of my name are ‘Vishal’, ‘Nishad’, ‘Nishan’, and once someone even got it as ‘Nisha’, never even once bothering to reflect that it is a female name.
I have had many problems with my name on official documents too.
The Maharashtra Road Transport Office issues book type of driving license. Recently, they upgraded to the digital I-Card type ones. I have two copies of the book variety and one of the I-Card types. All three of them have different spellings of my name. One got it correct; second one as ‘Nishad’ and the last one as ‘Nishant’.
Check out the goof-up in one of the driving license --->
Such was the outcome even after personally filling out the registrations forms.
My experience with my name in Bangalore was the most remarkable. We are all quite aware of the convention of people from southern parts of India (the area starting below Goa till Kerala) to insert extra ‘H’ in names. Now, they got a little more adventurous and decided to play around with the ‘H’ in my name instead of inserting one. They revolutionized it from ‘Nishat’ to ‘Nisath’. After getting tired of playing with my first name, they resorted to calling me by my surname, which is ‘Parekh’, but they construed it as ‘PORREKH’.
Another aspect of my name being pronounced incorrectly is with certain community. Out of these, the Gujarati community is most notorious for not pronouncing the ‘H’ in any word. So, even though this category of people gets my spelling right, I advertently become ‘Nisat’. On similar lines, a real conversation between a cousin and his mom:
His Mom: (frenziedly) Kusal? Kusal?
Cousin: (annoyingly) Mom, if you wanted to call my ‘Kusal’, why in the God’s name did you name me ‘Kushal’?!
His Mom: ?????
Then there are cases where kids are given weird names whose pronunciation is either difficult or the name would have an intrinsic part to it, or, the name can easily offshoot to something infuriating.
Examples:
1. I know a person named ‘Tanan’. I always forget how many ‘an’ does his name contain and I eventually end up adding extra ‘an’ to his name and consequently calling him ‘Tanananan’, or something like that.
2. A friend decided to name his kid ‘Jashit’. I warned him that his kid might grow up with a disturbed childhood when kids at school start excluding the ‘Ja’ from his name. He did not heed my warning though and I pray till date that my prediction comes out wrong.
3. A friend’s surname as ‘Abhyankar’ and he is always referred to as ‘Bhayankar’.
I have lost all hope that anyone would ever get my name right the first time I utter it. If I have a cold, the number of times that I have to utter my name in the hopes of getting it across correctly, increases exponentially. I have now ceased to correct anyone who gets my name incorrectly, if there is no official document involved. I simply agree as long as the noun which is blurted rhymes with my actual name. I usually respond to Nishat, Nishant, Nishanth, Nisha, Nishan, Nishad, Nishal, Vishal, Nisat, …..
Your personal experiences with names are welcome in the comments section.
A name is a label for a human or animal, thing, place, product and even an idea or concept, normally used to distinguish one from another. – Wikipedia.
Name is the first thing that a baby learns to react to. Babies, even before they learn to speak, or for that matter, even crawl, are able to identify their names and react to it when called.
The other day, I was discussing about names with my friend. We were talking about how people have weird names and what was the weirdest name we have encountered. Somewhere in between, she nonchalantly declared that she will name her kids with names that are quite common and easier to spell and pronounce and would not spin-off to anything goofy or hideous. Now she herself has a name that is the Marathi word for a flower-pot, and the actual noun is really funny when uttered, but I have been forewarned with dire consequences if I mention her name here.
I, myself, have had quite a few problems with my name. Now, I have an Islamic name even though I am a Hindu. I have absolutely no issues with my name being from any community, but it gets on my nerves when people do not comprehend the proper articulation of my name, irrespective of whether it is said on the phone or in person, or for that matter, even spelt out to them by me.
I face many issues when I utter my name to someone and that person is trying to write it down. First and foremost, people do not have the patience to hear the complete pronunciation from me. Then they get the spelling all wrong, and lastly, they themselves give a shot to pronounce their interpretation of my name, eventually making it all a big mess. I even resorted to taking extra pain to explain, like,
“My name is ‘Nishat’, ‘N…I…S…H…A…T’; ‘T’ for ‘Train’.”
OR
“My name is ‘Nishat’, ‘Nisha’ with a ‘T’.”
OR
“My name is ‘Nishat’, ‘Nisha’ with a ‘T’.”
Even after this, most of the times, my name comes across incorrectly. Maximum people get my name as ‘NISHANT’. There is this one friend, V, who for close to two years called me ‘Nishant’ even though she sends me emails regularly. Other common distortions of my name are ‘Vishal’, ‘Nishad’, ‘Nishan’, and once someone even got it as ‘Nisha’, never even once bothering to reflect that it is a female name.
I have had many problems with my name on official documents too.
<--- See the alteration from ‘Nishant’ to ‘Nishat’ on my birth certificate.
The Maharashtra Road Transport Office issues book type of driving license. Recently, they upgraded to the digital I-Card type ones. I have two copies of the book variety and one of the I-Card types. All three of them have different spellings of my name. One got it correct; second one as ‘Nishad’ and the last one as ‘Nishant’.
Check out the goof-up in one of the driving license --->
Such was the outcome even after personally filling out the registrations forms.
My experience with my name in Bangalore was the most remarkable. We are all quite aware of the convention of people from southern parts of India (the area starting below Goa till Kerala) to insert extra ‘H’ in names. Now, they got a little more adventurous and decided to play around with the ‘H’ in my name instead of inserting one. They revolutionized it from ‘Nishat’ to ‘Nisath’. After getting tired of playing with my first name, they resorted to calling me by my surname, which is ‘Parekh’, but they construed it as ‘PORREKH’.
Another aspect of my name being pronounced incorrectly is with certain community. Out of these, the Gujarati community is most notorious for not pronouncing the ‘H’ in any word. So, even though this category of people gets my spelling right, I advertently become ‘Nisat’. On similar lines, a real conversation between a cousin and his mom:
His Mom: (frenziedly) Kusal? Kusal?
Cousin: (annoyingly) Mom, if you wanted to call my ‘Kusal’, why in the God’s name did you name me ‘Kushal’?!
His Mom: ?????
Then there are cases where kids are given weird names whose pronunciation is either difficult or the name would have an intrinsic part to it, or, the name can easily offshoot to something infuriating.
Examples:
1. I know a person named ‘Tanan’. I always forget how many ‘an’ does his name contain and I eventually end up adding extra ‘an’ to his name and consequently calling him ‘Tanananan’, or something like that.
2. A friend decided to name his kid ‘Jashit’. I warned him that his kid might grow up with a disturbed childhood when kids at school start excluding the ‘Ja’ from his name. He did not heed my warning though and I pray till date that my prediction comes out wrong.
3. A friend’s surname as ‘Abhyankar’ and he is always referred to as ‘Bhayankar’.
I have lost all hope that anyone would ever get my name right the first time I utter it. If I have a cold, the number of times that I have to utter my name in the hopes of getting it across correctly, increases exponentially. I have now ceased to correct anyone who gets my name incorrectly, if there is no official document involved. I simply agree as long as the noun which is blurted rhymes with my actual name. I usually respond to Nishat, Nishant, Nishanth, Nisha, Nishan, Nishad, Nishal, Vishal, Nisat, …..
Your personal experiences with names are welcome in the comments section.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Kids !!!!
I receive many forwarded mails, and the ones which I like most are the ones which have the capability to tickle my funny bone. Especially the ones where the mail claims that the below outrageous content has been written by a toddler. Like the mail where a kid does an algebra expansion sum by simply moving the brackets further and further apart, or, like the one where kids were asked to define what is 'Love', with the result being quite funny. By now you must have got a fair idea of the mails which are being referred.
First and foremost, these mails are quite hilarious. No doubts about that at all, but someone they are not convincing enough to me. I never trust the mail’s claim that the stuff has been done by a kid. I always felt they are doctored by grown-ups. Couple of days back, my uncle sent me some scanned notebook pages. These documents were the stories written by his seven year old daughter, my cousin. Reading these stories, I realised two things. First: those toddler mails are right in their claims, and second: felt real sorry for all my kindergarten and junior school teachers who had to bear the torture of reading the stories and essays written by me when I was a kid. I simply wish I could write as good as my cousin writes when I was her age.
Nonetheless, I have uploaded the scanned pictures here. Do read them, and read them all, especially the morals. I was very nostaligic and recalled all my school days where we were forced to write morals for anything and everything. I have written many a weirder morals in my heydays.
Story 1 : Going to the boarding school.
Story 2: The Friendly Girl.
Story 3: The Beautiful Girl (this one takes the first prize).
First and foremost, these mails are quite hilarious. No doubts about that at all, but someone they are not convincing enough to me. I never trust the mail’s claim that the stuff has been done by a kid. I always felt they are doctored by grown-ups. Couple of days back, my uncle sent me some scanned notebook pages. These documents were the stories written by his seven year old daughter, my cousin. Reading these stories, I realised two things. First: those toddler mails are right in their claims, and second: felt real sorry for all my kindergarten and junior school teachers who had to bear the torture of reading the stories and essays written by me when I was a kid. I simply wish I could write as good as my cousin writes when I was her age.
Nonetheless, I have uploaded the scanned pictures here. Do read them, and read them all, especially the morals. I was very nostaligic and recalled all my school days where we were forced to write morals for anything and everything. I have written many a weirder morals in my heydays.
Story 1 : Going to the boarding school.
Story 2: The Friendly Girl.
Story 3: The Beautiful Girl (this one takes the first prize).
Apart from this, there are couple of conversations which I can recall. I have been witness to them where kids have asked or stated things which had me completed bowled.
Conversation 1:
An uncle of mine resided at Singapore for a long time. Currently, he is in Doha. But when my aunt (his wife) was pregnant with their first kid, they were in Singapore. We were all very ecstatic on hearing the news. Another cousin of mine, who was no more than 5 or 6 years old, on hearing this news got a very genuine doubt at that point of time. This kid always turns to his grandfather for any doubts that he has. Only his grandfather has the patience to answer all his questions. But this time, even the grandfather was tongue-tied. The conversation was something like below:
Cousin: Dada, I have a question.
Grandpa: Ask beta.
Cousin: Kaaki is pregnant na?
Grandpa: Yes. In some months, you will have a baby brother or sister.
Cousin: But would the baby look like us or would the baby look like Chinese people?
Grandpa: ……??
Conversation 2:
A friend’s daughter, who was around 4 years old at that time, had this conversation with her dad. The conversation went something like this:
Father: Urja, tomorrow is Sunday. What do you want to do?
Daughter: We will go to shopping, then for a movie and later to a restaurant.
(Pretty smart for a 4 year old, I say).
Father: Where do you want to go for shopping?
Daughter: Any place where we get clothes and nail polish for me.
Father: Which movie do you want to see?
Daughter: Any movie, but we will not go to those ‘A’ rated movies. Last time we went, the security guard did not allow me to get into the movie hall, and I had to come home with dada without watching the movie.
Father: ……??
So you see, kids these days are very very smart are quite inquisitive. We, in our days, accepted anything and everything that was told to us. I wonder what would happen in the future.
If you have any such incidences involving kids, please do mention them in the comments section.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Random Bakwaas
I was abducted last month by members of a secret society that wanted to find out as to how do I ‘maintain’ my physique. They tied and tortured me, but I did not give them the secret. After all, it is my IP and a source for secondary income, once I figure out how to use it for economic gain. After torturing me for one month, they finally realized that I am not going to part with the secret come what may, they erased my memory of the last one month, except for the abduction part, and released me yesterday night.
How much ever I want to believe this theory, and make you believe it too for the hiatus, I don’t think anyone will believe it. So, it is best to let the cat out of the bag.
The first reason for this sannatta is that my end-semester exams were on the horizon. Not that I was too busy burning the midnight oil on studies after a hard day’s work, but it is just that I did not want to feel guilty that I was blogging instead of studying. My total studying hours for the exams which I appeared for were as many as the exams, that is, four. These exams were open book exams, meaning, we can carry whatever study material we want to the exams for reference. My ideology is that if I will study for the exams, then what will I do in the examination centre for three whole hours?
By the way, I completed my fifth semester of the eight semester programme. When I enrolled in this programme, I really wondered if I will be able to study anymore. When I appeared for the first semester exams, I decided to quit after a couple more. Now, when I look back upon these five semesters, I can only sit back and wonder how I managed to survive through. The general consensus is that I should be able to survive three more. At least they are not as bad as the torture meted out by the underground secret society referred above.
The second reason behind this hiatus was that I was smitten by the IPL bug. I tried to resist it initially, but my defence mechanisms totally failed, and I ended up watching all the matches of IPL. I do not have a television set at my home here, but I somehow gained access to the neighbour’s television, and watched them all. Quite a revoluting concept this T20, I say. Now that it is over, I wonder what to do in the evenings. I am sure many of you share the same sentiment.
The worst part of this IPL experience of mine was that yesterday I started feeling sleepy after ten overs of the second innings. I somehow dragged myself to my bed, and dozed off to glory, without knowing the result of the finals. It was only when I read today’s newspapers that I realised that Rajasthan Royals did win the IPL series. I hear that the match was a nail biting one, and am really upset at missing it. The only consolation is that the team which I was supporting did eventually win the series.
World, I would like to confess something today. I did not realise this until today morning. Usually, I am the last person to wake up in the mornings. Today, I woke up unusually late and that too, to an empty house. I then cranked up the ol’ desktop computer at my house, and selected random tracks from those available; switched Winamp player to play tracks at random, and continued with my daily chores. There are no English tracks on the hard disk, not that I have anything against Hindi tracks. I turned up the volume and started singing along. The reason for the loud volume was that I did not want anyone to hear me sing, including myself. The tracks selected were at random without any prejudice. I loved all the tracks that were being played and I was singing along to all of them. While crooning to all the numbers, the realisation hit me like a brick hurled at me from many miles away. All the tracks being played were from the movie 'Namastey London', and the shocker that I got here is that all the tracks are composed by a certain composer who repeats the same kind of music in all his tracks, and sings with a certain nasal twang and most of his singing is out of sync with the music. I cannot bear the weight on my conscience any more. So here goes:
How much ever I want to believe this theory, and make you believe it too for the hiatus, I don’t think anyone will believe it. So, it is best to let the cat out of the bag.
The first reason for this sannatta is that my end-semester exams were on the horizon. Not that I was too busy burning the midnight oil on studies after a hard day’s work, but it is just that I did not want to feel guilty that I was blogging instead of studying. My total studying hours for the exams which I appeared for were as many as the exams, that is, four. These exams were open book exams, meaning, we can carry whatever study material we want to the exams for reference. My ideology is that if I will study for the exams, then what will I do in the examination centre for three whole hours?
By the way, I completed my fifth semester of the eight semester programme. When I enrolled in this programme, I really wondered if I will be able to study anymore. When I appeared for the first semester exams, I decided to quit after a couple more. Now, when I look back upon these five semesters, I can only sit back and wonder how I managed to survive through. The general consensus is that I should be able to survive three more. At least they are not as bad as the torture meted out by the underground secret society referred above.
The second reason behind this hiatus was that I was smitten by the IPL bug. I tried to resist it initially, but my defence mechanisms totally failed, and I ended up watching all the matches of IPL. I do not have a television set at my home here, but I somehow gained access to the neighbour’s television, and watched them all. Quite a revoluting concept this T20, I say. Now that it is over, I wonder what to do in the evenings. I am sure many of you share the same sentiment.
The worst part of this IPL experience of mine was that yesterday I started feeling sleepy after ten overs of the second innings. I somehow dragged myself to my bed, and dozed off to glory, without knowing the result of the finals. It was only when I read today’s newspapers that I realised that Rajasthan Royals did win the IPL series. I hear that the match was a nail biting one, and am really upset at missing it. The only consolation is that the team which I was supporting did eventually win the series.
World, I would like to confess something today. I did not realise this until today morning. Usually, I am the last person to wake up in the mornings. Today, I woke up unusually late and that too, to an empty house. I then cranked up the ol’ desktop computer at my house, and selected random tracks from those available; switched Winamp player to play tracks at random, and continued with my daily chores. There are no English tracks on the hard disk, not that I have anything against Hindi tracks. I turned up the volume and started singing along. The reason for the loud volume was that I did not want anyone to hear me sing, including myself. The tracks selected were at random without any prejudice. I loved all the tracks that were being played and I was singing along to all of them. While crooning to all the numbers, the realisation hit me like a brick hurled at me from many miles away. All the tracks being played were from the movie 'Namastey London', and the shocker that I got here is that all the tracks are composed by a certain composer who repeats the same kind of music in all his tracks, and sings with a certain nasal twang and most of his singing is out of sync with the music. I cannot bear the weight on my conscience any more. So here goes:
I like Himmesh Reshammiya’s tracks.
I know, I know. I was taken aback too. How could I, who simply adores classic and grunge rock, like such sacrilege? I don’t say I love his tracks, but like is the right word to use here. The culprit for this realisation is Winamp’s random track selection functionality, because I had selected many tracks for it to select from. But it randomly played only Himmesh-bhai’s tracks. I guess there was a greater power at work in that random functionality, and you know you cannot fight these greater forces. I know this for a fact that somewhere deep down inside, you too like his tracks like me, if not love them. And accepting the truth will make it easier for you, rather than opposing the likeliness towards his *ahem* tracks. I guarantee that after the initial trauma passes, the feeling will settle in nicely. Suspicion for the change in taste is also on the sudden drop in the dosage of music since I landed in Pune. I have decided to go for a MP3 player to settle this doubt. Lets see when this actually materialises.
Another thing is that I really enjoyed today’s morning. Waking up to a beautiful day, with no exams to worry about, and listening to your *gulp* favourite music with no one to bother you about the racket that you are creating or the time you take in the bathroom is something that I would love to wake up to every single day. I loved it to that extent that I am contemplating to move to a single room accommodation somewhere and staying alone. It is not that my current room-mates are a pain, but just that the frequency and wavelength are not matching. The looks and faces which I get whenever I give my opinion on something make me feel like I am from a different planet altogether. Mind you, I have no problems whatsoever, but just a random thought that I got today morning. Will give more thought to it in the coming days.
Now that the exams and IPL is over, it is back to good old movies for passing time. The latest edition of Indiana Jones will be lapped up before this week ends and Sarkar Raj in the next week. In the meantime, you guys can give some ideas in the comment section.
The second and final serving of the Loooog Weekend is something that I wanted to do for a long time, but now my memory is evading me. I will try to pull it all together and publish it as soon aspossible. No promises though.
Another thing is that I really enjoyed today’s morning. Waking up to a beautiful day, with no exams to worry about, and listening to your *gulp* favourite music with no one to bother you about the racket that you are creating or the time you take in the bathroom is something that I would love to wake up to every single day. I loved it to that extent that I am contemplating to move to a single room accommodation somewhere and staying alone. It is not that my current room-mates are a pain, but just that the frequency and wavelength are not matching. The looks and faces which I get whenever I give my opinion on something make me feel like I am from a different planet altogether. Mind you, I have no problems whatsoever, but just a random thought that I got today morning. Will give more thought to it in the coming days.
Now that the exams and IPL is over, it is back to good old movies for passing time. The latest edition of Indiana Jones will be lapped up before this week ends and Sarkar Raj in the next week. In the meantime, you guys can give some ideas in the comment section.
The second and final serving of the Loooog Weekend is something that I wanted to do for a long time, but now my memory is evading me. I will try to pull it all together and publish it as soon aspossible. No promises though.
Added Later:
This is the shortest post by me, so far. I vow to not repeat this mistake in the futute.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Loooong Weekend – Part I
Last week, I was at home for four full days. This had been the longest time that I have been at home since Diwali last year. And all it cost me was taking a day off. There was a public holiday for May Day last week. Adding the weekend to this public holiday along with the one day off which I took, I had four blissful days at my disposal.
The initial (and usual) plan was to spend them at home doing nothing, except watching movies, sitcoms and more movies. By the way, I became a proud owner of a DVD Home Theatre system. I paid the last installment for it and finally became an owner of something worthy, at least for me. Coming back to the post, my plan was to spend these four full days at home. But going by my past records of executing a plan, I was least expecting this plan to work. Not that this was much of a plan, I was half-expecting it to work smoothly. None of the plans I have made have worked out so far. So, expecting the unexpected, I marched on my way to home in a rickety state transport bus, just thinking of how to schedule the movies, so that I can view the maximum number of them.
Day 1:
A long time ago, precisely on the 23rd of April 1985, a very beautiful and heavily pregnant woman went into labor and gave birth to an innocent, sweet and beautiful girl child. After some years, this girl child in discussion started speaking and thinking and doing things on here own. This made us all to give a second thought to the initial adjectives that we had bestowed on her. She is still sweet and beautiful, but not at all innocent. Her description would take a separate post in itself.
To cut a long story short, it was my baby sister’s birthday last month. Now that she is all grown up and earning herself, she decided to throw a luncheon to us. This is the first self-less act which she has done, which I can recall. I guess a little bit of idealism has rubbed off me onto her (blowing my own trumpet (on second thoughts, this sounds kinky)). Since I was not in Mumbai during her birthday and for a couple more weeks after that, the lunch was kept on hold until I could be present. Hence, the first day of my four holidays was reserved for a lunch with my family, my maternal grand-parents and my maasi (mom’s sister).
The venue was ‘Only Parathas’. This place packs a mean paratha, or so I have heard. The place has a nice ambience, the service was good and the food was delicious. Before anyone could reach the restaurant, I smuggled a cake in and passed it to the waiter for bringing it with lit candles with ‘Happy Birthday’ tune playing in the background. Nobody expected the cake, and it turned out to be a pleasant surprise for all. Later, the food was ordered with the usual dhamaal of ordering. This included the usual who-wants-what, sharing-a-dish dilemmas, the Jain / Non-Jain food, confusing the waiter, cancelling couple of items and reordering them, etcetera, etcetera. The food was fabulous, and everyone seemed to have the same sentiment about it. I have eaten many horrible things at equally horrible places, that any half-good thing tastes good to me. Then came the desserts followed by the bill. My sister swooned down on the bill as soon as it was presented, did a rapid check of it and placed her debit card next to it and asked the waiter to get it cleared. I saw a flash of pride on everyone present there by this act. You know, all elders feel pride and a sense of elation when kids in the family, whom they have nurtured and guided and cared for since the time they were born, behave like all-grown-up people. I guess their feeling would be - ‘Mission Accomplished’.
Later we went to this new hyper market, called ‘DeMart’. It’s a nice swanky place with all the grocery and other household needs under one roof. I had the maximum fun here. Trust me; it was quite funny to watch three old women, with one trolley each, rushing in different directions of the store with the grandfather, sister and meself running after them. I was browsing through the aisles with my granny and it was fun watching her pick up each and every item available in a shelf, turn it over, check the price, raise an eyebrow and then grumble that everything has become very costly and how it used to cost so less in those days, and then return it to the shelf. At some places, I would point to some very useless stuff and try to coax her into buying it. After some time, my grand-dad caught up with us. He has the least amount of patience for such browsing. I could see him fuming and fretting over the slow progression of my grand-mom. After around two hours of shopping, all the oldies were tired, and we proceeded to my grandparents’ home. My maasi had purchased lot of stuff and ordered for a taxi, all the way to her house. This pleased me a lot, since my home is en-route, she would drop us at our place. I thoroughly enjoyed this day, and yearn for more such to come.
Day 2:
The next day, in the morning, I scanned my drawers where I keep ‘those-that-we-do-not-speak-of’ piece of clothing, and realized that I was short of them. I promptly decided to buy some. My dad is a chalta-phirta encyclopedia of places in Mumbai where you can get any item in retail at wholesale price. If I ever purchase anything from a store which sells at the MRP rate, I am sure, he would abandon me, or would be handed an equally cruel punishment. Hence, I had to consult him on where can I get some. He listened with an enthusiastic ear, then scanned his cupboard and concluded that he too needed some. So, it was decided that phather-puttar-jodi will go for some personal shopping today without the ladies. I could see a glint of vengeance in my mom’s eyes, but nothing could be done about this shopping trip.
In the afternoon, we landed at Chakla Market (damn funny name if you ask me). This is the place where you get all the innerwear clothing items at wholesale rates. And the prices are always a little less than the MRP rate. So, if you buy a decent quantity, you do actually save a lot of money.
I have never understood why a person frets about the color of the underwear so much. I mean, neither the wearer, nor any other person is going to see you in it (not necessarily, you may say). So there is simply no point in choosing the color. However, there is another attribute which is of a greater importance and that is the size. People, bigger or smaller sizes clothes are manageable, but bigger size undergarment is not comfortable and it ends up riding up into the-place-where-the-sun-does-not-shine, and if you end up with a smaller size one, then either a lot of Sachin Tendulkar style adjustment of you-know-what can help you or, later, some ItchGuard.
My dad and I did the grave mistake of not noting down the size which we wear before reaching the shop, and hence, we were left at the mercy of the shop-keeper for deciding the size which would fit us. Shop-keepers of such items are masters of identifying the size of a person’s undergarment by just looking at them. I once read a signboard in the undergarment section of a mall that trials of the piece of clothing being discussed here are not allowed, due to hygienic reasons. At that point in time, I felt it was quite humorous, but not now. I was tempted to go to some public toilet nearby and check it, but then, dad hit upon an idea and placed a call to home to inquire our respective size. This million-dollar idea of moi dad was successful, and we did some peaceful shopping, without the shop-keeper looking us up-and-down and sizing us. I thought he was disappointed that he was not able to showcase his talent.
Next comes the interesting part. My dad is of the opinion that I still do not earn, and hence never allows me to pay for anything if he is around. Coincidently, when the bill was being prepared for the items purchased, my dad was hooked on to his phone, and I solemnly settled the bill and walked out of the store with the goods in hand. Somehow he did not realize it at that point in time. Later, at home during dinner time, it struck to my dad that his first born child had paid for something even with him being around. This made him leave the dinner half way through and run to his wallet. I guess he was getting bitten by guilt pangs. Immediately he did some mental mathematics and produced the actual amount paid to me. Another thing about my dad, he will always pay the actual amount. He will count is three times before handling any money to anyone, and that includes the nucleus family too. I have tried to trick him into paying more or less than the actual amount many a times, but have not succeeded so far. My dad tried to shove that money in my pocket, but me being a honhaar baccha, refused. My dad is a very insistent person and one needs a very strong argument to make him change his mind. Then, with a 100-watt Phillips-ka-bulb, sorry, 100-watt Wipro-ka-bulb (I am wafaadaar, you see) shining on my head, I blurted out the following:
‘Meri taraf se yeh chaddiyan aapko gift. Gifts dete hain taaki lenewaala denewaale ko woh cheez use karte waqt yaad kare. Mein chahta hoon ki aap mujhe roz yaad kare, aur issiliye yeh gift. Aaj se aap roz subha chaddi pehente waqt mujhe yaad karenge.’
After this, there was a brief moment of silence with many blank faces staring at me, followed by a loud laughter from everyone. Poor Pappa was left with no option but to put the money back in his pockets.
Battle won!!!
The initial (and usual) plan was to spend them at home doing nothing, except watching movies, sitcoms and more movies. By the way, I became a proud owner of a DVD Home Theatre system. I paid the last installment for it and finally became an owner of something worthy, at least for me. Coming back to the post, my plan was to spend these four full days at home. But going by my past records of executing a plan, I was least expecting this plan to work. Not that this was much of a plan, I was half-expecting it to work smoothly. None of the plans I have made have worked out so far. So, expecting the unexpected, I marched on my way to home in a rickety state transport bus, just thinking of how to schedule the movies, so that I can view the maximum number of them.
Day 1:
A long time ago, precisely on the 23rd of April 1985, a very beautiful and heavily pregnant woman went into labor and gave birth to an innocent, sweet and beautiful girl child. After some years, this girl child in discussion started speaking and thinking and doing things on here own. This made us all to give a second thought to the initial adjectives that we had bestowed on her. She is still sweet and beautiful, but not at all innocent. Her description would take a separate post in itself.
To cut a long story short, it was my baby sister’s birthday last month. Now that she is all grown up and earning herself, she decided to throw a luncheon to us. This is the first self-less act which she has done, which I can recall. I guess a little bit of idealism has rubbed off me onto her (blowing my own trumpet (on second thoughts, this sounds kinky)). Since I was not in Mumbai during her birthday and for a couple more weeks after that, the lunch was kept on hold until I could be present. Hence, the first day of my four holidays was reserved for a lunch with my family, my maternal grand-parents and my maasi (mom’s sister).
The venue was ‘Only Parathas’. This place packs a mean paratha, or so I have heard. The place has a nice ambience, the service was good and the food was delicious. Before anyone could reach the restaurant, I smuggled a cake in and passed it to the waiter for bringing it with lit candles with ‘Happy Birthday’ tune playing in the background. Nobody expected the cake, and it turned out to be a pleasant surprise for all. Later, the food was ordered with the usual dhamaal of ordering. This included the usual who-wants-what, sharing-a-dish dilemmas, the Jain / Non-Jain food, confusing the waiter, cancelling couple of items and reordering them, etcetera, etcetera. The food was fabulous, and everyone seemed to have the same sentiment about it. I have eaten many horrible things at equally horrible places, that any half-good thing tastes good to me. Then came the desserts followed by the bill. My sister swooned down on the bill as soon as it was presented, did a rapid check of it and placed her debit card next to it and asked the waiter to get it cleared. I saw a flash of pride on everyone present there by this act. You know, all elders feel pride and a sense of elation when kids in the family, whom they have nurtured and guided and cared for since the time they were born, behave like all-grown-up people. I guess their feeling would be - ‘Mission Accomplished’.
Later we went to this new hyper market, called ‘DeMart’. It’s a nice swanky place with all the grocery and other household needs under one roof. I had the maximum fun here. Trust me; it was quite funny to watch three old women, with one trolley each, rushing in different directions of the store with the grandfather, sister and meself running after them. I was browsing through the aisles with my granny and it was fun watching her pick up each and every item available in a shelf, turn it over, check the price, raise an eyebrow and then grumble that everything has become very costly and how it used to cost so less in those days, and then return it to the shelf. At some places, I would point to some very useless stuff and try to coax her into buying it. After some time, my grand-dad caught up with us. He has the least amount of patience for such browsing. I could see him fuming and fretting over the slow progression of my grand-mom. After around two hours of shopping, all the oldies were tired, and we proceeded to my grandparents’ home. My maasi had purchased lot of stuff and ordered for a taxi, all the way to her house. This pleased me a lot, since my home is en-route, she would drop us at our place. I thoroughly enjoyed this day, and yearn for more such to come.
Day 2:
The next day, in the morning, I scanned my drawers where I keep ‘those-that-we-do-not-speak-of’ piece of clothing, and realized that I was short of them. I promptly decided to buy some. My dad is a chalta-phirta encyclopedia of places in Mumbai where you can get any item in retail at wholesale price. If I ever purchase anything from a store which sells at the MRP rate, I am sure, he would abandon me, or would be handed an equally cruel punishment. Hence, I had to consult him on where can I get some. He listened with an enthusiastic ear, then scanned his cupboard and concluded that he too needed some. So, it was decided that phather-puttar-jodi will go for some personal shopping today without the ladies. I could see a glint of vengeance in my mom’s eyes, but nothing could be done about this shopping trip.
In the afternoon, we landed at Chakla Market (damn funny name if you ask me). This is the place where you get all the innerwear clothing items at wholesale rates. And the prices are always a little less than the MRP rate. So, if you buy a decent quantity, you do actually save a lot of money.
I have never understood why a person frets about the color of the underwear so much. I mean, neither the wearer, nor any other person is going to see you in it (not necessarily, you may say). So there is simply no point in choosing the color. However, there is another attribute which is of a greater importance and that is the size. People, bigger or smaller sizes clothes are manageable, but bigger size undergarment is not comfortable and it ends up riding up into the-place-where-the-sun-does-not-shine, and if you end up with a smaller size one, then either a lot of Sachin Tendulkar style adjustment of you-know-what can help you or, later, some ItchGuard.
My dad and I did the grave mistake of not noting down the size which we wear before reaching the shop, and hence, we were left at the mercy of the shop-keeper for deciding the size which would fit us. Shop-keepers of such items are masters of identifying the size of a person’s undergarment by just looking at them. I once read a signboard in the undergarment section of a mall that trials of the piece of clothing being discussed here are not allowed, due to hygienic reasons. At that point in time, I felt it was quite humorous, but not now. I was tempted to go to some public toilet nearby and check it, but then, dad hit upon an idea and placed a call to home to inquire our respective size. This million-dollar idea of moi dad was successful, and we did some peaceful shopping, without the shop-keeper looking us up-and-down and sizing us. I thought he was disappointed that he was not able to showcase his talent.
Next comes the interesting part. My dad is of the opinion that I still do not earn, and hence never allows me to pay for anything if he is around. Coincidently, when the bill was being prepared for the items purchased, my dad was hooked on to his phone, and I solemnly settled the bill and walked out of the store with the goods in hand. Somehow he did not realize it at that point in time. Later, at home during dinner time, it struck to my dad that his first born child had paid for something even with him being around. This made him leave the dinner half way through and run to his wallet. I guess he was getting bitten by guilt pangs. Immediately he did some mental mathematics and produced the actual amount paid to me. Another thing about my dad, he will always pay the actual amount. He will count is three times before handling any money to anyone, and that includes the nucleus family too. I have tried to trick him into paying more or less than the actual amount many a times, but have not succeeded so far. My dad tried to shove that money in my pocket, but me being a honhaar baccha, refused. My dad is a very insistent person and one needs a very strong argument to make him change his mind. Then, with a 100-watt Phillips-ka-bulb, sorry, 100-watt Wipro-ka-bulb (I am wafaadaar, you see) shining on my head, I blurted out the following:
‘Meri taraf se yeh chaddiyan aapko gift. Gifts dete hain taaki lenewaala denewaale ko woh cheez use karte waqt yaad kare. Mein chahta hoon ki aap mujhe roz yaad kare, aur issiliye yeh gift. Aaj se aap roz subha chaddi pehente waqt mujhe yaad karenge.’
After this, there was a brief moment of silence with many blank faces staring at me, followed by a loud laughter from everyone. Poor Pappa was left with no option but to put the money back in his pockets.
Battle won!!!
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