NOW IT CAN BE TOLD

NOW IT CAN BE TOLD

This piece is neither about revealing important state secrets after the expiry of the statutory lock-in period, nor is it about a long lost love/crush. The matter is a little more scatological. The story has been poking me during those spells of lucidity after or in-the-process-of-trying-to-avoid, the odd middle-of-the-night visit to the loo. (Could be the early onset of a prostrate condition according to our family doctor, who normally dismisses every complaint I take to her as ‘psycho-somatic’). So finally, here I am, at 0400 hours, writing about my windy issues.

Our only daughter Mugdha tied the knot in the spring of 2008. Both I and my better half Shubha were in a tizzy during the yearlong period between the engagement and the wedding. Shubha and Mugdha spent hours and hours rummaging through all the saree shops of Mumbai looking for just the right saree for every ceremony during the marriage function. In the process, the best show rooms of wedding trousseaus in the various upmarket parts of the ‘financial capital’ of the country were declared ‘Bekar’ (of no use) by Mugdha. But that is for another day.

As all the shops in Hyderabad were considered to be equally ‘ Bekar’, it was decided that our future son-in-law Ashvin would visit us over a weekend to select his marriage-wear. Mugdha had calculated that two days would be enough to select a formal two-piece suit for the wedding reception and a few Kurta-Pajamas for other sundry occasions. I didn’t dare mention that 30 years ago, I had picked my entire wedding wardrobe in one 30 minute visit to the Raymond showroom. That would have invited snidely devastating comments on my sartorial ignorance. Also, that was before all those movies like ‘Hum Aapke Hain Kaun’ and DDLJ. Anyway, the future bridegroom was to arrive one Friday evening and leave by Monday morning.

We are a conservative family of orthodox Brahmins. So the sleeping arrangement was to be like this: My old parents in their own bedroom, my wife and daughter in the guest room and yours truly and Ashvin in the master bedroom. As the day was approaching, I suddenly realised a serious flaw in these arrangements. This was my pre Rujuta Diwekar phase. So, like all normal Indian families, we were in the habit of having a hearty dinner before going to bed. This had its ‘consequences’. We were not unused to occasional fireworks of the noisy kind during the nightly rests.  The nocturnal emissions of the gastric kind   were not of the noiseless and odourless variety. But in the privacy of our bedroom, after 30 years of marital bliss (?), who cared? But, suddenly, I did! Any such transgressions during the two fateful nights which I was to spend in the proximity of our future son in law were unthinkable. The consequences could be serious. I began to play out various versions of ‘Ye Shadi Nahi Hogi’ in my nightmares. They all started with Ashvin rushing out in the middle of the night with his nostrils shut tightly in a pinch. I was a deeply worried ‘father of the bride’.

Thank god there was Google. I searched all the food groups which caused bloating and farting and prepared a mental list of things to avoid. During the two days of Ashvin’s visit, both my wife and daughter were surprised at my sudden health consciousness and admirable restraint. I avoided milk products, deep fried stuff, lentils, Bengal grams, beans, radish, sweets and tea/coffee after sunset. This being the first visit of Jamai-raja, Shubha had rolled out an impressive array of goodies and assorted sweets. I scrupulously avoided all these temptations, to raised eyebrows, and finally came out victorious in my battles of the boom. As soon as Ashvin caught the cab for the airport, at 5 am, Monday morning, I heaved a sigh of relief and assaulted the fridge with a vengeance.

Looking back, I wonder how the person, who was the recipient of all those gourmet dishes which cause bloating and acidity, managed. He happily partook them in large quantities, thanks to the relentless pressure by the future mother in law, and gentle persuasions of my parents (how can you say no to them without appearing to be rude). Not that I noticed anything. I was a sound sleeper then and the fan was strategically kept full blast.

Anyways, thank god Mugdha married at the right time. Now? Such sphincter control? Impossible.

Bhaiya kaka

BHAIYA KAKA

The current brouhaha about molestation and attempted rape, triggered by the Tarun Tejpal and justice Mukherjee controversies has invoked a raging discussion on the many ways in which women are sexually abused at home and outside. This brought back some of my memories which were long forgotten and buried. Every family has that one uncle who is a lech and a pervert. Women instinctively know to steer clear of them and warn the girls about them also. But sometimes, things are not so black and white. Some people always give you the feeling of sliminess and creepiness when they are in female company but you cannot put your finger on their exact transgressions.

            Bhaiya kaka, my father’s first cousin, was one such character. When I was growing up, he was well past his prime and was a balding pot-bellied man with faux dentures. Often you would find him chewing a wad of tobacco, his mouth too full of spit to speak coherently. He mostly communicated in grunts and sign language. At all family gatherings, it was customary to touch the feet of elders. That was his chance. As soon as a lady or a girl bent down to touch his feet, he would hold her arms and give her a hug. In our family, physical contact of this kind was a no no and it always irritated me and my cousin Parag, who were in our teens. My cousin sisters, who were in various stages of tweens and teens, were equally peeved by his behaviour. The other older ladies in the family, however, did not seem to mind his hugs much and would laugh them off till I, Parag and the younger ladies started talking about them after the family broke up post such gatherings. Every time the girls would try to either forget (?) to touch his feet or try to get off with a quick perfunctory namaskar,  Bhaiya kaka was quick to remind them of their manners and equally quick to hold their arms and snatch a hug if they tried to sneak away with a half bend. Every time, he made a successful hug, I and Parag used to fume and curl our fingers in suppressed rage. When home, we would loudly protest against Bhaiya kaka’s excesses and vow to insult him, or even hit him if he did it again. We were, however, always chastised for being so brash and disrespectful, by the older ladies in the house. My grandmother always forbade us from doing anything rash. Bhaiya kaka never went beyond a hug and nobody reported a grope or anything more objectionable.

            Thereafter, it was always a dodging game which we, i.e. I, Parag and my cousin sisters played with Bhaiya kaka, at all the family congregations. To our frustration, however, we always lost against the guile of Bhaiya kaka and the indifference of the older ladies in the family. Luckily, age soon caught up with Bhaiya kaka and he was too old to run around hugging women. We could almost sense his frustration at family meetings and gloated about it.

            Bhaiya kaka was either a lech or a compulsive hugger of women, we would not know for sure. Today, I do not remember anything about him except his obnoxious behaviour, which  went unpunished. I don’t think he was a closet rapist, but you never really know the boundaries of a pervert human mind. Interestingly, it    were always the older women in the family who restrained the boys from doing anything drastic about his excesses and the men simply did not condescend the subject a serious discussion.

WEB CHECK-IN

WEB CHECK-IN

I have a running gripe with my secretary’s web check-in habits. My requirements are simple. No middle seat. I want aisle on long flights and window on short ones. Front row (better leg room) except when travelling by ATR, when back row is preferred (rear entry). She seldom gets me a middle seat, but rarely gets anything else right.  Yesterday, on my flight to Coimbtore, when I got 1A, I was cautiously elated suspecting that it might be an ATR. The check-in girl confirmed my apprehension but gamely shifted me to 15D. All was well.

            When I got the boarding pass for the return journey, the seat no was 4D and the counter confirmed that it was not an ATR. But my satisfaction was short-lived. When I boarded the flight, I saw that my colleagues Shah and Prasad were occupying seat nos 1B and 1C. What the heck. If their secretaries could get them the front row, why not mine? My deflated ego got a sudden boost when boarding was completed and the seat next to mine was not filled up. I luxuriously crossed my legs and opened my ipad. Before I could immerse myself in Stephen King’s bizarre world, I heard a loud racket going on at the seat across the aisle. A young lady was frantically trying to control her two sons aged roughly 1 and 2 yrs. Both started bawling as soon as we took off. I wanted to help but was handicapped by the language barrier; the tykes spoke only the local lingo. Just then, a Good Samaritan lady (if that is the right metaphor), came to the rescue of the harried mother and started expertly cooing to the screeching monsters. I silently thanked her, shoved in my earplugs and opened my ipad again. However, I soon realised that her only contribution was adding her own mite to the prevailing cacophony. Luckily the flight was before time and the landing and disembarking was pretty efficient. To my utter delight and against all odds, perhaps thanks to the law of averages, my suitcase was the first to roll off the belt and I triumphantly marched off waiving to the waiting duo of Shah and Prasad. Alas! I had to cool my heels outside for about 10 minutes as the driver had not taken into account the early arrival of the plane. Moral of the story, everything evens out in life. 

CIVIC SENSE

CIVIC SENSE

I read somewhere that in some Scandinavian country, those who reach office early park their cars in remote corners of the parking lot so that the late comers can park theirs more easily. Can't imagine anyone here including yours truly doing this. But we can surely try to be a little more civilised in our public behaviour. I really hate it when seasoned air travellers    Stow away their bulky what-can-hardly-be-called-handbaggage in the luggage rack over the first or second row even when they are sitting in the 17th row. Saves them the trouble of hauling it till the 17th row. Smart! But pity those poor souls sitting in the first or second row who have to find storage space over the 13th row. Have you ever tried going from first row to the 13th while disembarking? Getting down from the Virar local at Dadar is much easier.

Women's Lib

WOMEN’S LIBARATION

I fly frequently on business. I normally try to reach the airport well in time to avoid the last minute rush. After coping with the unpredictable Chennai traffic, there are queues to be negotiated at every stage which are manned by the people who are not known for either their efficiency or their courtesy. So I often reach the airport with some time to spare.

            I was standing in the first queue near the entrance at the airport, clutching my id and the ticket in one hand and the weather-beaten suitcase in another. A well-dressed attractive young lady, 35ish, rushed in waving a phablet in one hand. “May I go in please? I am late”.  She pleaded. With their hearts full of human kindness for the plight of the working woman, the other passengers readily agreed. The security guard at the gate shrugged. She breezed through.  Likewise, she sashayed through the second tier of security and the check-in counter.

By the time I had managed to check in, she had already sailed past the long queue for security check. When I went past the humiliation of security check, I found her sitting in one corner, sipping coffee, chatting idly with a colleague/friend.  I was surprised. I thought she was late? It turned out she wasn’t. She was going on the same flight as mine and had ample time on her hands. All this subterfuge was to avoid standing in tedious queues.

A little peeved, I couldn’t stop myself from asking “madam! You said you were late but you weren’t”.  She gave me a withering look which clearly said “mind your own effing business” and declined to favour me with a verbal response.

She again managed to glide past the queue for boarding the bus and the final queue for boarding the flight. When I went in after a while, huffing and puffing after the exertions of standing in 5 different queues, the lady in question was snugly ensconced in her seat, chatting idly on her cell phone. She looked at me with a smirk and turned disdainfully away from my accusatory glare.

My heart bleeds for the battered, bruised and abused Indian woman.

THE CIDER HOUSE RULES

THE CIDER HOUSE RULES

There are many books, which, once started, you don’t want to put down. But there are some which are so good that, as you start nearing the end, you want to go on but at the same time, don’t want it to end. THE CIDER HOUSE RULES is one such book. As I was nearing the denouement, my heart was filled with the sorrow that the exquisite pleasure which I was deriving from it was soon going to end.

                A very unromantic setting in a decrepit orphanage, an apple orchard and a Cider House; a very unlikely hero- an ill adjusted erratically educated orphan, and a subject as controversial and relevant as abortion form the background. With such an odd assortment, John Irving has weaved a magical tale of intense human emotions, an epic love story with his trademark twists and turns which leave you amazed at his total mastery over his craft. In his inimitable style, independent unconnected events inexorably converge into a crescendo of breath-taking catastrophe which you can see coming but can do nothing about.

It also has a poignant war story with predictable ingredients. But it is not the wounded soldier who meets with a tragic fate.

The issue of and the moral angle in ‘abortion’ is handled with sensitivity and without any ideological bias. Exploitation of blacks by the landed gentry is also touched upon in a non-judgemental way, more like a chronicle of those times rather than as a social commentary on the ills of slave labour. Even rape and incest are depicted without dramatization and without condemning the offending persons as black villains.          

In short,  it is an unlikely masterpiece from a great author.

Reading such books also shatters all my fond hopes of ever becoming a writer. I despair I can never write half as well, howsoever hard I may try.  

FACEBOOK

FACEBOOK

One day, at least one day,

            I want to open my Facebook homepage, without anybody uploading       photographs of 

·        Hindu deities,

·        Sai Baba,

·        Their own nocturnal trysts;

Without anybody gushing about

·        Narendra Modi,

·        Rahul Gandhi,

·        Arvind Kejriwal,

·        Nitish Kumar;

Without a request for

·        Clicking on a photo to see magic,

·        Liking a jingoistic rant,

·        Be proud to be an Indian,

·        Forwarding a miracle report;

                                        Or,

Anyone making profound statements, like

·        Friendship is –blah blah blah…

·        Why am I bored today,

·        Why am I not bored today.

That would be the day.

 If you like this statement, please forward it to at least 10 friends and you will be blessed by Lord Ganesha within 7 days.

consortium meetings

Consortium meetings

I am sitting in my hundredth consortium meeting and scribbling this blog to fight a serious attack of boredom which is overwhelming my whole being. Consortium meetings have their own group dynamics which needs to be followed meticulously and carefully.

            The less important people i.e. senior officers of smaller banks, who are conscious of their lower status in the pecking order but resent it, come late to prove a point that they also are important. They are, however, careful not to be so late that the meeting would start off without them. They keep sending messages to their minions, who arrive early to reserve important seats for their bosses, about their whereabouts.

            These worthies keep striving to keep their inflated egos airborne by asking for green tea when everyone is having juice or vice versa. They spurn cookies and ask for roasted (not fried) almonds (not cashew nuts) and throw a minor tantrum if these are too salty.

            These gentlemen always dress garishly; and prefer suits with loud stripes and psychedelic ties. After the meeting kicks off, the Company bore, normally the CFO, launches into a 50 page power point presentation starting with the company’s genesis as a mom and pop shop in 1918. By slide 2, everyone whips out his blackberry and starts playing BRICKS seriously (Bricks is the only game which comes free with the blackberry). Then, the ritual of picking up the cell phone and walking out while furiously whispering into it, and returning in the same manner, starts. The movement of people in and out of the meeting hall closely resembles the ten hats of an expert juggler in the circus. Then the presentation mercifully ends and the serious discussion starts. As the company officials would already have taken care to speak to Individual bankers, the consensus is quickly and smoothly achieved. The pompous ass tries feebly to disagree on some minor trivia but is disdainfully ignored by everyone. The leader concludes the meeting succinctly and then the serious business of wining and dining starts.

Time for me to mutter my well-rehearsed excuse and make my exit before the garishly dressed boor launches into his limited stock of dirty jokes.