For the love of Rushdie

From the confines of my strictly business writing as a Corporate Communications professional, I look at Salman Rushdie’s Indian English and drool. Literally. His style is forbidden; not for the logically correct, grammatically quarantined, absolutely to-the-point English I write, or am expected to. Not that I want to go Rushdie at work and hand myself the pink slip, where my manager would have included a note with the city’s best Psychiatrists’ contact, being the caring fellow Cancerian.

All I am saying is this is not the writing that I want to eventually see myself doing. The current form lunges me to the sea of writers — analogous, stereotypical, one impossible to recognize from the other. Like the slew of feature writers in the newspaper supplements, for example. You cannot tell who's who the way you can make out a Jug Suraiya from a Bachi Karkaria. But when it comes to signature styles, nobody can beat Rushdie - I bet. The way he dives into the infinite ocean of adjectives and determiners, pronouns and verbs, punctuations and idioms — to emerge with an English of his own; impregnated with his Indianness; chiseled to such impeccable perfection that sounds completely different, yet surprisingly 'correct'. And how effortlessly the man does it — unlike my obtuse description here! And that, during the 1981s, when the Indian English genre was still grappling through its nascent stage — he had the nerve to 'tamper' with the a “borrowed” language - take it, slice it open, chop it into fine pieces, blend it with his Indian spices, dry it under the Indian sun, bottle it and stamp it with a "Rushdie".
So while I breathed my first in some nook in the Solar System part of the Universe, Salman Rushdie published his Midnight Children…that went on to become one of the greatest influences in my life.
For a Corporate Communications person, to relish such libertine fantasies of meddling with the language is sheer profanity, I agree. But carve my thumbprint style, unique and completely mine, I must before I lose myself in the murky waters of stereotypical business writing.

Conclusion: I must continue to blog!

P.S.: I wish I could declare "I am back". Not yet. But I will, and very soon. The sabbatical is beginning to weigh down heavily upon my blogger's conscience---more so, because I deliberately shrink and deflate my thoughts these days to squirt them at Twitter. If you have read this, thank you so much for coming back. Pray for me!

Me and Machines

Whether God purports that I live like apes sans science or machines, or I am technologically jinxed, I am beginning to doubt. Could all of these be mere co-incidences? Please enlighten me:

1. Immediate context: I cannot send emails from my gmail! I was replying to a mail thread about a Music event we're to attend this Sunday, till one of them replied to me: "Should I guess your reply or is it a cryptic puzzle to be solved" and rummaging through the entire thread, I suddenly realized that my signature was all that was visible in my reply mails and not a word of what I wrote. Hell! I immediately got on to Google Chrome (thinking maybe finally Google declared - if you wnna Gmail, you better use Chrome). Scarlett was patient enough to open all my mails and confirm she saw NOTHING on them. Now I do not know what bug could that be that eats up the words from your mail by the time it is delivered in the recipients Inbox (coz’ I could see my full mails in my 'Sent Items').

2. No machine ever survives hale and long in my life, even though I am everything but clumsy, really. I did not break a single neck or hand of the toys I played with as a child. In fact I have all of preserved (“for her kids”, Ma kids) and all in one piece. This might not be ‘the proof’, but says some thing, does it not?

Machines-gone-bad-made-me-mad examples:

i) My DELL laptop was just 2 weeks old when two keys popped out. I did not have long nails and my fingers, dear readers, are pretty lithe. At least I know how to type without popping out keys of the machine. It must be the guy who fixed internet on my machine, I concluded. After the keypad, within a year the speakers and the motherboard had to be replaced and since it all happened in the warranty period, it did not pinch much. You can read about my experience here. As if that wasn’t enough for one machine – very soon my ‘@’ got exchanged with ‘close inverted commas’ and the ‘back slash’, type ‘#’ is it shows ‘£’, while ‘\’ disappeared altogether and became ‘#’. And since the warranty period is over and I had no faith that this one more repair will be its last, I decided to get used to my ‘new’ keys and Google for back slashes whenever required.

ii) Biometric Fingerprint systems cannot identify my fingerprints. I discovered it when in my second organization they introduced biometric fingerprints for attendance. In that office of some 1500 people, I was the only one whose fingerprints it would not recognize. Two whole weeks we tried to capture a sample, rubbed my fingers so many times to free it of all moisture that whatever little imprint was left that too much have eroded off. Finally we all gave up and while my colleagues did it with a small thumb, I had to write down my entry and exit timings every day in that just-mine register. History repeated itself when I went for my Learner’s Driving License. It was a long, restless queue and my finger lived upto their reputation. Irritated, the security guard put his own thumb impression. Does it mean if I am to be convicted ever, no one will be able to prove it using my fingerprints? Can somebody have no fingerprints AT ALL? And I found this, just that noone came to interview me. Sigh!

iii) My assembled desktop (my 1st PC) became a pain in no time, but behaved after a few slaps and kicks at the CPU (I was the rough n tough type then), so no grumbling about that.

3. My BSc 1st year exam results had highest in English, 2nd highest in Zoology, while I flunked in Chemistry. I could never accept the theories at face value

4. Little did I consider these things when I decided to join this software giant. What ensued is a little hard to believe considering its reputation as one of the best workplace in the globe. If I go on to tell you point after point, it will make a thesis to prove that I'm tech-jinxed.

However, being the optimist that I am, I can tell the God of Technology has not completely disowned me. My 2 year old Nokia 3230 alive and ringing and as handsome as a 6 month old is a glaring testimony, besides the newly bought gadgets and machines post marriage.

At the moment, the few glaring ones are all I can recollect, but tell you my life has seen much more and over the years I only feel surprized if a machine is behaving itself for too long with me. Sure you have your share of experiences.... Or is it just me???!!!??? (Thinking....)

Rattle and Hum

I should have (only if I could have) been writing the review for this place now. Rattle & Hum is a premium lounge, newly opened in Hyd and this review is over-due since Sunday.


Or I could have been doing that compiling bit S. wanted me to complete by Thursday so that I have a good bulk ready before I am on-boarded.


I could even wrapped up my cooking so that when D. is home, we can all go driving. I badly need some fresh air and also get a hang of our car. Besides Boomer loves jutting out his head to smell and see all that he can't from his pigeon coop of an apartment and I so love watching him do that.


I could get back to Midnight's Children and find out what happens after our Sinai family move into that sabkuch ticktock hai Methwold's bungalow....


I could call up one of my (equally frustrated) friends and bitch about life, job, SIL or some other friend.


I could take a nap, like I usually do. More so on a day like today, when I had slept 3 hours less than my stipulated doze as I had to go for a swimming class (at 6) that never happened.


I could even play one of those stupid...nay...on second thoughts, 'timepass' games on Facebook, comment on comments or play scrabble and the end of it all curse FB for tempting people to waste so much valuable time on-line.


I could catch the missed episode of Splitsvilla at Youtube and find out whether Juana gives in to the competitive spirit or to her affection for Mohit....and later try to figure out what is it that attracts me to that far-from-sensible, faked and tweaked-to-raise-TRP, scripted reality show.


I could take Boomer out for a walk and take that time off to clear my head and see if I can do some productive thinking.


I could finish that collage I am planning for D. birthday. Planning a mix of photographs and mementos - all from our childhood, on an wooden panel. D.'s keeping too busy lately to drop by my blogs. So no worries.


I could shortlist few hiphop tracks and burn a CD for the car. I am so tired of all the Al di Meolas, Dave Mathews bands and MegadETHs.


I could cry and let that clog explode. But tears no more come easy, unless it is infused by some touching scene in a movie. I'm becoming a hard nut everyday.


I could try flirting with one of my buddies at PM and give my degenerating self confidence a boost and my same-story-every-day life a surprise just for today.


I could write a secret blog and set 'me' free.


I can write a secret blog.
Yes!

To be at the center-stage and ALONE

I have a question ----

How does it feel to stand at the center of the stage...alone...the mike in your hand, your voice piercing through the sheer silence of the auditorium, every pair of eyes transfixed at you, if not to admire or admonish, to check out the source of that booming voice, and all the while weighed down by the pressure of the need to humour, to entertain?

I am all ears for a first timer's experience (and almost sure it'd match mine) so that I know I'm not the only phattu around. Here's what I went through:

I was barely awake, after the Friday night's hangover (from sleeping at 4am after a get together at P's), when R.G. called. After this and that, he came to the point at once:

"The lady who was supposed to anchor today's Bihu function has cancelled out at the last moment. Would you phuleez do it?"
"Jeeez, I'll pee in my pants. I've always been in-a-group, on the stage"
"Arrey, it's easy, you just have to read out the script and there's always a first time. Now come on"
"Umm, can I call you back?"
What a proposition to jolt you out of a perfect Saturday morning snooze. But instead of cursing him for the temptation, and screwing the first morn of my precious weekend, I was thrilled, surprizingly. Ran for dear D.
"You want to do it?"
"Yes, but I aint confident."
"Do you know Frankie?" (Rocky Balboa this time and could I have missed that pounding effect?)
"Frankie who?"
"Frankie Fear. He's your friend and you need not be ashamed of him. He keeps you sharp. You fear because you want to give in your best. Which is good. Just keep Frankie Fear in your control. Don't let it overcome you."
"Feels better already." (Grinning wide)
"There's another way of looking at it. Imagine your audience is dumbass and you're the best. But then you might get careless."
"Franky Fear is better"
"'ll do it", I sms'ed R.G. (Later, it took time to believe I said that)

Unlike the mukali Bihu (usually held in a field, a shade on top, a stage and remains unbounded from the three sides), this time it was a huge amphitheater-like auditorium.
"D., there's a high probability of my succumbing to do the runaway act just in case, please be around and keep the keys handy".
"Don't worry, you'll do it." (But Jiski ph***i hai, usi ko pata hota hai)
The first time I heard my own voice on the microphone, tell you man, I was startled. It was like waking up to a nightmare -- I was "there, doing that" and there was no turning back. Coming to terms with the consciousness of eyes roving all over me, getting used to the many flashlights that made my cheeks burn, feeling the sweat roll down my nape, all in the May heat, in that jazzy silk mekhela-sador - it was everything but easy. I took time to get used to that voice - my voice supposedly, bellowing in the auditorium. In front of me was Hyderabad's Assamese community. Every sixth face was familiar and I could see that let's-see-how-you-do-it look written on each.
The script was unbelievably crappish and in between the show I tried to make as much amends as I could. Okay, I did not do a great job. I did not get them applauding aloud with my wit and humour nor tittilate them enough to leave their seats and run for the stage to join the Bihu dancers. But no chappals came (recession time or politeness I could not tell), no jeering comments heard (at least not where I stood - on the stage).
And I did not run...away.
I did it! :)

enviable housewives

I was two years old, or even less, the last time I was home for an entire year. School, college and then office – the waking hours of my life (till Dec 2007) have been 'sacrificed' at these self-imposed altars, as naturally and irrevocably as eggs hatch into chicks, chicks grow into hens, hens lay eggs and the cycle repeats all over again. Silly allegory I agree, but I’m too hungry (it's 10:13 pm and I’m still not done feeling lazy to cook) to think of anything but FOOD. How I loved cooking when I was home. How I'd prepare him his favourite food and wait on him. Ah the noons...how I would torment my friends at work with details of how I stretched and yawned under the noon sun and rubbed Boomer’s (my boy who has a tail and stands on four legs) belly. How I would listen to Nidhi (my neighbour) singing to her 1 year old son and conclude I could have done a better job at nursery rhymes. Then, there was this person who lived some floors above us, who played the violin and I would sit and wonder whether it is a he or a she who's playing. At times I would watch our watchman, Mohan's, daughters playing ‘kitchen-kitchen’ under the tree and get all nostalgic. Mostly I’d take up some novel and let that ambrosial noon nap grow on me. How I had all the time to sit and think. How I would never, almost never, feel tired. How my world revolved around just him. And how he would envy my state of unhurried tranquility – “free from that need to be reaching somewhere, doing something”!

For women, marriage can be a great liberator, you know. “Housewives” are as acceptable as working women, but coming back home to a ‘house-husband’, waiting on you with the eve cuppa, honestly, doesn't invoke a comely picture.

Here's a little, candid confession. Before I submitted to that bracket (housewife, I mean), I would actually despise housewives (housewife girlfriends, hang on, don't take offense immediately). At times it went to the extent of equating some with "parasites", when a few of them would make their 'intentions' very apparent. Hate me for this you may but it took me some experience to see this philosophy is not just politically incorrect but plainly unjust. And I am not saying this just because I have been-there-done-that and reworked my opinion. Perhaps, I am not programmed to bask in the luxury of being one like many of us career-minded breed.

- I feel guilty of not utilizing my potential 

- Feels like a snail in the race, not competing, not learning, not growing enough

- It torments me, the state of being DEPENDENT, especially for money

Nevertheless, I hate waking up in the mornings, hate 'travelling' (never been fortunate enough to avail cab service) to and from work, hate routines, hate being time-bound. I came to Hyderabad last January (2008) and from among all lucrative propositions, I chose the one that bound me to no offices, no early mornings, but an almost unattainable target of 25 articles per month - which never happened and no deductions in my uber grand salary made. Those were the heydays, I tell you. So I was relishing both being a housewife (or rather a wife-who-stays-in-the-house) and also see my bank balance swell. Real "housewifing" happened only after October (2008), the chronicles of which I will never tire prating. And all I wanted at that time was A JOB!!!

Where art thou my pen?

Lately, I am being traumatised by a queer kind of guilt conscience – of not being able to blog! My pile of journals stopped getting any taller and Dad no more worried about his latest diary (seen those SBI or LIC ones?) disappearing from his table without notice – ever since I got “introduced” to blogging. True, it could not give me the comfort of writing “just about anything” with as much honesty, and without a little chiselling here and there like my tucked-in-with-care journals would, but the facility to record things instantly (since me and my machine are almost inseparable) and a desire to “advertise” (now come on, isn’t that one of reasons you blog?) lured me away from the pen and paper to the keypad on lap.

I, however, miss making my “bold confessions”. For example, when I was in Class V, the last page of my diary read these small lists: of people I wish were dead (included my Dentist and my music teacher), of my crushes in that year (if you think I was too young for that, how about my first crush in KG II?), of dreams as queer as “I want to be a maid at my crush’s house” (influenced by Maine Pyar Kiya), “I want to have a twin sister” (cloning was unheard of back then), “I want to grow tresses like Baby Doll Alisha’s” (remember that audio cassette?) and what not!

I know many bloggers who considered their blogs as much a confession box as I did my diaries and pour their hearts out with as unrestrained honesty. To be that today, as a blogger, I would have to hammer off a lot of my Cancerian crabby shell, and could I or would I do that? Well, at least I have not, so far! This way, a lot of "me', goes ‘unworded’, unrecorded. But then again, I am beginning to reckon the capacity of the human mind – I remember the paranoia post my first break-up as explicitly as I do the storm of thoughts that muddled me the day I first met Don (my husband). You don't forget things if you want to remember them. That is to say, things that you remember very often, keep getting refreshed in your memory and there comes a time, when you just know them by heart. For example, you’ve repeated “Baa Baa Black sheep” so many times in your life that even if you don't chant it for the next 10 years, you will still be able to sing it to your kid. Now this hypothesis is purely deduced from my personal experience and observation and you are most welcome to contradict (and I’ll so love to defend). Which means, we may safely leave a few things unrecorded and not fear losing them somewhere “down the memory lane”, unless of course it is some natural calamity.

But feeling guilty just because I have not been “recording life” as regularly as I used to, still seems too queer a reason, especially in light of my aforesaid hypothesis. After much thought and afterthought, I painstakingly concluded - it must be what is called the “writer’s block” that is troubling me. Or maybe my profession leaves me so drained of words that I’m left with none for myself. Maybe I am too overwhelmed with my “brand new life” for words! Or is it that I’m losing myself and I do not want to confess? I wonder...I wonder.....

Soul talk!

There are moments in life when you feel if you are to die just there and then - you wouldn't mind!

It is not saying "You feel done". Rather, you feel you've lived just everything you ever wanted to live, have known both hatred and love in its crudest forms, have lived both sleepless nights and nights you wouldn't want to blink an eyelid for you don't want to miss a thing, have almost decoded the existential truths, have loved the best you can and the best of love has come back to you...

There are moments in life when you feel so content, so complete, so full, that you either fear losing this situation of perfect bliss or want to freeze life in that moment forever....And if you are to die just there and then, you wouldn't really mind!

God Must be Crazy!!!

.....To have anchored a dentition so irregular in my mouth that dentists see "$" (the sign) embossed on every teeth the moment I open my jaws.

Don must be crazy too! He says I wouldn't be me if I got them straightened and he might as well love me a little less!


NOW WHAT THE HELL DO I MAKE OF THAT!


And is this SWELL ON MY CHEEK going to stay?

Rest in Peace!

I could have left it at C Block, Lajpat Nagar. Or it could have been Khan Market. It could have even been Nagaon (Assam), for that matter. It has been troubling me that long. But it was destined to 'rest in peace' at Road No. 12, Banjara Hills.

I post-poned till it became imperative - I had to let go of it. Surprisingly, it wasn't as painful as I imagined. Just that it left a swell on my cheek and I was completely bed-ridden for two entire days.

And all for Rs. 4500!

"Rs. 4500?", Ma gasped. And I nodded with repugnance - Rs. 4500 for a TOOTH EXTRACTION! DAMN!

A paranoid Wisdom Tooth that wanted to make its way into my jaw bone instead. Why Me!!

Today, at 22:53 pm, it sure is resting in peace somewhere at Banjara Hills. Two days have passed. Look at my left face profile and one would think a 72 kg torso would follow! Damn!

The Dentist:

Dr. Gowd's Dental Hospital,
19, Durga Enclave, Road No. 12, Banjara Hills, Hyderabad - 500034
Phone: +91-40-23326777 / 23326888
Verdict: Reasonably good. Has a huge team of apprentices, though. But complicated things like surgeries, are done by specialists. Good customer care.

But I liked Dr. Vohra in Delhi better. Sid took me there and though my treatment rarely began and I had to relocate, that one visit was pretty impressive.
Dr. Vohra,
Specialist in Prosthetic and Restorative Dentistry,
62, Khan Market, New Delhi - 3,
Phone: 011-24603866

Dilli ki laddu..Hyderabad ki Biryani...

23rd Dec, 2007:

My six years in Delhi thus came to an end.

It was one of those wintry Sunday noons I would have otherwise spent inside my room, under the quilt, watching Shrek for the 19th time and munching deep-fried saboo daana papads… But I was leaving Delhi, and to tell you the truth that day I was so excited (about the lasagna I planned for lunch and the prospect of meeting Don the next day) that I actually had to keep reminding myself to feel sad. A few drops of tears did trickle down when I hugged Ju ba-bye...but that was more because I wouldn’t get to see her for a real long time. Besides, we hugged so tight that emotions of some kind were bound to ooze out.

Bedu came to see me off. Left. The train was yet to spring to life. I sat there by the window, staring out at the commotion of passengers, luggages, coolies, beggars, sadhus….trying my best to arouse the last bit of nostalgia, trying to feel Dilli in all that I saw. Surprisingly though, instead of blues, I felt a sense of disgust seep in…I felt like puking…

All of a sudden Delhi meant nothing more than eternal traffic jams (the BJP procession in the Parliament street still fresh in my mind), marrow-freezing winters (other day at Ju’s house I thought I would die freezing), equally despicable summers (I hallucinate spending it under water), a land of lechers (dare live in Munirka!), some loathsome memories (that I was)….

The only thing bothering me was settling in Hyderabad henceforth…

2nd Jan, 2008:

The Telegus wouldn’t stare at you like Delhiites do. After a week I concluded: nothing amuses them except Chiranjeevi.

I never attended a New Year party with more flash of skin. And I wasn’t an iota jealous when Don stared after I was done and already yawning. Infact I was wondering when did South India's hip-craze got replaced with cleavage-craze. Not that I am some Fashion Messiah. A few more months, who knows, I might also become one of these 'fashion confusions' (minus the flesh flash). Only a trip to Delhi every 2 months and a stroll down the Priya and PVR Saket promenades can save me!

Buying vegetables, magazines, even Garnier shampoos, getting your maid clean your cup board, travelling in auto – are all challenges. “No Hindi, no English, Telegu bolta” and "Nehi hona" to everything query is what you get. Now isn’t that frustrating? Departmental stores (Trinethra, Spencers, Vah Magna) are respites and I can see myself turning into Richa Maam (a Spencer loyal) in no time. With my kaamwali the war is expected to continue till she learns Hindi or I Telegu. Infact, I am planning to teach her Assamese instead. Would sound cool - "Oxomiyat kotha kua Telegu bai".

“FOOD”! I live food, I dream food, I pray food! Don (having cracked the way to my heart) took me to this place called Paradise in Secunderabad. And the palate of Hyderabadi Biryani (Mutton) and the apricot dessert - Khubani ka Meetha...got me! Next it was the Double Ka Meetha (tasted like Gulab Jamun) and Haleem (made of wheat) at Hyderabad House and man I was clean bowled! I picked the Times Food Guide and my eyes glistened at the Mexican, Lebanese, Thai, Chinese to Avadhi, Irani, South Indian, Punjabi eateries in the city...something, no previous boyfriend inspired.

Me and Don make fine hogs together and we agreed to make a land of gastronomic indulgences out of Hyderabad till we discover fresh amusements.

Dilli ki laddu te Hyderabadi Biryani….dono ka kya kehna..

Khaoge te janoge....

Welcome to Hyderabad – saddi neyi city!

Spare me - Beggar buggers!

I did not quite know of Mumbai’s 180 crore/year Beggary Industry until I watched Madhur Bhandarkar’s Traffic Signal. The film-critics rant what they may, me thinks it was an influential work of art and whether it left a negative impact on the said industry – I don’t care and I refuse to partake in any argument pro-beggars.
Every day I go through the trial – 3 Traffic Signals on my way to office. There are more, but when I speak of it with a capital ‘T’ and ‘S’, I mean the one’s that matter to me most. And not because they remind of how I clung on to my boyfriend the last time we rode that road (I have never been that nostalgic thankfully) --- but because these Traffic Signals are plagued with beggars.
Skeletal forms of all shapes and sizes, clones, necessarily deficient of flesh (purposely or due to poverty I can no more say), shrouded in blackened skin (by birth or purposely, I can no more gauge) that sparsely covers that skeleton they move about in. I exempt from using terms such as ‘malnutrition’, ‘poor’ and other such words designed to create sympathy, empathy, whatever. I say it all with disgust and with so much of it that I don’t care if you think I am a brute.
Like their bodies, their parodies too lack variations. Unhealed scars, bandages taint in blood, acrobatic stunts, suckling babies (equally sketetal) – they come up with just everything targeted at the human ‘heart’. Heart will be too sensitive a word for that, for they will bug you so much that heart, half-heart or no-heart, more than often you end up taking out that wallet – just to get rid of them. Something that shoots my mercury level even higher is when on Saturdays they appear with little steel carriers with black oiled sheet of their Shani Devta. I am an atheist but I respect religion and using gods for begging is JUST NOT DONE.
A walk at popular hang-outs like Connaught Place or the Priya Shopping Complex would leave one flabbergasted by unending beggar beeline. I rate the CP one’s the smartest in the city – they actually have the audacity to specify what they want – pennies won’t do. The ones at the New Friends Colony Community Centre are smarter. They have not just cracked what it takes to get people get them what they want, but also how to strike up a friendship. Put in other words, the lot here make permanent clienteles. Whoa! Now look at what I have scanned for the blog. I got this while snoozing in the DTC bus. A beggar limps into the bus and hand over these leaflets to everybody. What business strategies man! And successful too, for out of the whole lot at least 50% gave him what he wanted – money!
I have fond memories of some of the people from my native town who would come begging at Sundays. I don’t even feel like including them in the same group as these out here in the metros. How simple they were and it felt warm to see their eyes glow when you handed them something – anything that might be of some use to them. They are all ‘parasites’ at the end of the day, I agree, but bugging the host to paranoia and when the host is me, us – no not done!
My wrath is against the industry, not against the humans who make it up. Such is the ‘pressure to perform’ that given a chance they would rip you naked.
Ok, let me talk man-on-man. I labour and every penny is hard earned, they too labour (all that acting, creating pitiable faces, running about under the scorching sun is labour nevertheless) and hence every penny is hard-earned, but they will never have the glitter, I have in my eyes on seeing the sms alert that my salary is transferred.
You know what I mean!
I thought, schemed many solutions, but none of them could clear the logic-cum-realistic questionnaire test I put the solutions to. It is plaguing, especially the metros and high time we STOP surviving them. Dishonesty, exploitation, emotional blackmail, living on another’s mercy, bugging others for your profit are vices in human beings, aren’t they! Besides, living with dignity isn’t that difficult, is it?

How to do it: STOP MAKING EYE-CONTACT WITH THE BREED…Try this till I come up with more plans!

Understanding 'Pride & Prejudice'..

It took me some 25 years to understand Jane Austen’s Victorian classic Pride & Prejudice.

Preface….

As a teenager, mostly fed with Tinkles, Nancy Drews, Sidney Sheldons and the likes, Pride & Prejudice, honestly, wasn’t one of the books I considered shifting to my little book shelf (made of shoe-cartons) from MaPa’s huge one. Nevertheless, Kamala Das’ Life Story, and this other novel called The Song of my Heart, did sit there (in my shelf) like misfits. My love for “Life Story” is that old. And the other novel qualified to be there just because it had pages (that I dog-eared) I was not supposed to read at that age.

Pride & Prejudice appeared again during early twenties, and this time, it was a part of my curriculum. Impromptu it disappeared from MaPa’s book-shelf and got shoved into mine (a metal shelf this time), amongst Kafkas and Coelhos, and other books of my curriculum. P & P was digested and excreted (read done away with) at the examination hall, without an ounce of affection. In fact, it was George Eliot’s Mill on the Floss’ Maggie (her identity crisis and later, self-discovery) and Tagore’s Home & the World’s Bimala (her feminism), that enamored me completely.

Pride & Prejudice – My take

I was really amused, when at 25, one fine day I looked back at life and found it so resembling the crux of that much-ignored, never dog-eared, Pride & Prejudice. The novel, as you know, centers on the theme of marriage in a Victorian society, illustrated finely through the parable of a family with four marriageable daughters and the urgency to get them married.
And whether Gurinder Chaddha’s Indian take, Bride & Prejudice, was released or not, I can vouch that an average Indian woman of my situation, i.e. one who has read the book, belongs to a middle class family, is of marriageable age and unengaged, and at home, will be able to relate to it in someway or the other, if not completely.

It was not without a pinch of salt (add pepper and chilies) that I gulped down MaPa’s ‘landing’ me to the Marriage Market. Well, a ‘market’ it has to be, because there the unmarried (men and women alike), get ‘commodified’ and their chances of getting a good mate (consumer) depends on certain definite and defined attributes. For men, it is profession and education, while for women, it is her face and character. This might sound too generalized and narrow, to say, very Victorian, but ironically that is how it is. Try peeking into the matrimonial advertisements and you will know what I mean.

Ma, like Mrs. Bennet, picked this famous one-liner: “Eir karoney eta bhal lora sabo soon dei” (Please search a good groom for my daughter), and gave it to relatives, acquaintances, you name it. I either grow red with anger or blue with embarrassment, but who cares! Was it not declaring to the whole world that her daughter has been incapable of finding herself a good match – I would often ponder!

Having brought up in an atmosphere that saw not a trace of patriarchic misgivings or gender bias, the recent developments at home were a ‘shock’ through and through. Every dictum had an underlying ‘this is what a lady is supposed to do’ and no action escaped scrutiny. I was even served a home-arrest of 6 months before I really got married, so that I could be groomed to be a ‘good wife’ (reminds me of the ‘accomplishments’ Lady Catherine defined that an ideal lady should possess). My outings were restricted. Maa’s advising to grow my hair long, left me slack-jawed, because ‘boys-cut’ was all I was allowed till I gathered the guts to revolt. Tresses, academic degrees, certificates and what not – all seemed ornamental accomplishments, that would decide my ‘value’ in the ‘Marriage Market’.

I could understand what made Lydia elope with that unworthy Wickham. The pressure boils down to a mental state that ‘escape’ is all you can think of, be it through marriage or elopement. How I hated being the Jane Bennet, at the receiving end, waiting to be ‘whisked away’, not ‘deciding’ but ‘accepting’ what others decide fit for her. The penultimate decision seemingly lies with the girl, but when ‘it’ is arranged between families and all factors (families, charkas etc.) seem compatible, the girl (sensitive and under ‘pressure’), has very little to ‘choose’, you see. Besides, the mind gets conditioned to the threaten - ‘aru bhal lora napaba’ (you will not get a better guy, if not this one) and like Charlotte Lucas you tend to ‘hold on’ to what seems ‘best’ your situation could afford.

Whether Marriages are made in Heaven, by Ma-Pa or by me, it hurts my self-respect to just ‘stay there’ waiting to be ‘selected’. Are living this ‘Victorian past’ and arranged marriages an assurance that you will live ‘happily ever after’? Is it right to groom daughters into believing they are ‘equal’, only to expect them to conform to ‘patriarchy’ in the end? For example, docile and unambitious women are preferred over ambitious and career-centric ones, and the parents do not raise a brow if that becomes a condition for marriage. Resembles Mr. Collins’ preferences, don’t they?

My situation, resembling a Jane Bennet best, with occasional impulses of a Lydia, depressions of a Charlotte, weird takes of a Mary (minus the snake dances, though), is an anti-thesis to everything my ‘accomplishments’ has made of me.

Transported to and caged in Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice, Elizabeth seems the only role ‘livable’ and the hope of finding a Darcy in good time, the only respite.

Dated..2nd December:

Darcy made it in good time.......wonder which novel it is going to be like next....till now Erich Seagal's Love Story is all I can think of..but I'll have to find another one soon..the heroine dies young, if you remember ;)

Its all about money, honey!!

Amoeba: The Children Gaming Casino at the Spice Mall, Noida

Being a typical Cancerian, add to it a 'woman', I have some kind of almost 'soulful' fondness for money. My genetic structure is such that 'indulgence' is a near blasphemy and there are truly very few things I deem splurge-worthy. And a casino is definitely not one of them...

Amused ever since (lights and crowds still do that to me), I finally decided to walk in and see what's going on. Every game is a play-and-win-tickets. And the tickets get you gifts, i.e. more the tickets, better is your gift. The Gifts being Stuffed toys of myriad shapes & sizes, stickers, key chains, some electronic gadgets and so on - almost everything a kid would want to win. And to play any game you need at least 2 coins - Rs.10 / coin. You have to win a minimum of 10 tickets to stand eligible for any gift (btw, 10 tickets = a micro-sharpner or a dilapidated pencil).

And boy, the kids out there, along with their enthusiastic parents and grandparents had each rows of some hundred tickets. I was obviously tempted...'it' found me... The 1st game was a disaster - me and my friend managed only 7 tickets. And sheer shame got us playing again and we made 15 tickets in all. When these kids can, why can't we - was our motivating factor. Another game where you have to stop the wheel at a number to get equal number of tickets --- we managed only 6. Another game,,,and than another,,,we hardly realised

'it' was getting so deep into us...
enslaving all of us there..
young and old..
rollicking from one game to the next.. more coins, more money...
all unconscious...on a different high...

We were bad players and since it was more of fluke and that evening both had none, all our toil and money spent, we managed only 40 tickets in all. Lo, and Behold..WE WON A KEY RING!!!! And as 'it' began to drain out of me, I was left feeling like a FOOL...some 300bucks spent for just a bloody key-ring!! I'll come back and win something better!!! 'It' found a new host in me...

changinG m00ds of a w0maN @ 25 something

That bundle of old cards (preserved since god knows when) was finally shown the green dustbin. In fact during the last few days, or rather months, many of those material possessions I once termed NOSTALGIA, met the same fate. The street children (who dig at our garbage) must be amused to discover that purple purse, that payal, pair of gloves, an embroidered belt, the box of bangles, a mini chess-board - all in good condition.

Yes, I have been vacating my wardrobe, my suitcase, my shelves, my room, my life..everything of UNNECESSARY items - gifts, cards, letters, photographs, people..the list is endless!

Call it a value for QUALITY over QUANTITY or becoming UNATTACHED by the day... Has anybody actually coined a term for this phase? Me being such a simple, ordinary girl, I am sure I share an universal fraternity in this.

A typical Cancerian to the core, right from the chocolate wrappers to the pages of my school note-book where my friends scribbled things, stamps to songs, my Colosseum publications to my journals that date back to Class V - I would preserve them all. It was blasphemy to throw anything that meant 'memory'.

And look at me today........

Memories
Nostalgia
Mementos
Pricelessness
Everything is passe..

....becoming an 'alien' to everything I was
..........'everything I was' looks alien to me!

To Yesterdays I show my green-dustbin...
And for Tomorrows I don't care........

Living todays....as if this is my last day alive..

(man i can't even write poetries anymore :(

hating-MONDAYs?

Search with the keywords - I HATE MONDAYS (it is capital'ed and bold'ed to express what is called ANGST...it has almost become an existentialist dilemma now!) and you will find some hundred results or more. The cloud of private blogs and forums (obvious guesses) made me feel better - I have unknowingly been a part of an universal community that hates 'something' as passionately as I do. And you know what, there's also a movie on hating Mondays, an entire set of cartoon strips, and god-know-what-not!

Why is this hatred for mondays (I don't even like a capital 'M' for the word anymore) is no guessing. But do not take this hating-mondays for hating-work. I am still the workaholic (my previous post and the topic is an instance) and I forget watches exist, while at office. I of course get back home every night, for I do see my colleagues leaving! But I really really really miss vacations - like the endless one's we used to have at school. Aw my god, do you realise we'll never have them again, unless of course you plan to leave a job and relax for sometime, before you join another. I did that when I switched my last job. But you know what, they leave you corroded. I don't know about what effect holidays have on others, but they leave my appetite whetting for more, more, and more holidays! I heard they actually have paid vacations in the Scandinavian nations. Now that is so very cool. So very logical.....out here in private organizations like ours, we sure can avail our annual leaves (ALs), but for that you have to be a year old in that company (I know several private organizations who has this policy, including ours). And some 24 days in all...in an year that has some 365 days, is all we are entitled to (leave the sundays, govt/public holidays aside, okie!)? That's unjust!

While typing this post, midway I thought of changing the title to "Why can't we have vacations?". But then again, why I hate Mondays is synonymous with 'wish we had vacations' or at least a longer weekend, more paid leaves in a month, less stringent pay-deduction structures. Wish our CEO were a blogger :(

Addition1: Goddamn...I was born on a Monday!

Addition2: ...and the alarm sprang to life (more forcefully than other days) the next morning and after some 3 snoozes I finally woke up to another Monday of my life! Mondays ahoy!