Of the best...and lesser things

It is the world of aspirational tastes...for almost everyone, more is better...greed is good...it is your life, make it as large as you can...never be "santusht" ...and never mind the "green monster" gnawing at your soul...pushing it to the end of its tether...it is what drives you on...gives you the kick...

As we converse intelligently-if a little nonchalantly-about prices hitting the roof, the latest gizmos, the fastest cars, the biggest apartments fly quietly out of their 'shelves' and into our humble harem. Our 'quality time' with family is measured in multiplex-hours, mall-hours, resort-hours...our 'catching up with friends' in pub-hours and disc-hours. Our conversations are "ohs", "aahs", "reallys" over pints and pegs, our gestures are diamonds, our smiles photo-ops. Our music is stiletto-tapping or manicured hands swaying, our health a heady concoction of designer diets, gym memberships, yoga instructors, salsa sessions and exotic therapies. Our ambitions are managerial, our debates international, our travels global, our cuisine continental...our children are summer campers and e-learners, nannied and foreign dictioned to perfection...our pets pedigree and exclusive.

Somewhere, not very far way, perhaps, people-not like us, o no-fight over a packet of food, their homes and lives destroyed by floods. Not designer food, not health food...just food. Somewhere close by, maybe, people-again, not like us in the least-without an inch of land to call their own and no money to pay rent, encroach on our landscaped pavements, begging and peddling dubious wares, till the cleaning-drive-before-foreign VIP-visit purges the roads (and our collective conscience) of their presence. Somewhere, a family struggles to protect its land from a multinational juggernaut...somewhere a child offers herself up for casual labour (and other, scarier professions) to feed younger siblings...somewhere the difference of a rupee in the price of rice is the difference between life and death. Somewhere around us, there are people who do not want to be the best...they just want to be...and can't.

But why are we talking about these people...it isn't as if we can do something about them, is it...and besides what difference would it make to us...we'd rather watch reality television...

Of dreams, disaster, destiny...and a larger perspective

A certain person I greatly admire once said, " What is life but a series of inspired follies?" Although that man's genius is only a part of the dramatic repertoire of one of English literature's best known cynics, his witticisms are anything but. Sometimes comforting as two minute noodles or a cup of coffee, sometimes painful as the guilt-hurt pangs that plague the junk-filled stomach...and always pithy...it is as if you were on your 'high horse' and were brought down to the ground with a thud, so strong that your legs jar even though it is only a 'dream sequence'.
Well, inspired or not, to life's follies I am no stranger. In fact I happen to be blundering my way through life in a manner that suggests "learning mistakes" rather than learning from them:). Nevertheless, it helps that I am blessed with a sense of humour that, however quirky, gets me out of my scrapes; I am thankful to God that I discovered it in time.
Do you know, I once almost reached school when I realised that the one vital requirement-namely, the school bag, had somehow been given a miss by my plump shoulders? Or that I once started brushing my teeth in the afternoon, blissfully unaware that all I had set out to do was wash my hands? The number of hankies (I am sorry, I cannot call it handkerchief, purists may turn up their noses) I have lost would supply material for at least a dozen-ok, exaggeration-half a dozen scarves and my contribution to those "saving for a rainy day" would amount to-let me see-around five umbrellas? Ditto jewellery, money, once an entire purse, keys-things, in short, whose price more than made up for the underlying unintended but utterly altruistic motive for my actions.
I also note, with pity, that mundane objects -combs, phones , matchboxes, specs,what not-somehow seem to enjoy my ...ahem...forgetfulness...with a vengeance...they will have to repose just in the vicinity of my substantial person, with an innocence so deceptive that I am absolutely clueless as to their position, until I hear a crack or another such heart-wrenching sound and realise-well, that 'another one bites the dust'. Add to that a near fatal encounter with the immersion rod (water heater), burning my mom's precious pressure cooker to a ripe burgundy in my zeal for helping around the kitchen, allowing boiling milk to spill over countless times, making a fall over or trip on every bump-on the road or the carpet or steps a weekly ritual , and you may conclude-like I do , sometimes-that the much maligned word, "carelessness" is just my middle name.
As for roads , I have never figured out how any road leads anywhere at all...to me they all look the same...and hence in every sense imaginable "they all lead to Rome". That I haven't, as yet, lost my way in my own house is a great comfort to those in the know-among them my dear, harassed husband, who vows that he has never seen such a recipe for disaster.
To sum it all, it is a bad idea to ask me for directions...it is worse to depend upon my navigation skills and follow my instructions...and if you expect that I will remember the way to a particular place and thus leave me to my devices...well all I can say is, a more delusional person there never was since Hitler.
So much for my follies...I think some of them are rather original...but make no mistake (pun intended)... I ain't one bit proud about making them except that it gives me a little more room for rubbish reminiscences...you are probably saying...what a clumsy, forgetful, irresponsible...ahem...etc.
To which I will just reply, "Who knows...maybe I was born for greater things...":)

Of art, obscenity and escape

A few days back, Hyd played host to 'Manto Ismat Haazir Hain', a play based on a repertoire of works by two Urdu writers, Sadat Manto and Ismat Chughtai.The play was staged as part of the TOI Hyd festival, hence free passes were all one needed to get in. Yet, I couldn't help being a little (albeit, happily) astonished by the turnout at the venue. Methinks, "Wow, that many people, on a Sunday, for a play...wow!!!" of course, I knew that having Naseeruddin Shah's name on the pass (he directed it) must have helped the cause quite a bit; nevertheless it was oddly reassuring to see a mixed crowd for a theatre event. Evidently, this was one occasion not just meant for the 'arty types'. Seemed like the cynic in me would have to give this one do a miss.
But my cynicism always proves that it has ample reasons to exist...is what I realised barely 10 minutes (or was it even less?) into the play. The first short story, "Boo", ( meaning smell, scent)
involves a narrative which is anatomically explicit, a man describing the scent of a woman he had once had an encounter (of the physical kind) with. The play had just about started, when I suddenly heard an odd, unnecessarily loud rustle on the seat next to me. My neighbour, middle aged, chiffoned, pearled and well rounded, had just taken upon herself the task of disentangling a pair of earphones from her bursting- at- the -seams purse, apparently to give to her son, a small boy, possibly just starting school (maybe a little older, don't know) who was suddenly seized (was probably made to seize) with a manic urge to listen to music on his "mama's" cell phone. Now, I have, unlike most women, almost a uni-directional flow of attention. I simply cannot concentrate on two things at a time- add to that a myopic vision and you will perhaps sympathize with my predicament...for a short while, I was neither here nor there. After what seemed like ages, the disentangled earphones finally went to soothe the young tympanic and chiffon-and-pearls mama directed her substantial neck and vision (and thereby my attention) back to the stage. However, no sooner had I managed to clue back in, when the very same rustle returned, this time brandishing its loudness. Chiffon-and-pearls mama, son and company were suddenly on their feet, and filtering out of the auditorium at a pace which, given their trappings, was incredible. And they were not the only ones...soon heads bobbed up, feet clattered, and the entire auditorium seemed to be experiencing the biggest exodus since the days of Moses. People were literally fleeing the sudden onslaught of "obscenity" that they had unknowingly sought to embrace as culture. Run...before your souls are contaminated, your sensibilities violated, your day-out-with family turned into an embarrassing sojourn to the underbelly of human thought. Run...before that dirtiest of words pollutes your holier-than-thou senses, before your sight and hearing and memory are impressed upon by brazen hedonism...before the 'bhadralok' in you is stripped naked ...run, in other words, because you've suddenly realise that these could be your thoughts or mine...
After at least one-fourth of the auditorium had been vacated, there was peace again...and the rest of the evening passed delightfully...not without some inkling of discomfort however...somehow the cynic in me doesn't want to be proved right all the time...
On another note, I ardently request all the people who have and will organise events like these in the future, to please make an entry fee ( however nominal) mandatory...it keeps picnicking at bay ( I am convinced that people were only kept from bringing their pets along by the fact that animals are not normally allowed in an auditorium)....
At the end of the day, there is no such thing as a free lunch...someone always ends up paying the price...or maybe we all do...in one way or the other...
disclaimer:- I am not an art critic...at best an aficionado...all art forms are made meaningful to me in as much as they touch me...that is it...

Night

At night...you arrive
Your promises make fun of you
They know your time is gone...
and theirs will never come...
The motley images you call dreams
become questions
you are glad you don't have to answer...
Your hero meets his nemesis...
And life is just about to begin...
Your sins cavort around a parched throat...
Blood curdles in veins past each punished pulse...
and the seconds keep rhythm to a labored breath...
Till another day brings its excuses...
Turns confused creases to toothless smiles...
Teaches fools to hope...
For a happiness they don't deserve...
For a success they've done nothing to earn...
But then, at night...
You arrive again...

Musings

Sometimes when you are caught between having too much to do and not wanting to do anything, ideas (not the life-changing kind maybe, but still) flood your mind (or that pretence of a mind that I have) as if they've been hunting for something to lurch on to. At this moment, for example, I am thinking a million things like...
...have to study...
...what do I cook...
...have to study...
...how much fatter will I become...
...have to study...
...tomorrow is mom's b'day...
...have to study...
...why won't my hubby keep things in their place...
...have to study...
...when will we book tickets for the holiday...
...have to study...
...prices are hitting the roof...
...have to study...
...why am I writing this stupid piece...
Now you know why...

Of Santa and the questions we don't ask

The other day a certain oft-forwarded piece on the follies of 'Santa' (of Santa-Banta fame) showed itself in my inbox...and a certain joke...another of Santa's supposedly funny reactions...lead me to write what is now turning to be my first blog. It goes like this:-Santa walks into a computer store and the guy, who is a salesperson, I think, tells him, "Sir, here is a machine that can reduce your work by half." The laughs come at the end of Santa's spontaneous riposte," Well then, can I have two of those?"You may or may not choose to laugh at this, depending upon the brand of humour you espouse. Frankly speaking, to me it seemed quite lame. But it generally led me to think, you know, that very often, the ones who get made fun off, or labeled as something or the other, are always those who ask questions. Santa is foolish, is what we all know and you may have read many of his exploits that testify to this fact...but this question in particular, seemed quite the obvious to me. If I didn't know what comps were all about, if I didn't belong to the generation that is more comfortable with a laptop in its bed than a human being, I'd probably say the same thing. It reminds me of how as children we would always wonder where babies came from and were told that Mom had to go to the hospital to get one from God. Or the time when my baby sis confused my parents by saying that they should have bought a wall clock instead of a refrigerator, because she thought the commercial on TV said the latter was free-it was actually the other way round. Or when my brother thought that the very fact that he was sitting in a restaurant would mean that the waiter would automatically bring up a 'rosogolla' to him...and was hurt when no such thing happened. It leads me, in other words, to conclude that it is perhaps the way we react to things or circumstances or even people we are not aware of that is considered foolish...and also leads me to think of the typically typical typifications that our world is accustomed to...

Disclaimer:-This is not a harangue against sardar jokes