A heady mix (that doesn't give you a hang-over)

I have been reading a lot about Anuja Chauhan, the one who came up with the now famous Pepsi tagline – Nothing official about it! She is the newest entrant, it seems, to the chick lit genre. I have not read chick lit, so I wasn't sure what to expect. References to marriages, good daughters, bad daughters....and Men. Men you can swoon over. Is that what one finds in chick lit? I still don't know.

I did read Chauhan's 'Those pricey Thakur girls', but I am not wiser to know if it qualifies the tag of chick-lit genre. Anyway, my reason for picking up the book, was purely personal. The book is set in the 80s, the decade in which I was born. And, it has a DD newsreader and a print journalist in conflict mode. Endearing, lost and looking for honest, kind and brave man, Debjani Thakur finds herself in love with Dylan Singh Shekawat. He of the Manglorean Christian and Rajput parentage and the fearless, young advocate of “Truth. Balance. Courage”, (motto of the paper he works for), falls in love with Debjani Thakur. Sparks fly, misunderstandings galore; end result: the two get married.

I haven't really spilled the beans. Their romance is just one fifth of the love and longing floating in the Thakur's Hailey Road bungalow. Five daughters, each prettier than the other. A retired judge for father, who loves his kot-piece. An easy-going mother, who keeps a sharp look-out on her five daughters and shows each one her rightful place in the house.

The innumerable suitors of the girls (married and unmarried), a Chachi who is a hysterical believer in jadoo-tona, a Chacha who is lusting after the maid and Gulgul bhaisaab, who can't clear LLB exams, but dreams of opening jim (gym). How did I miss the mongrels lining up the Hailey Road? And, the cat? It is she who gets the wedding bells to toll.

It's an interesting concoction of the crazy Indian family. But, I prefer the Lobsters over the Thakurs. Dylan's mother is Juliet Lobo, a Manglorean, referred to as “Lobster”, by her sons and students. The interaction between the Lobsters and Rajput is priceless. Hilarious. Not even Judgesaab's humour in naming his daughters, like a file system (A for Anjini, B for Binodini, C for Chandralekha, D for Debjani and E for Eeshwari), matches the rowdy, bawdy bawling between the Lobsters and Rajputs. Daisy Duck – Donny Noronha...priceless.


If you know your Jane Austen and don't want to be bothered by the Indian version (this is my opinion, strictly so) then don't read this book.
(Oh yes, the book is also about the State-sponsored Sikh genocide after Indira Gandhi's assassination and how DD tried to gloss over the facts. One paper covered the riots, killings and is still pursuing the case. Any guesses of the names of the publication?)

Miracle vs Chak De! India

I chanced on "Miracle" on Zee Studio last evening. It's the movie on which Chak De! India is based, or to put it more blunty - Chak De! India was "inspired" by Miracle.
Out and out copy. Okay, there are a few differences - it's US vs Soviet conflict playing in the background; the coach is not battling charges of  being a "traitor"; Herb Brooks almost made it to the 1960 US Olympics team, but was cut out in the last week before the Games.
He is chosen to coach the US Ice Hockey Team, in times when the country's morale has been bruised and hurt; the Soviets appear invincible. And, the boys he is leading belong to rival Universities - Minnesota and Boston. In the Indian version, we have the States.
The "India" call which set the mood for Chak De...came in much later in Miracle.
I found this movie a lot better - you can see for yourself that SRK's mannerisms, posturing is based on the Brooks guy. The former is more "aggro" in tone/speech; Brooks is more in action. He hardly ever raised his voice. Their climax (win over Soviet Union on American soil) was thrilling, nail-biting even though I knew how it would end.
There's lot of history and politics in the movie too. It was the Cold War era; nuke weapons dominate TV and news headline and of course Carter's boycott of Moscow Games. The Soviet head instead decided to play on American soil, at Lake Placid, and lost.
In a preparatory round - US was thrashed badly by the Soviets. In ours, girls team lost to boys.
The YRF movie relied too much on gimmicks - of course the team chose them well. Creating women heroes, a coach whose patriotism is under question and then the State divide and the family vs career battle. They made it very Indian. Wish they were original too.

Listen...Amaya, Special 26 and Kharemaster

Thankfully, I ended my movie drought after watching, Listen...Amaya first and then Special Chabbis. First..Listen...Amaya. I am betting that those who had gathered to watch the movie in the half-empty hall (or half-full, depends on how you see the world) had come for Deepti Naval and Farooque Shaikh magic. The magic is there, alright, but I have two serious objections about two words in the movie - about which the movie is incidentally based on.
"Modern" is one word and "Mature" is another.
I would have replaced Modern with "Liberal" and Mature with "sensitivity".

Leela (Deepti Naval) and Jai Sinha or Jazz as he is called (Farooque Shaikh) are widowers. Leela runs a coffee shop cum book shop called "Book a cafe". And, Jazz is an amateur photographer, capturing pics of Leela and her daughter, Amaya (Swara Bhaskar) and also reminscing about his wife and daughter, Aditi killed in an accident.
The two find love again after a long time, friendship and understanding too. The question is how to break this news to Amaya, who finds it all on her own, quite accidentally. And, instead of accepting it like a "Modern" girl, she sulks, throws tantrums, breaks-off communication with her mother. She thinks it's one great betrayal - her dead father has been betrayed and his daughter too.
What's actually troubling her is the fact that her mother might be actually having physically relations with Jazz. This is where here "Modern" upbringing and education comes into question.
I think it's more to do with how liberal the person is. Education and modern upbringing has nothing to do with being liberal. That's to do with your thinking, right?
Eventually, Amaya has her way. Her mom calls off her relationship with Jazz because she can't bear to see her daughter unhappy. Amaya's friend questions her maturity and understanding. I would say it's more to do with being sensitive to someone's needs and emotions. Call it maturity or sensitivity, Amaya finally sees light and gets the couple back together. Meanwhile, she also writes a book, Jazz does the photographs and it's printed too. Cool, no? Yes, Jazz is also an alzheimer patient. How's that for a spoiler?
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Special 26 has got it all - plot, fine cast and a director, who struck gold with his first movie, A Wednesday. But, it didn't quite grip me like "A Wednesday" did. Something's missing and I can't put my finger on it. What I loved about the movie though is the detailing. All the characters have been fleshed out. I liked when Manoj Bajpayi runs with his kid, sitting on his shoulders, to meet the school bus. I loved his interaction with his wife. I loved Kishore Kadam checking for dried clothes on the clothesline, tucking his sleeping son and wife in the blanket. Anupam Kher's transformation from a frail, vulnerable, old man into a confident, no-nonsense CBI officer (con man) is superb. And, Akshay Kumar - when will he stop doing the asinine roles? He's good in Special 26. But, he could have made more impact if the love angle in his life had been trimmed quite a bit. This love angle has been stretched too far and I guess that's what distracts us from the heist operation. The climax is anti-climax. I knew what was going to happen. Of course, everyone sitting in the hall knew that one man had robbed off the Tribhuvandas Bhimji Zaveri of several crores. But, how, was the question. The way it was shown in movie was quite tame. And, with an end like that, I am sure there will be talks of a sequel to the movie.

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Have been re-reading Kharemaster, by Vibhavari Shirurkar. I found the book in CP, Delhi and I was thrilled. I had been trying for years to lay my hands on Shirurkar or Malatibai Bedekar's writings.
Anyway, more about this book later.

My home: the way I remember it

Some more changes have been made. There's a ramp now to help the senior citizens climb the steps

This is how the garden looks now

The garden wasn't so neat and didn't have a manicured look when my mother was alive and kicking

I am buried under an avalanche of work. At times like this, I wish I was back home, in my room (now no longer mine) and sleep and sleep. But, since I can't, I tried visualising that I was back home.
My home. How it has changed!
Now that I pause to think, I can see, recall how it looked - initially a cement structure. I remember there's a pic of my mother sitting on the steps leading to the house. In the background is a ladder resting against the parapet of the terrace.
Then, I remember the house being painted. Red colour? I am not quite sure. There's another picture of Aju, Abhi (my friends and rakhi-brothers) and I standing on the veranda looking at...I don't know what. The landscape was very "dry". No trees and no greenery. I remember there was a dusty path leading from our house straight down to several small clusters (ghosalwadi). There was this sudden dip in the path/track (little beyond my house) which was quite fun when I cycled down. The cycle landed with a bump. Climbing was a bit difficult. It was even more difficult during the rains, when a small pool of rainwater, muddy, was created just below the dip. It was so slushy, that the gumboot clad feet, struggled to walk a few feet to the next patch where the ground was a bit firm.
We had a gate just where the ground was firm. I am jumping. The gate was constructed when we erected a wired compound. Until then all the villagers, cows, bullocks, pigs too used the dirt track to reach the main road.
When the gate was erected, my sister and I, for a short period, used to enter and exit after shouting "password". This was clearly the impact of Secret Seven (Enid Blyton). The bolts of the gate, sang, out of tune, so the house didn't really need a watchman. No one could dream of entering the compound quietly. Unless, it was open, which my parents ensured that it never was.
Now the main gate, has moved from the side of the house to diagonally opposite. Lost in cluster of buildings. There's another one at the end of the compound - which is now a wall compound - to demarcate the house and the garden from the housing complex.
There was a garage before the house. But that's gone now. My father parks his vehicle under a tin roof canopy, which slopes down from the terrace.
The steps leading to the house didn't have enough room for the slimmest person to walk. It was cluttered with flower pots and creepers. You had to move them away from the red (stone) steps to sit and watch the rain fall.
Yes, I remember once dancing like a mad on a rainy afternoon. Then, not many houses or buildings were raised and the tree cover over and around the house was so enormous that the few bungalows nearby could never actually peep in our garden. It was pure fun. I have never experienced torrential rains like that any more, partly because I am never home now during the rains and partly because I believe it doesn't pour cats and dogs anymore.
It was a treat to watch the Hajimalang mountain covered in mist and the Bahula-Bahuli dongar. I don't know the name of the Bahula-bahuli dongar - I call it so because one peak is fat and podgy.The other is slim and straight. I can't watch them anymore because of a new apartment complex coming up near the old highway. It blocks the view.
Walking up and down under the star-lit sky (now the tin roof has spoiled the pleasure) was wonderful. Like it was just you and you alone, on the earth. You and the sky above!
After reading all this, don't think that my house has become a stranger. It's the other way round. I have become a stranger to the house. I am sure, when I go back, I will discover my old, forgotten nooks and cranies. The gulmohour tree with its orange red blossoms will smile again for me. The mogra will spread its fragrance. And, I will be happy eating tulsi leaves. Yes, that's a bad habit.  I feel very clean after chomping on two or three tulsi sprigs.

M Sick, and I am feeling lost

I didn't want to write this blog. I have done a lot of FB activism, on you know what. Being in media, you really can't escape unpleasant truths.
So, Damini, Nirbhaya (whatever your name is...my girl) I am shocked about what happened to you.
When the first news came in, I dismissed it of as another rape case. It's only when I read about the mutilation of your genitals, that I felt helpless anger rising within me. And, sadness too. I have been crying silent tears every day since then. I could have been in your place, you know.
Eight years ago, my friend (girl) and I, had hopped into a DTC bus. Only two of us. It was 7 in the evening. I had rejoiced; only someone using public transport in Mumbai and Pune can understand my joy at having bagged a vacant seat. In this case we had the bus to ourselves - empty. We could have sat wherever we wanted.
My friend, smarter than I, quickly caught on what the empty bus meant. Her fear was infectious. We stood near the door, ready to jump, if the situation showed signs of turning ugly.
Delhi instills fear in you; dread and constantly watching your back.
I remember for days after I was groped on a winter evening, I began carrying a stone in my hand bag. The biggest I could find. I may not carry my wallet, but I wouldn't step out of the hostel without carrying the stone. It had saved me from groping fingers and chilling laughter. The chap, who slipped his dirty hands over me, was barely out of teen. I was older and I could fight him off, thanks to a stone lying on the footpath. And, police who were guarding an IPS officer's bungalow. The chap escaped. I was asked not to file a police complaint, by a well-meaning colleague.
Being alone in the city, and with no connections whatsoever, I agreed.
But after that incident, I have lived in perpetual fear. Even today in a new, strange city, I sense a cold hand gripping my heart, while my eyes scan the road for the biggest stone I can find.
--
I was lucky. But, you were not.
--
After my personal experience, I should probably be able to offer some solutions. Sadly, I can't.
I have been reading several blogs and what I thought were possible solutions, aren't.
I was quite okay travelling in ladies special, living in ladies special hotel or being driven by a lady chauffeur. Till someone said, "Aren't all these an attempt to take us back to the Zenana era? Women in 'Women's Only' world.
 Do I want 'Women's Only' world? Frankly, no.
Are men ready to accept us? I hope so.
--
Another blogwriter said she wasn't going to ask her daughters to dress down or carry a chilly/pepper spray.
Or live in perpetual fear.
I haven't carried a chilly/pepper spray. But they could come in handy, you know.
About dressing up/dressing down, I was in salwar kameez on both occasions.
I can shut up people who say that mini skirts excite men to carry out their fantasies on unwilling females in buses, cars, parks, alleys and even house.
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Is the "izzat" and "sharam" if the "izzat" of the girl is violated, responsible for killing of the girl foetus? This thought crystallised when I was watching Pinjar and then Gangajal.
Both the films had a common point, the girls were carried away by goons. In one film, to settle previous score and in the second one because the man had set his eyes on the girl. And, wanted her.
So, jab ladki ko uthwa lete hain, toh woh  gharwalon ke liye mar jaati hai. Knowing how tough it is to rear girls, why bring her into this world then? She, better be happy, with God and his own world.
Shame and stigma. Being a woman means...shame and stigma. And, happiness for a few. May the few increase their tribe.
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M Sick and I am feeling lost.

Mothers, all over the world, are the same

Watched English Vinglish the other day on TV. As with everyone else (mothers and daughters in particular), I was reminded of couple of incidents from my childhood, when I didn't accord my mother any particular importance.
I thought her to be very dowdy, very controlling, very intrusive, never letting me "grow up". It was only after her outburst, which did us both good, did I realise that okay, Mataji isn't some limbu-timbu. I can't remember what triggered it, but I had made some disparaging remark over her education and grades.
Never one to take audacity lying down, least of all, her half-baked daughter's, Mataji brought out carefully rolled sheets of her degree and convocation.
"When I appeared for MA exam, your elder sister was sitting in the corridor, of the college, waiting for me to finish my paper and come out. A sweepress was taking care of my girl...your elder brother was at home, with your father....."
Hearing all that I was chastened and quietly withdrew.
Now when I look back, I think I can put two and two together. A year or two later, Mataji decided to enroll for her PhD; when I decided to learn Japanese, she followed suit. And, then when I was in Delhi, she did a Diploma in Urdu writing. Got a first class.
Did her daughter's words hurt Mataji and that pushed her to study more, something she always wanted to? Quit possible.
Her PhD dream remains unfulfilled. And, much as she wanted me to go in for PhD studies, I refused. I am not academic material at all.
--
What is it about mothers and long nose? It's there, everywhere, sniffing out secrets, smelling pain and agony. Before I got my mobile phone at the age of 24, all the calls that came for me, were well listened in my Mataji. All the letters that I got too...She had numbers and addresses of my friends, particularly boys.
She knew exactly who was going out with whom. You know, she might as well have been in college with me or shared my hostel room. Mataji knew every secret that I wished to hide/keep safe from her. I don't know how.
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She didn't change when she became a grandmother too. My nephew, who is younger to me, found that out soon. She knew the parents of his friends, she knew where they stayed, what they ate and where they holidayed. And, although his teenage years coincided with her illness, she kept a close tab on him.
I have a couple of her diaries and notes with me. I managed to leaf through a few pages which mentioned my nephew's antics in great detail. Quite an embarassment material!
--
Had she lived for a few more years, then she would have taken to Facebook quite easily. Her nose would be stuck to the computer screen!

Too many voices

Okay. Have to scribble something as there are too many voices in my brain, clamouring and drowning out the din of the outside world. So those sitting around me, will find me in hermit-like mood; remote and fidgety. Remote, as in, others cannot approach me. Fidgety because too many things happening in my brain. I can actually imagine the thought wires criss-crossing, and becoming one messy tangle.
What am I supposed to untangle and relax?
Here are my usual solutions: watch a movie. With no one for company. In my moods like this, I prefer to sit and watch the film alone. No popcorn either.
And, which movies would make it to my companion list? Jo Jeeta Wohi Sikandar (no), Jodhaa Akbar (no), Yuva....(some bits, yes), Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara (maybe yes), Andaz Apna Apna (uhhh) Swades (YESSSSSSS).
I don't know why, but when I am down and out, and need to calm myself, I invariably reach out for Swades, which in some people's opinion is a perfect recipe for sad documentary. I don't agree. Ya, I mean it has been stretched quite a bit. But, still it's the best ever depiction of the confusion that India is. And, that we do know how to put things right, in perspective.
I also love it plainly for the village life, the uncomplicated stance, the unflinching acceptance of "this is it..."
My favourite bit of the movie is when SRK enters the village in his caravan, with the boy Chiku leading the way, and "ayo re" score in the background. My spirits lift.
There are other connections too.  Watching movie sitting on the road. Many a times in my childhood, I have often sat by the roadside with other townies/villagers watching movie on the "purdah" - hello, this was before TVs became common and electricity more regulated.
And, of course the temples. I loved the temple in this movie. The old stone temple, with the temple pond. Old village temples are soothing, charming and they have the ability to stop the clock. Time ticks by very slowly...until you are finally ready to step out and face the world.
I rarely ever visit a temple in the city. They somehow don't have the ability to draw you in like the old, cool temples of the village.
Yup, so I watch Swades for certain reasons.
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If I can't watch a movie for some reason, then flipping through old letters and photo albums gives me back my sanity. On days like these, I hate the idea of logging into Picassa or flicker and clicking on pics. Hell, I would rather reach out to the photos under the plastic covering, pull them out and my fingers tracing the outlineof the figures in the images.
I quite like the idea of holding the past in my hands. I can't reverse it, but I can live it again through the photographic memory. Technology, go take a hike. On some days you are an untouchable.
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Clarity peeping out through the tangled mesh of thought wires.
And, here's the first voice - Didn't much like Harivanshrai Bachchan's autobiography. This is the English translation of the Hindi original. Confession -I didn't read it from the start. I started forwards from the middle, which was the introduction of Teji Bachchan. It's a nice read, honest too. But it didn't appeal to me somehow, because there's the pettiness of the author and his shying away from the responsibility of clearing the air.
Second voice says: Reading Milind Bokil's Shala. Again and again. Soaking in the atmosphere of the 70s and early 80s.
Third voice: Have missed out on Talaash and earlier, Barfi. Not good.
Fourth voice: I don't know if this is going to reach the person, it's intended for, but I am saying it out loud, nevertheless. Please stay away. We never connected really, so don't intrude into my life.
Fifth voice: Don't bug me or I will explode.
Sixth voice: I am missing brownies.
Seventh voice: Heat boils, acidity and the swinging hormones - get in line and behave. Heat boils...just disappear okay. Outttttttttttt!
Eighth voice: No more medicines please.
Ninth voice: Did I really need that new leather bag (expensive)? I needed one, not the expensive one though.
Tenth voice: Can I just stow away the leather bag and not look at it again?
Eleventh voice: Well, every time you look, you will be reminded of the price. So look again...and don't buy anything in a hurry.
Twelfth voice: Exhausted. Go to sleep.
Thirteenth voice: Sleep. Watch Swades some other night.
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Good Night!