The Heebie-Jeebies

Delhi Diaries - Part II - 'Save our Daatrrrs'

2007-03-30T15:20:00.000+06:00

To justify all those vile things I’d said previously about dilli wallahs I've decided to tell you about this other incident which took place during my stay in Delhi.

After the fateful evening at Elevate, one of my friends (A) very generously offered to drop me home. I was spending the remainder of the night at another friend’s (V) house and so thankfully A didn't have to drive around too much. As we approached V's house, we said our goodbyes in the car and I gave A, a peck on his cheek. Unfortunately, I didn't see the bike behind us and the pot bellied cops perched on it.

V and I walked into the building discussing the evening and we had just reached her apartment when we got a call from A. He was still downstairs and the pot bellied cops had stopped him and gotten into his car. They wanted to take him to the police chowki and carry out some sort of verification. When we asked him what the cops wanted to verify he sounded embarrassed and put them on the phone. The cops were curious as to who we were and how we knew poor little A, who was now sitting and sweating in the car. A had been introduced to V for the first time that evening and so it was understandable that he didn't know the details of the genealogical history of V's family. So when asked about V's father's name and profession he drew a complete blank(though why those questions were being asked in the first place was a mystery to us at that point). Our pot bellied friends thought there was something suspicious about the whole thing and wanted to take in A for questioning. This entire tamasha was taking place outside V's house and it all seemed a bit ridiculous, given that we live in a democracy where the right to go and come as we please (also known as the right to freedom) is one of the fundamental rights and further more, the country is in no particular state of emergency (well that is debatable, but lets not go there).

V having been born and brought up as a true dilli wali decided to give the cops a piece of her mind. She spoke to them in a language they understood, unfortunately that probably instigated the cops a little more. They told her that all they wanted to do was "verify information" and not "beat him up". The fact that they would even say that made us realise that we were dealing with something that we couldn't really handle. We put V's mum on the phone and got her to talk some sense into the cops. Of course it helped that she knew their superiors and that she was a member of one of the biggest political parties in India. The cops immediately turned servile and let A go.

I asked V whether she could make any sense of the whole thing because I had never heard of anything like it before - Cops picking up citizens for absolutely no reason and threatening to take them to the police chowki, not to beat them up (explicitly stated) but to "verify information". I would have been able to explain it if A didn't have a valid license or the car papers or smelt of alcohol, but given that none of those reasons held good it was a gross violation of our fundamental rights. V explained to me that there were some paying guest accommodations for women around where she lived and that the cops were wary of strange guys hanging around - Especially if the guy had a fancy car. She said that it had happened a couple of times to some of her friends but they all got away by either flashing a press card or a 'member of the bar association' card or in some cases handing over money. Given that these methods are available to the actual 'offenders' as well, I see absolutely no point in having the cops patrol that place. Another thing that really gets me is the moral policing angle of it. Most of the women in the PG’s are adults and should be able to decide for themselves, who they want to do what with. If all of it is consensual I don’t see how the cops come into the picture at all. Its just plain ole harassment.

A, being the law abiding citizen that he is, had refused to part with his money. That obviously had pissed the cops off, but I’m guessing what really did poor A in, was that ill-timed peck on the cheek.

Delhi Diaries - Part I

2007-03-29T12:28:00.000+06:00

I've just returned from a trip to Delhi and I must say the attitude of the people there just blew me away! I thought six years of living in Delhi would have conditioned me to it, but boy was I wrong! No amount of living in Delhi can accustom you to the brash, irreverent, law-breaking, aggressive attitude of the dilli wallahs.

My friends and I decided to check out one of the recently opened night clubs in town. By town I mean Noida - as most of you know, Delhi, Noida, Gurgaon, they're all just one big happy family nowadays- the only difference between them probably being that you can't whip out a gun on the streets of Delhi and not attract too much attention whereas in Noida you will attract attention if you don't carry a firearm. Another interesting fact I picked up - Seatbelts aren't mandatory in Noida, so don't be surprised if you see people unbuckling as soon as they get off the Delhi-Noida-Delhi expressway (affectionately referred to as the DND).

Anyway, getting back to our little story, we made our way to 'Elevate' (which is what the discotheque is called) and reached there to find that one of our friends who was making his way on his own hadn't arrived. So we strolled about on the landing in front of the entrance, waiting for our friend to show up, when a very unfriendly bouncer walked up to us and asked us what we wanted. We looked at him with an expression that read, "Are you retarded? Can’t you see we're here for the discotheque?", when we realised that we were probably the oldest people around (I’m guessing we’d crossed the legally permissible age limit at discs in Delhi by a couple of years) and definitely overdressed. By overdressed I mean we were wearing too many clothes. The junta around us couldn't have been older than 16. They were all dressed in the latest fashions which dictate that you can wear only 2 inches of cloth around the bust and maybe five around the hips. We swallowed our indignation and informed the bouncer of our intentions. He looked us up and down a couple of times and told us to go stand behind a partition at the end of the corridor. He said the elevator chute was visible from there and we'd be able to see our friend once he arrived. That’s the price you pay in Delhi for not keeping up with the latest fashions, and of course, ageing.

The Better Half

2007-03-12T20:38:00.000+06:00

An excerpt from a conversation a few of us had over lunch

U: He's not really obnoxious; he's just a child in an adult's body.
M: You mean he's a man?

I don't think it’s ever been put so succinctly. Now don't go getting all defensive about it! All of us have a child in us. Some of us nurture it and let it grow till it reaches our biological age and some of us are too busy nurturing our biological selves to pay any attention to the child in us.

It is believed that women mature faster than men do. That probably didn't go down well with the men and so they decided to do something about it. This is my theory. In the history of mankind one luminary chanced upon this phenomenon and decided he had to change the way nature ran things. What, he asked himself, could men as a race do to equalise this unfair advantage that women have? "Hmmm, lets see", he said to himself - "We could deny them education, relegate them to the kitchen and brainwash them into believing that their sole purpose on this planet is to produce babies. If that doesn't work, we could always burn them for dowry. "

The sex ratio in our country is appalling. The national average, according to a census carried out in 2001, is 933 females to 1000 males. It is a well known fact that female feticide is practiced in states like Haryana and Uttar Pradesh. This adversely skews the sex ratio reducing it to anywhere between 801 to 900 females for every 1000 males. The skewed sex ratio results in practices like marrying a girl off to an entire family of brothers. The poor girl is expected to meet the carnal needs of all the brothers and when they don't prove fertile enough, even the father-in-law. The minute she gives birth to a baby and it turns out to be a girl they kill the child. And so perpetuates the vicious cycle.

I was having a conversation with a colleague of mine who happens to have got thru the same school for the same program as I did. We were talking about the man-woman ratio and other such statistics when he says, “You know, there's a severe dearth of women in our batch. I'm supposed to compete with at least 6 other guys for a woman's attention and if we leave out the married women the number probably changes to 15!" Well, dude, if you'd let the likes of Raja Ram Mohun Roy do his work and lent a helping hand, we might have had a healthier ratio in college.

Gokarna - Paradise Lost

2007-03-08T21:55:00.000+06:00

I went for a trek this weekend with some friends to a place called Gokarna. This small little town is located in North Karnataka and is known for its many temples. Everyone but I and another member of the group had been there before and so we were given a low down of what to expect. Gokarna town is a quaint little town which is mainly inhabited by Brahminical priests and firangs turned devotees. It is spotted with temples and shops selling holy merchandise. The little town even has a massage parlor which claims to massage any body part for 'twenty rupees only'. Unfortunately we didn't have the time to find out which body parts came under the ambit of that description. One end of the town stretches into a beach which is similar in shape to that of a cow's ear (That's where the place gets its name from). Gokarna beach is separated from four other beaches by steep hills and cliffs. It doesn't take too long to trek to the next beach, which happens to be Kudle beach, but the afternoon sun proved to be too much of a deterrent. So we smothered ourselves with spf 30 sunscreen, donned our hats and sunglasses, picked up our back packs, hailed a boat and sailed our way to Kudle beach.

Kudle beach is a sight to behold. Its natural beauty is breathtaking. The coast is strewn with rocks that create shallow pools of water on the beach - perfect for a little dip if you don't mind the stagnant water and the slimy slugs. The sea crashes against these rocks from time to time, throwing up gigantic sprays of water. Hills on either side frame the beach, which is lined with palm trees characteristic of Karnataka. Hidden between the palms are small shacks set up by the locals to house the tourists flocking to the beach.

As we approached Kudle, our attention got diverted from the beautiful scenic surroundings to the not so beautiful semi clad inhabitants of the beach. Most of them were - needless to say - firangs. For every ten of them, there was one of us and even that is a generous approximation. We decided to concentrate on lugging our stuff to the shore and finding a shack to have lunch and stay in. We thought we'd try our luck at sunset cafe, so we trooped in and made ourselves comfortable in one corner of the cafe. It was a nice Goa-ish looking place with colored sashes hanging from the thatched roof. They were playing tracks from Buddha Bar and it was the perfect way to start off the holiday. The attendants at the cafe didn't think so, they were extremely reluctant to serve us food and one of them even had the nerve to tell us not to disturb him too often because he had other customers to attend to -There were exactly three other people in the cafe apart from us. Whatever food they did serve us was bland and tasteless, though I don't think discrimination played a part in that. Not being treated well by a waiter was the least of our problems.
None of the shack owners were willing to give us a place to sleep in! Apparently all the shacks were full. So Jyo and I decided to try our lady luck and see if we managed to get anything. We got lucky and found three places willing to give out rooms.

We left our stuff in the rooms and trekked to the next beach - Om Beach. This beach gets its name from the shape created by an arm of rocks jutting out into the middle of the sea. It’s much larger than Kudle beach and possibly prettier. We climbed a couple of rocks and settled down to watch the sunset. Fresh sea breeze does wonderful things for your appetite and we decided to go to 'Namaste' cafe for a cup of tea. Like every other shack in Gokarna this one too had something special about it - It had different menus with different prices for Indians and foreigners and this time thankfully we weren't at the receiving end of the discriminatory tactics of the shack owners.

Post our cup of chai when the moon had risen, we walked across the beach and climbed a hill to get to the next beach. None of us knew the way and we got lost a couple of times, but that just added to the fun. After a couple of wrong turns we found the correct path and trudged along in single file. The path was just about wide enough for a person to place one foot in front of the other. On our left was the vertical wall of the hill and to our right was a steep fall right into the Arabian Sea. We could see the sea crashing and swirling around the rocks at the bottom of the cliff. I forget how long it took us to get to Half Moon beach. With all the wrong turns, I'm guessing one hour. It was a full moon night and we didn't even need our torches to guide us.

Half moon beach was completely deserted. It is tiny compared to the other two and is beautiful by moonlight. We stayed there for a while lolling around in the sand, talking, listening to the waves and just being. Our stomachs told us that we were nearing dinner time and when someone checked, it was close to 10:30pm. We figured we wouldn't get any food at this time, what with it being late and us not being firangs. We trekked back to Om beach and convinced this place called Nirvana cafe to serve us dinner. The food was terrible but the service, surprisingly good. We returned to our rooms and crashed for the night.

We spent most of the next day swimming in the sea and stuffing our faces with different kinds of pancakes. Realising that ordering endless amounts of food was a good way of getting back at the recalcitrant waiters, we went at it with full force. We ordered everything on the menu and did quite a good job of polishing off most of what was on our plates!
But alas we got stumped by this

Yes, that happens to be garlic bread - Gokarna style.

We had to catch a bus back to Bangalore at 7 and so we packed up our belongings and made our way back to Gokarna town.
The two things that remain with me from the trip are the beauty of the pristine beaches and the horrible attitude of the shack owners. The second, as a phenomenon is a strange one. I have traveled around the world but nowhere have I seen the kind of discrimination that I saw in Gokarna - People of a country discriminating against its own kind. It’s sad what a few people would do for money - I say money, because I can't think of another reason.

Chivalry-Shmivelry

2007-02-22T14:17:00.000+06:00

Chivalry is dead. It’s official. I just spent the better part of a minute holding the door open for my male colleagues to stream through. One guy (probably the only gentleman in the group) eventually decided that I’d played doorkeeper long enough and opened the other panel to direct his brethren through it.
What happened to all that jazz about women's lib you ask? Well, there's nothing particularly liberating about holding a door open for the entire male populace of your office to walk through. In fact, if anything, it’s just the opposite of women's lib. It stinks of the oppressive, anti-emancipation stunts that you guys pulled during those politically incorrect days when it was believed that we were born to serve you! (What crock is THAT??!!!)
Women's lib is a tricky thing. Its like this - We're not asking you to pay for our dinners or pull out chairs for us, its nice if you do it, being fully aware of course that we're completely capable of doing it ourselves. All we're saying is, face it. We weren't born equals. So don't expect us to do it for you!

Killing the past and coming back to life

2007-02-21T13:17:00.001+06:00

Is it ever possible to leave it all behind? Isn't it a part of who you are, who you have become? Do you just pretend that it never happened? Or do you lock it up in the deep dark recesses of your brain and hope that it never surfaces?

But isn't it bound to? What happens when you meet that someone or someone who reminds you of that someone? Or maybe even hear that song or smell that perfume? The world is not going to stop making Davidoff or playing Pink Floyd just because YOU have a few painful memories.

So really, how do you kill the past?

The Family Gupta - 'We speak like this only'

2007-02-19T16:33:00.000+06:00

If anything, we're all excellent orators. Our parents put us in schools that made sure of that. Unfortunately, picking up a new language has never been one of our stronger points. The language in question here is Hindi. Not that it’s new to us, but the Bengali's spoken Hindi is something of legend. Most of us from the Gupta family have spent some part of our lives in Delhi and some have even studied the language in school. We still prefer to speak the Hindi of our forefathers.

We're known for our faux pas. Most of what we say gets lost in translation. That’s usually not a good thing. The following incident for instance didn't win my grandfather any fans in Shimla.
He'd gone to visit a friend sometime in winter; those were the days when people relied on good ole timber to keep them warm. It had just snowed and the caretaker had managed to get a feeble fire going with some spindly twigs he'd found in the garden. It was the only dry wood he'd got his hands on and the twigs just about managed to produce a weak fire. My grandfather decided to take charge of the situation and turned to the caretaker and said "Bahadur, isse nahin chalega. Mota mota ladki lao". The caretaker looked a little taken aback, said "Ji huzoor?” to which my grand father replied in a louder voice, enunciating each word clearly, "MOTA - MOTA -LADKI - LAO". Bahadur bowed his head in servility, backed out of the room and left, never to return again.

The next little incident is thankfully not a contribution made by my immediate family to the annals of badly spoken Hindi. The offender in this case was my grandmother's sister.

My grandmother had gone to visit her sister and they were sitting in the drawing room sipping on their chamomile tea when the dhobi arrived. He was carrying a pile of washed and starched clothes on his head and was looking for the maid to give the laundry to. My grand aunt informed him, in her pidgin Hindi, that the maid had gone to the market and that he should go to the bedroom and keep the clothes there himself. Unfortunately she had decided not to pay heed to the difference between the phrases "to put down" and "to take off". This is what the conversation sounded like:
Grand Aunt: "Maya market gayi hain"
Dhobi:"Phir kapde kahan pe rakhoo, memsahib?"
Grand Aunt: "Ummm, Tum ek kaam karo, seedha bedroom me jake kapde utaar ke khare ho jao"
Dhobi: "Ji memsahib?"
Grand Aunt: "Tum sunta nahin? Seedha bedroom me jake kapde utaar ke khare ho jao"
Dhobi: "Lekin memsahib...."
Grand Aunt: "Lekin what?"
Dhobi: "Sahib gussa karenge!"

You have to give the Dhobi some points for his concern for propriety.

S.A.D

2007-02-14T11:46:00.000+06:00

Singles Awareness Day. That’s what Valentine's Day is called these days. I hear you Cupid, I hear you! I've never been more acutely aware of my single status.

I'm twenty-beep and I've been sleeping with a pink panther for the last four years (Refer to the pictures above). He's called Douche and is as pink as...errmmm ...well, I'll leave that to your vocabulary and imagination to figure out. A few reasons why he's proved to be better company than any man I've ever met:-

- He wraps his tail around me when I'm blue.
- He never fights with me for the blanket.
- His white-fluffy-machine-washable insides soak up all my tears.
- He doesn't expect me to wake up and make coffee for him.

And those are just SOME of the reasons that I could think of off the top of my head.

The point that I'm really trying to make here is that the last batch of men that God made, turned out to be eminently un-dateable.

Excerpts from some of the dates that I've been on recently...

Date 1 Act I

Date 1: What is that on your arm?
Me: It’s a birth mark.

Date 1: Oh!
Me: What did you think it was?

Date 1: Ring worms
Me: Interesting. You seem to know a lot about those!

Date 1: Yes, I used to have them. I can suggest a couple of ointments you could use.
Me: It’s a birth mark! (you nincompoop!)

Date 2 Act I

Date 2: You have beautiful fingers.
Me: Thank you!

Date 2: And perfectly shaped nails.
Me: Oh stop! (Coyly touching his shoulder)

Date 2: ...and calcium deficiency.
Me: (knew this was too good to last)

Date 3 Act I

Me: (Excusing myself) I need to use the restroom.
Date 3: Ok

5 minutes later Act II

Date 3: Should we order for the food? I've decided on what I want.
Me: Ummmm, ok
Waiter: Ma'am do you want some more time?
Date 3: Yes I think she does. (To me he says, quite loudly, might I add) You might need to revisit the restroom. Your fly is open.

And you ask me why I prefer to be single?

The Great Indian Gold Rush

2007-02-08T22:15:00.000+06:00

The idle finger is the nostril's nemesis.

My second standard class teacher, Mrs. Gonzales, had a euphemism for the act of digging one's nose; she called it 'digging for gold'. If you passed by her class on a particularly dry day you would hear her say, "child, stop digging for gold, you're never going to find any in there!". Even her loud voice, which carried over the entire length of the corridor informing the school of your dirty deeds, was not enough to stop some of the students from excavating their noses. Her favourite students were meted out a more suitable punishment. They were made to sit for the rest of the lesson with their finger up their nostril. Fear of suffocation eventually led them to stop.

When I look around I'm assaulted with the image of people standing at bus stops, stuck in traffic jams in posh cars, digging their noses. Some look around and then surreptitiously wipe their fingers on their trousers or the seat cover whichever is more readily available.
The other day as I was sitting in the bus, I heard the guy sitting next to me letting out these little groans of pleasure. That meant one of two things- the first I’d rather not mention and a tad improbable (what with it being the company bus and all) and the second is what I'd suspected. Our friend here seemed to be performing his annual cleansing ritual. He was cleaning out ALL his orifices...ummm well not all, lets say most. He even had a little pencil to assist him. The finger would go into the nose and the pencil into the ear. He would check the consistency of his nose boogies from time to time, roll them in his hand and then flick them into the aisle for all the other passengers to walk over. Sometimes he'd change the routine and first look lovingly at the boogies and then rub them into his trousers. I wish there were some more Mrs. Gonzales' around.

In college during one of my vivas, I happened to get an examiner who indulged in the same sport. At one point his finger was so far up his nostril I swear I could see it poking out of his eye. I was so fascinated by these calisthenics that I forgot the answers to most of his questions. Needless to say I failed.

Why don't we believe in digging our noses in the private confines of our bathrooms? Why must we subject all and sundry to this very private act?
A couple of years ago a group called the Noble Savages came out with a song called "Digging in the nose". The lyrics, if I remember correctly are something like this...

Digging in the nose
Ta ra ra ra ra
I SAY DIGGING IN THE NOSE
Ta ra ra ra ra
I do it, you do it
Digging in the nose

I think we've just found a new national anthem.

P.S The pic has been mooched off Google. My conscience told me not to photograph the guy in the bus. Will upload a pic taken by me soon. Guy in the pic- if you happen to read my blog, no offence meant to you, but considering you put it up on Google, i'm thinking its not a big secret.

2007-02-07T16:44:00.000+06:00

A wise friend of mine, who I like to call Omeet, claims to have worked for the underground Iraqi blogging world. He gave me some advice. He says the only way to increase readership of my blog is to divulge certain intimate details of my life which would have otherwise been hidden. He suggested dirty pictures as a form of expression. I concurred. Let me know if this makes you want to visit my blog more often.

The Family Gupta - 'The finer nuances of screwing'

2007-02-07T13:14:00.000+06:00

We weren't shipwrecked and we're definitely not Swiss. Part Belgian perhaps, but definitely not Swiss. We love fish, traveling and giving advice - perhaps not in that order. If you meet us at a public place, I'm pretty sure you'll remember us.
I'd initially planned on dedicating my blog solely to the adventures of the Gupta Family but I realised that it is pregnant with the possibility of attracting the ire of anybody in 'The Family'. I wouldn't want that. You wouldn't want that.

To get on with the blog, we're six cousins and one of the younger ones, in his earlier days, used to have a problem figuring out the English language. He didn't quite agree with Websters or want to speak 'Better English' - it didn't help that he was studying in Uluberia. As luck would have it, his parents moved to Calcutta and he was enrolled in a stiff upper lip missionary school. Being the survivor that he is, he managed to string together coherent sentences to get across whatever he wanted to say and all was well till he was asked to write an essay.

An essay, as we know, is a totally different ball game. Among other things it checks your imagination, fluency and most importantly your vocabulary. My brother scored in all those categories except for vocabulary. You couldn't blame the kid; he just got out of Uluberia for crying out loud! Anyway so his first tryst with essays lands him the topic "A Train Journey". Our man does his best and goes home with a feeling of great accomplishment. The teacher calls for his mother the next day. She's appalled at the usage of certain words. My aunt, for the life of her, couldn't fathom what her six year old son could've written in that essay that warranted her being called to school. She opens his notebook and lo and behold there it is - circled in red with 5 question marks next to it - 'and the women were screwing in the fields’.
My aunt decides that it’s perhaps a little early for the birds and bees talk but decides to confront her son anyway. So she asks him in her firmest voice, "What exactly did you mean by screwing?” he looks at her and says, "Oh haven't you seen those village women picking up bundles of hay and screwing the tops off to break off a piece?"
And that my friends, is the Gupta definition of screwing.

The Bored and the Restless

2007-02-07T11:44:00.000+06:00

I have exactly 3 weeks left before I quit my lovely cushy job to go into the big bad world of b-schools. The company that I work for, believes in having a 3 month notice period! 3 months!!!! I know people whose entire duration of employment with a company lasts that long! Anyway, being the law-abiding employee that I am, I sent the higher-ups my resignation letter 3 months before I wanted to quit. I went through the usual rounds of discussions where I was asked whether I wanted to reconsider my decision, whether a foreign posting will help me change my mind and other stuff along those lines. When it became clear that I'd made up my mind, they decided to give up. By that I mean completely give up! I haven't had even a tiny bit of work to do for the last 2 months and I feel as wanted as the dot matrix printer sitting in the now-abandoned store room. Sigh. The transition from useful, productive employee to 'unallocatable' resource is a painful one. Don't believe anyone who tells you otherwise!
So I'm now left with 3 more weeks of being a bum. I have tried myriad ways of entertaining myself - Emotionally blackmailing my colleagues into taking a coffee break every hour, sneakily watching snippets of 'Friends' on youtube (though that played havoc with my conscience, being a law-abiding employee blah blah), I even covered every single whiteboard on my floor with graffiti, but the clock just doesn't seem to be ticking fast enough! I hope to have a brain wave soon and come up with a brilliant plan to help bored employees while away their time more effectively. Maybe that will be my brilliant business plan.

Introductions

2007-01-18T11:27:00.000+06:00

No, I'm not feeling particularly nervous about anything right now. Give me a minute. Nope, still nothing.