Azaadi ka Jashn in Shanghai

The 60th anniversary of our country’s independence didn’t feel all that special to me. I think it was because one really can’t get into the spirit of the day as long one’s in a foreign nation.

Here in Shanghai we tried our best. About 50 of us gathered for Independence Day celebrations at 7 in the morning. The Tricolour was unfurled. Then the Consul General read out excerpts from the President’s dull speech. This was followed by a handful of tone-deaf ladies, who call themselves ‘Sur Shanghai’ singing a couple of patriotic songs. They sang ‘Vande Mataram’ tolerably well, but they absolutely butchered ‘Aye Mere Watan ke Logon’. They raced through the song like they had a flight to catch. Sur Shanghai’s performance was followed by a bunch of kids singing ‘Chhodo Kal Ki Baatein’. It was surprisingly good.

Afterwards we all marched up to the Consulate for breakfast. This consisted of samosas, gulab jamun and kaju katli. I felt slightly ill at the thought of abusing my tummy with these at 8 AM, but I managed to grin and bear it.

All in all, the proceedings were scalier than ones I’ve experienced in India, but then I’m in China. What else could I have expected?

Venting Some Spleen

Has it ever happened to you? Someone does something to offend you. You’re angry for about five minutes and the you forget about it and move on. Then that night, as you’re lying in bed and thinking about the day that passed, the memory of the offence comes to you in all its virulence and ruins your sleep. You fume thinking about the wrong done to you and all the biting things you could’ve told your malefactor occur to you, too late.

It happens to me all the time.

I’m an angry person right now. Nothing specific. I just hate the world and all that’s in it. I hate whiny people. I hate people who’re perpetually late. I hate politics and backstabbing. I sometimes even hate harmless children.

I need therapy.

Yesterday Once More

I listened to the Carpenters after a long, long time last night. My sister and I sang along, never missing a beat and remembering every word and every expressive pause. It was like when I was 11 and she was 7 and we would listen to the Carpenters all day. Karen Carpenter’s honeyed vocals would sweep over us and we would sway along with the lovely music.

Only Yesterday by the Carpenters was my first ever English-music cassette. By the end of a month, I knew all the words by heart. I knew when to take a deep breath, when to give the right sort of inflections to my voice. Every song had a special meaning for me. Yesterday Once More was the melancholic song I sang whenever I was hit by a wave of nostalgia. It was the song I bonded over with my best friend Anjali [I'm proud to say that I introduced her to The Carpenters]. When David Duchovny got married and broke my heart, Goodbye to Love became my anthem. I imagined myself as a pained and tormented teenager [which I wasn't really, but we all like to strike dramatic poses:)]

It is amazing how every song has an associated memory. There’s nothing like music to trigger nostalgia. ABBA reminds me of the trips my family and Anju’s family took to Diu and to Goa. We had no clue about the lyrics, because of the band’s peculiar accent. We’d fill in the gaps in our knowledge with spirited ‘Blah-Blah-Blah-Blah’s, to the eternal amusement of Anju’s mum. Then there were the Backstreet Boys and Boyzone, which bring back memories of whispered conversations about boys and crushes and long walks in the moonlight.

I have one strong memory associated with Wannabe by the Spice Girls. A garrulous old man had come to visit my dad on a Sunday morning. My dad was getting monumentally bored and my sister and I were impatient to play the Spice Girls’ first album, which we’d bought just the day before. Unfortunately, the music player was in the living room which is where our guest was sitting, talking nineteen-to-the-dozen. Getting tired of waiting, I decided to take the bold step of marching into the living room and playing the cassette. The opening notes of Wannabe were enough to drive the unwanted guest away. My sis and I didn’t get yelled at by our parents for our lack of manners and it is my firm belief that they were actually grateful to us.

Lady by Modjo was the first song I ever danced to with a guy. Teenage Dirtback by Wheatus was the first song I drank to [and proceeded to make a complete fool of myself to. I have vague memories of dancing about and leaping on beds. But since everyone else was equally, if not more, drunk, I guess it doesn’t really matter] Then there was I’m a Slave for You by Britney Spears, with the Khalsa College boys tearing their shirts off and girls screaming and hooting and my friends and I, laughing our heads off. Lenny Kravitz reminds me of a fest at SRCC, with a heady feeling of freedom brought on by the knowledge that we were in the midst of a doped and drunk college crowd, yelling and screaming, and that our parents were not around to drag us back home.

There were quiet evenings with my roomies when we’d discuss Love, Life and Sex, with the Goo Goo Dolls, Coldplay and Pink Floyd playing in the background. And dancing to Superstar and Lets Talk About Sex and Turn Me On during college and hostel Jam sessions.

I no longer listen to most of the songs I used to love. I don’t, for instance, listen to the Backstreet Boys or the Spice Girls any more. I’ve ceased to appreciate their artistic merits, if they ever had any. But if I ever do happen to hear one of those familiar old melodies, I can’t help but sing along. A few months back, on a trip with my classmates, the radio in the car began playing Baby One More Time by Britney Spears. We all giggled at how we’d all once loved that song and as the car whizzed down the highway, we could be heard singing at the top of our voices, “Hit Me Baby One More Time!”

Image by Wikipedia

Kalyug

I’ve often asked myself one question…what are people, who kill innocent people, thinking? Are they thinking at all?
They say they’re fighting for a cause. What cause? What belief system could possibly sanction mass murder?

Imagine this. You’re sitting comfortably by the window on the train home. You’re reading or possibly dozing off. Suddenly, something that sounds and feels like the end of world happens. You’re flying through the air. You try to get up, but you can’t. Something seems to be impending your movements. In a confused sort of way, you notice that people are screaming and rushing back and forth. Then it suddenly strikes you. There was a bomb on the train.You can’t move because your legs have been blown off or your head or arms are bleeding. You’ve sacrificed a lot of blood and your limbs, and quite possibly your life, for someone else’s cause.

In an ideal world, this wouldn’t happen. But this is not an ideal world. And it seems we’re doing nothing to make it one.

A Tribute

This is a tribute to a writer who brightened my childhood, who fed my imagination and who supplied me with the raw material for endless daydreams – Enid Blyton. Of late, her stories have come under criticism for containing racial and gender stereotyping and there has been much talk about ‘cleaning’ them up. The very thought of that appalls me! To touch-up those masterpieces of children’s fiction, to my mind, borders on sacrilege!

How well I remember the sheer joy of reading the adventures of The Famous Five or The Secret Seven, the lives of those who lived int he Enchanted Wood and the Magic Faraway tree. The description of high tea and picnics made my mouth water and I wish I had a rupee for all the times I wished I could lay my hands on a lovely, cool glass of ginger beer. And the school stories were simply magnificent too…Malory Towers, St. Clares, the Naughtiest Girl series…It was another world entirely, a world I desperately wished I was part of. I still remember begging my parents to send me off to a residential school, tempted as I was by thoughts of midnight feasts and hilarious pranks played on unsuspecting French teachers.

Blyton wrote in a different world, a world where race relations were tenser and where only the girls cleared up after dinner. Altering her stories would rob them of any historical value that they have. Her stories are not just stories…they’re an account of her life and times. They’re a monument in themselves and altering them in any way would be like painting the Taj Mahal blue. [ok..not quite like that..but you get the picture ]
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An apology to all those who actually read this blog. I’ve been really busy of late..work, new hobbies, catching up with friends. One of my latest obsessions, and the main reason why I was not blogging, is this fantastic place called Deviant Art. Do visit it if you can..there’s a link on this page to the DA homepage as well as to my DA page. As proof that I was really busy, I have put up a sample of my work. [I'm showing off, of course!]

Politix!

My first experience of politics at the workplace! Not a very edifying experience…and does little credit to all concerned.
So here’s the story….I’ll start at the beginning. I’m an instructional designer..which means I design storyboards for corporate training programmes. And it is part of my job to instruct the graphic designers exactly what I want the developed programme to look like. Since most of them are senior to me, they naturally resent it. I suppose it’s a mindset peculiar to the Indian Male…they hate taking orders, even when they’re not really orders, from women, especially if they’re younger.

So anyway..work that should’ve finished by 6:00 in the evening..finished an hour and a quarter later. I was sizzling by the time I left. Unfortunately, I could not speak my mind…would’ve bruised more egos…sigh!

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It tires me to read newspapers these days…they just drag issues beyond their actual shelf life. Its annoying to wake up every morning and see Rahul Mahajan’s mug on the front page and read five different spellings of Bibek Moitra’s name. That’s another thing….the utter confusion about basic facts such as the names of the main characters in the lead story. In the Rahul Mahajan case, they’d even got the name of the drug wrong. Only The Times of India got it right, and then they too had to crow about it! Really sickening!

The Curse of the Rain God

The rains came to Mumbai with a roll of thunder and a lot of chaos. It was 31 May and it had been pouring relentlessly, all day. It was 7 PM, an hour past the time I usually leave work. My friend Ankhi and I rushed to Thane station, in order to get home as soon as we could. There we encountered the first bad news of the day. The trains had stopped running. Ankhi and I decided that we would take a bus to Check Naka and from there, board another bus to Mumbai. Half-way there, we got stuck in a traffic-jam, stretching on for miles. And this was in Thane, a city where the roads are as wide as the gallies in Mumbai or Delhi. Ankhi and I waited patiently for 20 minutes. Then it became too much…the traffic seemed like it was frozen for eternity, the rain refused to abate and we were getting more and more anxious to get home.

Finally, we decided to just get off the bus and walk to the Naka. Once there, we had to face up to the ordeal of actually catching a bus home. So many buses came, but we couldn’t board a single one. Everyone who was stranded due to the rains in Thane was taking the buses and there was no way the two of us could shove and fight all those hefty men and women in order to board a bus.

Just then, our friends Ujjayini and Sagorika called. They had hired a cab from Check Naka to Sion for 200 bucks. I liked the idea, but Ankhi was a little wary of spending all that money. She persuaded me to go back to our office from where we could take the 9 o’clock bus to Chembur.

When we reached office, Sago and Ujju called again to tell us that the Eastern Express Highway was free of both water and traffic. At the same time, our boss, Devang, informed us that the bus might not come at all. We were in two minds. Finally I decided to take an auto to Check Naka again and from there take a cab to Mumbai. Ankhi decided to risk the bus. I tried to dissuade her, but she refused to listen. I gave up and pushed off. I was, of course, a little scared to take a cab all alone, especially as I would be using the deserted highway. But I was even more anxious to just get home. In any case, Devang had given me plenty of money and two of my colleagues, who live in Thane, had given me their phone numbers, in case of an emergency.

When I was already on my way, Ankhi called to tell me that the bus was definitely not coming. I got so mad at her! I had told her to come with me earlier, but no! She wouldn’t listen! Anyway, she apologized and I told her to come to Check Naka immediately.

At Check Naka, the cabbies and autowallahs were having a field day. They were charging exorbitant rates to take us to Mumbai. We refused flatly. Who would pay 150 Rs. per head by auto and 500 Rs. by cab?!?

We walked on and finally caught an auto, which would charge us according to the meter. We set off, feeling very jubilant. But of course, when things can go wrong they will. I was just telling Ankhi that I hoped the auto wouldn’t breakdown, when it did. Right in the middle of nowhere, somewhere near Vikhroli. We looked at each other in dismay. All sorts of horrible thoughts came to my head….it was a lonely spot, we were two young girls with no knowledge of karate or ju-jitsu and anytime, anything could happen.

Just then, something did happen. Fortunately, it was another auto, empty. We eagerly stopped it, paid the first auto and then set off homewards, once more. This time we did manage to get home. It was 10:45, when I was wearily ringing the doorbell of my house.

What a harrowing experience that had been! The rains shouldn’t make things so difficult. Every year, the same parts of the city get flooded and every year the railway system gets paralyzed. One would imagine that by now the authorities know what the problem is and where it lies and that they would do something about it. But do they? No…of course not!

In any case, three to four months of uncertainty lie ahead…will July 26, 2005 be repeated? And mind you…these were, as the weather bureau called them, just the ‘pre-monsoon showers.’

Philosophy for Pessimists

A song that always makes me think “that’s my life!” is Ironic by Alanis Morissette.

An old man turned ninety-eight
He won the lottery and died the next day
It’s a black fly in your Chardonnay
It’s a death row pardon two minutes too late
Isn’t it ironic… don’t you think?

It’s like rain on your wedding day
It’s a free ride when you’ve already paid
It’s the good advice that you just didn’t take
Who would’ve thought… it figures

Mr. Play It Safe was afraid to fly
He packed his suitcase and kissed his kids goodbye
He waited his whole damn life to take that flight
And as the plane crashed down he thought
“Well isn’t this nice…”
And isn’t it ironic… don’t you think?

It’s like rain on your wedding day
It’s a free ride when you’ve already paid
It’s the good advice that you just didn’t take
Who would’ve thought… it figures

Well life has a funny way of sneaking up on you
When you think everything’s okay and everything’s going right
And life has a funny way of helping you out when
You think everything’s gone wrong and everything blows up
In your face

A traffic jam when you’re already late
A no-smoking sign on your cigarette break
It’s like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife
It’s meeting the man of my dreams
And then meeting his beautiful wife
And isn’t it ironic… don’t you think?
A little too ironic… and yeah I really do think…

It’s like rain on your wedding day
It’s a free ride when you’ve already paid
It’s the good advice that you just didn’t take
Who would’ve thought… it figures
Life has a funny way of sneaking up on you
Life has a funny, funny way of helping you out
Helping you out

A pessimistic song, really. But I’ve often felt that it describes Life perfectly. I mean, how many times has it happened that just as you reach the traffic signal, the colour changes to red? Half a second early, and you would’ve just made it.

It’s what’s know as Murphey’s Law, I think. Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. The toast always falls on the buttered side, you always drop the crystal vase which your mom told you to handle with extreme care or she’ll skin you alive. That’s just Life I guess…making you dance to its little whims and fancies.

To defend myself against these whims of Fate, I’ve devised a strategy. I always imagine that the worst will happen and then Life does the exact opposite and the best thing imaginable happens. Of course, you can’t use this strategy consciously, as it were. The trick is to genuinely believe that something bad is going to happen. And to do this, you have to adopt a very negative view of Life. This way, expecting the worst becomes a way of life and then Life will keep handing you sweets instead of lemons.

Note: This method is not foolproof. And it takes years of practice before you become a true pessimist.

A beginning

Finally, after months of dilly-dallying and shilly-shallying, I’ve decided to start my blog again! I’m tempted to start on a very serious note…trouble is which serious note deserves my immediate attention? The current Sardar Sarovar Dam situation or Salman Khan’s jail term? Or should it be the whole hoo-ha regarding reservation for OBCs?

Simple solution – a line on each of them. Okay..here goes…

Sardar Sarover – The people of Gujarat need water, but they should first learn to use it judiciously. The number of times I’ve seen people there let their taps run while they wash utensils, shave, brush or whatever! Also, the people being displaced bacause of the dam should be rehabilitated suitably.
However we should all know what the opposition is saying. A very learned case for the defence may be found here

Salman Khan cooling his heels in jail – He deserves it. Period. Anyone who kills innocent animals just for ’sport’ are brutes! And anyway, Salman has proven time and again that he is one…like when he dumped a drink on Somy Ali’s head or when he bullied Aishwarya Rai. Industry people may keep saying that ‘woh dil ka accha hai’ but that does not excuse brattiness. Salman just needs to grow up and maybe his three nights in jail in the company of mosquitoes helped him in that direction.

Reservation for OBCs – unnecessary, as far as I can see. I mean, even well-off castes like Yadavs and Jats are OBC. I agree that the really marginalized and oppressed people of our country deserve state support and positive discrimination in their favour. But if reservation of almost 50 % seats in all educational institutes is a bit too much. Where will that leave the general category students? Competition will become even more cut-throat than it already is. And what will happen to the rat race once all the rats have bitten and scratched themselves to death in an effort to get at the last bit of cheese?
A public effort to nip this menace in the bud maybe found here