Bangalored!

It seemed like a good time to move out of Delhi. We won’t stay for more than two years, husband was categorical. So Bangalore it was, exactly 10 years ago on November 18, 1999. Three days later, walking alone on Old Airport Road at 10 night, I called friends in Delhi to tell them this! It was amazing that I could walk that stretch without anyone gawking at me during the day even. What a respite!

There were things I couldn’t get used to in a hurry and then there were the rest…

EVERYONE called me 'Amma'! Aiyyo why? I clearly remember the day I graduated from ‘baby’ when I travelled alone, the train attendant called me ‘madam’ and I was quite shocked. But Amma? The maid, I did not mind. But the doc called me Amma, the autowala, the school teacher, everyone.

At around 4 in the evening lovely hunger-whetting aromas arose all around. Bhajjis! Ah! fiery peppers and crunchy capsicums, mangalore and maddhur wadas. Totally addictive. But the carrot was ‘ello’ (when I first corrected C for using that she told me if she said ‘yellO’ no one would understand!) and ‘jamoon’ did not easily evoke the taste of gulab jamoon but remained the succulent purple-tainting fruit. ‘Bhaiya’ could not be used to soften the heart of plumber/ electrician/ security. Everyone spoke in a sing-song kinglish and a sentence became a question by just elongating the last word. The all signifying ‘aa’ made all the difference ‘going out aa (!!)’, ‘going out aa (?), ‘going out aa (.), going out (~) ’ Similarly ‘pa’ ‘da’ ‘la’ – good fun!!

Nor was the ‘one dosa parcel’ easy 'cause parcels came in post and not at food take-away counters. The trucks and buses ‘sounded horns’ and never horn pleased. The traffic cops wore bowler hats. Women wore flowers in hair to work – not one or two, entire bushfuls even with trousers. They rode bicycles in sarees. There were lady bus conductors, petrol pump…nah 'bunk' attendants and postwomen too! The cows had elongated and very pointed horns. Red light se right lena, bhaiya was not understood. 'Signal' it was. ‘Where is your native?’ was hello. And ‘tell me’ after hello wasn’t meant to sound as rude as it did.

Now we look forward to 'meals' not thalis and eat soft mounds of fluffy rice slobbered over with spoonfuls of gee (just as g becomes gh, as in 'gar' meaning home, gh become g, and same interchange for 't' and 'th') as spice induced tears of sheer pleasure stream out of our eyes. We break into the impromptu 'jinke marina' at balle balle moments. I 'remove my phone' from my pocket to talk into it. And use Amma, Ma liberally for aunty, neighbor, kid, store attendants, loo keepers… When at indecisive shopping moments, I place my hand on five silk sarees and tell them I want only one, the exasperated shop attendant points to one and says, 'chennagidya', which I now know is not 'go to hell', she’s helped me select.

Why I’m writing all this? Chumma!

PS: All you scandalized north log, 'chumma' in not the jumma ka chumma but simbly JLT !! yeah, that took a while getting used to!

न दस्तक ज़रूरी, ना आवाज़ देना...

Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Neighbor.
Catch you on Facebook?

What’s the world coming to? Or again, am I getting old and hankering after old-world niceties? Okay, latter. But here’s talking of an exception.

When I see the packers and movers truck parked under my bedroom window, I try and figure out who’s moving out from my neighborhood or who’s moving in. Because before I know it, it will be too late. Last week when I bumped into a neighbor in a store 10 km from our place and commented on her new hairstyle, C politely interrupted to lead me to the far end to look at pickles because she was afraid I would say something to reveal that I had no clue they had moved out of our complex months ago.

But being what I am I still look forward to new neighbors introducing themselves and the moving out ones, ringing the bell just to say, they’re leaving. Yeah, that’s all. No need to leave your new address. On good days I make plans for visiting friends next year.

My relationship with neighbors on the left starts on the wrong foot. Some Vaastu problem, I’m sure. But it always gets better. Good Vaastu. I would be terribly miserable if I did not get along with immediate neighbors. So I was really pleasantly taken aback when the couple who bought the flat on the left appeared at my door. Never mind it was 3 on a Sunday afternoon. I’ll take good manners over the snooze any day. To compound matters, they were very young, too young to be nice and well-mannered.

Now what brought them to me was me. Sundays are no tolerance days as far as ‘bang-bang’ goes in our apartment complex. We try not to drill tunnels, chop down unused cabinets, solder new grill designs on Sundays. So when the bang-bang next door began, my fluish mind, a little hurt with the former neighbors leaving without a word of farewell - I had no intention of holding on to their legs crying, mujhe chood ke mat jao, started heating up. As the noise continued, I called the Manager who called them and quietude was restored. Apparently, they were not aware of the unwritten rule.

They came to introduce themselves and apologize, OMG! What’s the world coming to? I’m better off romanticizing my good old days and sighing.

One of my favorite Robert Frost poems:

A TIME TO TALK
When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, What is it?
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.

तारे ज़मीन पर

Suddenly the significance of Ashtmi/Navmi puja – specially the kanya puja dawned on me this year. How wonderful to see the Goddess in little girls. It became clearer and clearer. It was indeed a day to be celebrated – the whole nine yards.

Most people in the family fast and feed poor girls on either of these days. Mummy sends biscuit packets and money to slum children – her belief is not restricted to nine girls or poori-channa. When we were in Delhi and C was little, as early as five in the morning, the doorbell would ring and a pados ki aunty would hand me a paper plate with googey halwa, soft and salty kala channa covered with two limp poories. It had a one-rupee coin stuck into it. Then all morning many such plates arrived and D and I ate only that whole day.

C grew up and life in Bangalore made us forget many such celebrations. So this year seemed like the perfect chance to not miss. I wanted C to experience the traditional way it is done and also thought it was a good opportunity to socialize by inviting little girls from our apartment complex with their mothers.

So C and I took a list to market to buy churis for the girls. They were extremely lovely. I took my time making sets, imagining each girls' wrist size, tying them with ribbons of different color according to sizes. Then I bought shiny little drawstring bags to keep the money in. All this, two days in advance. The excitement was building up.


I fasted on saptmi, the seventh day and in the evening went to invite the girls. The first child did not give a conclusive reply. Not a great beginning :( The second agreed. The third mother, looked at us and nodded even before I opened my mouth to state my purpose. Yes, yes, she said and after my house all the girls could come to her house. Fair enough. The fifth and sixth child were traveling. The seventh little girl hit her head with her palm and sighed ‘how many houses will I have to go!’ Eighth child confirmed. At the last home, I was met with questions such as ‘isn’t nine too early?’, ‘you want her bathed?’ but the real damper was ‘aapka jugaad ho gaya kya?’(meaning if I had been able to herd in the required nine girls). I realized then that the socializing, fun time I was looking forward might be seen by many as having a very self-serving motive. But there is all kinds.

I got up at five to make pooris, halwa and black channa. The dining table was moved to make place for seating on the floor. Alpana and candles decorated the entrance. The beautiful angels started to arrive sharp at nine - yeah, bathed and dressed beautifully. I washed their feet (symbolically, by sprinkling a few drops of water), applied tikka, did arti, touched their feet and asked them to bless me. One of the naughtier ones raised her palm to do so others giggled. And they loved the churis! Then they sat alti-palti on the floor to eat. We had a wonderful, wonderful time. C enjoyed it and I hope the little girls did too.


PS: Photo quality is bad as the search for the next camera is still on.

AFTERTHOUGHTS: Nothing moves Indians like the fear of afterlife and the wrath of the gods. They offer diamond necklaces and gold crowns to idols of gods but will doubt the intentions of those who devote themselves to the service of the needy. If it was told to them loud and clear that feeding nine girls on Ashtmi every year would secure a berth for them in Heaven, perhaps it would gradually instill in them a respect for the girl child.

The Cling Thing

Perhaps it’s the view from the wrong side of mentionable-age that scandalizes me so. But what I’d really like to know is who created lycra – man or woman? It could be either since it affords such great estimation of women’s anatomy to men and is so liberating for women, revealing and yet not quite so. cooperative.

Wiki enlightens: Modern hosiery is usually tight-fitting by virtue of stretchy fabrics and meshes... Due to its close fit, most hosiery can be worn as an undergarment….

The key words here are tight fitting and undergarment. Yes, tight fitting undergarments are most nice and comfy. Never one to appreciate nylon (read synthetic) I still welcomed tracks and leggings which are great exercise-wear and about-the-house-wear and house-on-fire-rushing-out wear.

In local parlance, hosiery was/is best understood as baniyaan ka kapda – the cloth of vests. Comfy lycra inner wear! Libration clothing. But inner. So how did it come out of the closet? To be flaunted without the outer? First it was only t-shirts. Nice, comfy. Then it tightened its grip. Tight fit was called 'Smart fit'. Then they got the brainwave to create ALL women’s clothing in this. Tops were okay. Leggings too were because they still stayed inside homes and in parks. But now they have created the baniyaan churidar! So comfy and thin you’d think you weren’t wearing anything (and that’s exactly how you appear, btw). Fittingly it walked into offices, lunches, launches, and very quickly kneed out all decent forms of leg coverings.

These clingy churidars leave nothing to imagination what with the kurta slits forever riding up. Do the wearers have any clue how clearly visible each sinew of their bady and detail of the inner wear is – every flower, each stitch, each lace trim? I guess it saves a lot of trouble – no iron, no nada and is a boon to those who have to step out of homes properly covered so no bro/nani/dada/hubby/mother-in-law or neighbor can raise an eye or finger and then rush to the washroom of the nearest Mall to emerge in cooler/hotter/lesser clothes. Now they can go out bindaas in traditional, body-covering attire and still feel confident that they will get the all-heads-turned response only a leg-show did.

Like it’s said that you ain’t revealing till you reveal skin. But my demure lovelies, be assured men are looking and seeing. How can they not. My male friend referred to my lovely Lucknowi, hand embroidered top, as 'that transparent top'. Gossamer, I said. Men don’t understand gossamer and such, it’s plain and simple transparent!! So if you’re out in those lycra churidars (especially if there is mild breeze) please be informed that you are just wearing a dress with slits to your waist.

The whole point of this natter being, pointing out to those that do not know that they are revealing that they are; and those that know that they are but think that we think they are not, that we know that they are. I am a prude but not enough to grudge anyone revealing clothes. Reveal by all means. Oh please go ahead with the spaghettis, off shoulders, minis and shorts but leotards under kurtas? Have mercy!