The 'Bai' Commandments

Childhood is always a very carefree and inhibited time in all our lives; and this inhibition pervades even in the way we talked to everyone. Manners and etiquette were taught early in life but somehow, we never used them much and continued speaking our minds, no matter what. Of course, most normal people would realise that this isn't how we are supposed to act and augment their actions to be more courteous and socially acceptable. But then, I've never been able to fall under the category of 'normal' under any circumstances...
When I was 7 years old, my mother asked me to clean and lay the table with place mats. Now, unlike other mothers, mine believed that no child is too young to learn how to be independent and must learn to contribute to the household chores, be it through cleaning, laying the table or conversing with those who ring the doorbell. Me, being the perennial lack-wit, got angry and thought I could hit home as to what I thought was 'child labour' by saying, "Am I your servant?!" My mother looked at me for a few seconds, burst out laughing and told me to just lay the table. Not the greatest victory then, I guess.
But the concept of a servant is something we are so used to now that we cannot seem to live our lives without them. Society, being ever so pseudo-caring, decided that 'servant' doesn't have a very positive ring to it, and so replaced it by a number of different terms, foremost of which being 'the Bai'. Each region does have its own term for the 'labour class', but the universal term tends to be 'Bai' (in borrowing from Maharashtra, home of everything Indian and Bollywood...apparently). Now, every household has one (or maybe more) and those who don't are marvelled at their ability to still keep living without falling dead from exhaustion. There are certain parameters that every 'bai' must qualify in order to be allowed to work in a house hold. I would like to call them the Five Commandments:

• Thou shalt not steal from thy owner's house (my mom's major concern over work even)
• Thou shalt not take leave unnecessarily.
• Thou shalt not ask for unreasonable (very subjective, of course) amounts of money in lieu of thy services.
• Thou shalt clean thoroughly and to the owner's satisfaction.
• Thou shalt not flirt with the husband of the house.

Each and every one of these Commandments must be strictly adhered to, no questions asked. There are always exceptions to both owners and Bais, but they are very rare cases. The 'bai' who comes to my house recently quit as she could not adhere to my mother's strict standards and so, the work has been demoted to the rest of the family. It's only when you dry your own clothes, sweep the entire house, wipe it dry and cook that you realise how much respect must actually be given to these women who do so day in and day out. So, as my mother goes mad searching for another person who is willing to work here, I am left scrubbing vessels and stacking clothes. Now, I wonder where the soap powder is...

Çiao!

On the Trail of Ground-nut-Man

I’m a very big monsoon person and love the rain, though getting wet is something I’m not too fond of. But then, I’ve proved that getting wet doesn’t actually give you a cold, even though my mother still isn’t sold on the idea. Science does have its limitations apparently, seeing how nothing in the world seems to be able to displace my mother’s logic. This despite her being a doctor…

But the main reason why I love the monsoon is due to the coming of one of the most successful entrepreneur (in my opinion, at least): the boiled groundnut vendor. Boiled groundnuts are something I wait every year for since it symbolises a cherished part of my childhood. As far as I can remember, I’ve always been slightly more excited about these little nuts than anyone I know, for reasons that escape me as usual. I still remember how I bonded with one of my cousins with whom I had never spoken more than 10 words in my entire childhood over a humongous pile of boiled groundnuts during a power outage on a swing at my aunt’s place. For some reason, the darkness accentuated the taste of the nuts and ever since then, I’ve always associated groundnuts to this memory.

Now, to the rest of the world, getting a packet of groundnuts only involves walking out of their homes and buying some from the closest vendor. But then, things are never that simple around me. The minute I decide that I would like to have some, the vendor vanishes. It becomes a sort of quest to find him, almost like trying to find a nomad in a desert. My desire for groundnuts usually goes unfulfilled on most days since I can never find him. So, in an effort to defy the laws of Fate that seem to be set against me, I carefully leave my mind blank when I approach a constant haunt of one of the vendors and try as much as possible not to think about groundnuts. Over the past few months of the monsoon season, I have succeeded and failed equally but the salt of those steaming little treasures calls me to keep my spirits up and push forward. And so as winter comes, I wait for next year when I shall once again begin my quest on the trail of Ground-nut-man… 

Coffee or Tea: The Quintissential Question

This a speech I made from almost 3 years ago. To this day, this remains the only time I've ever gone up on stage and never had a mini-heart attck or the need to faint within 5 seconds. Despite my many eccentricities, I have unfortunately never been able to quite get over stage-fright...

The English, being the snobs that they are, have their own little world of rules. While some govern the etiquette of speaking and walking, others deal with which side of the road to drive on. But one of the most interesting facts about them is their mind analyses the answer to the question, “Tea or Coffee?”. If the answer is tea, then all is well and it is decided that the speaker is sophisticated enough to grace the company present. But if the answer is coffee, then you are in for a rude shock. The immediate assumption become that you are one of the lowest of the low, uncouth and disgraceful. You become so repulsive that the English hurl their worst moniker at you; American. The horror this instills in one versed in the English ways is unbearable. There have been reports of people being driven to madness by the inherent embarrassment and shame. So never underestimate the power of this Brazilian bean; it may help you stay awake but it can also be a death warrant if ever seen on English shores. Tea lovers, rejoice; for there may still be hope to revive the dying interest in tea. Now, as I sit with a cup of both tea and coffee before me, I ask you; is it right to be asked to choose between energy and sophistication? You be the judge.  

Views from the Carnatic

One of my oldest article/opinion pieces:

First things first, Carnatic music does not kill, despite what many detractors have claimed. Granted, to the unskilled ear it may sound like someone screaming randomly and for no apparent reason but this music transcends understanding. It is an art that takes years to perfect. I admit, once again to the unskilled ear, there may be no difference between a professional singer and the random neurotic outbursts of an OCD patient but that can't be helped. People have their own opinions about this specific branch of music. While some call it cacophony, others derive pleasure from its mere mention. To each his own, as people say. Note that I have said 'his' own. Fifty years ago, this would have been apt since music was seen as a purely male dominated arena, as to conform with society. Women were forbidden to practise it as it was considered too high a status for them. Funny, seeing how every single raga has a female name! I guess only die-hard fans could bear such inequity. But times have changed and as the relentless tides of change progress, sanity and equality has been restored to Carnatic music. It has been shown that no matter what music has evolved into now, the basics that govern Carnatic music govern it too. So the next time you turn your nose up to this 'cacophony' as you call it, remember that it permeates through your music too.

Dog Days

Animals are fluffy, cute and adorable....until they grow up. I may be wrong, but  after the many experiences with animals in my life, I've come to fear a lot of them. I don't mind puppies, kittens and babies. They're the best companions ever, until they grow up and start biting, scratching......or talking, as the case may be. But I can't exactly complain since I'm part dog myself.
In case you are trying to figure out what I meant by the previous statement, I shall try and clarify. Ever since my childhood, Í have had certain qualities that can only be described as being animalistic, or more specifically, canine. My first tooth to fall out was my canine and when it grew back, it had a surprising sharpness to it. Combined with my tendency to tear at food instinctively and carry random things in my mouth over my hands, anyone would have questioned my humanity, so to speak. But I always found it very hard to deny instinctual responses. As I grew up, I began to realise I had inherited two of my mother's most distinctive features which had been refined and converted to the canine cause: a keener-than-usual sense of hearing and the need to sniff things even before seeing them, be it food,a room or even my own father. Working out that I had certain nasal tendencies, I honed them to such an extent that I was able to tell what went into a dish just by sniffing it (although living through many of my dad's experiments and living in a house that always had something cooking helped a lot). An unfortunate consequence of this training, however, is my inexplicable need to smell the lid of the container the food is stored in instead of the food item itself.
As the years went on, so did the many other discoveries about my person. I learnt that I felt a warm glow of happiness whenever someone stroked my head (which surprisingly took long enough to realise, seeing as my mom did it to make me go to sleep when I was young), that I loved running at great speeds for absolutely no reason that I felt supreme joy upon doing so and that I whined whenever I felt sad. My moods too began to swing often and I finally found what gave me the best feeling in the world: making others smile and brightening their day, despite the cost to mine. A very simple idea to live by and I'm proud to say I've not faltered too many times.
Despite this, I find it difficult to interact with other full members of the canine species. But I've slowly begun to inch towards learning to get over my fear since I own the neighbour's dog. Strange as that sentence seems, it is the only way to describe the equation I share with Mickey, the dog mentioned. A low whistle, given in my own awkward manner is enough to make him come running no matter where he may be. I'm glad to say that my fear has greatly reduced. I wonder what other surprises are in store for me in this 'doggy-dog' world of ours...

Çiao!

Picture Perfect

Photography is a tough business. It involves the suppression of morals, the booting of inhibitions and a iron-hard will to stand people's opinions. In my case, it involves theft, absolute disregard of privacy and the ability to not care what people say, think and most importantly, what they come chasing you with! I've had my fair share of incidents when I've gone on my trips around the locality. But before all that, I must commit the greatest act of theft and secrecy possible: I must steal the SLR from my father under his very nose and leave the house without said crime ever being detected.
Now, I've always held that a camera offers you the greatest freedom ever. To me, the very act of taking pictures is an ideal of liberty. They preserve moments in time you want to cherish and capture people most candidly. But such freedom comes at great price, as I found out one day. It was a time before I knew my university existed and was on my summer break. I had promised my father that I would take a few pictures of houses so that he could get some new ideas for the house we were building. I knew the best place for this would be the locality nearest to where I lived and so spent every day going over and taking pictures. This was also before I knew the magic of SLRs so I was still using a digital camera. As I was idly walking around, I found a bungalow with some really nice features. Moving closer, I started taking pictures of it when the gate opened and there was a 60 year old man with a shotgun pointed at me. Now, it's very hard to stay calm at gunpoint, but I tried my best. Keeping the gun pointed at me,he began questioning my motives for photographing his habitation. As you all may have heard, I have the curious quality of being truthful under pressure so I told him exactly who I was, where I lived and even showed him my college ID (yes, I was carrying my college ID out of habit). With absolutely no change in expression, he ordered me to leave and stop taking pictures in the locality. Shaken, I staggered back home and didn't leave it for almost a week.
Yet, the next week I was out again, performing the same exercise. I'm anything if not persevering. I decided to steer clear of the previous locality. Moving on, I ventured further away and found another place full of beautiful houses. Yet Fate never lets me settle and a few days later, I made the seeming mistake of taking a picture of a pretty girl with her dog. I assume that it upset her and that caused her to set said dog on me. I looked back to see the Great Dane running towards me at full speed. I panicked and started sprinting, knowing full well I could never outrun the dog. For all those who assume you know Great Danes....they are nothing like Scooby Doo!! The dog was fast closing in on me when I, in my absolute scared state of mind, jumped over the nearest gate into someone's house. Thankfully, it was empty and I was able to hide till the dog moved away. This incident left me with more nightmares though I didn't want to give up.
I finally decided it was too risky to venture so far from home, so I began just walking around within close radius of home. Even then, I seemed to have upset a old woman by taking a picture of her house and the last I saw of her, she was picking up a log of wood and looking menacingly towards me. Since then, I've never gone out of the house until recently, when I took to exploring the walkable world in my spare time. Having an SLR now, I've had much more fun than before and no untoward incidents so far. It amazes me how people react when they see someone with a camera. There's so much joy in their eyes when they ask you to take their picture. And I'm never one to deny them, though random people off the road seem to stare like I am some freak show. But they have their opinions and I have mine. The pictures I take have a certain humour to them, something that a lot of people appreciate, though there are a few detractors. Let's hope I live long enough to achieve a level of some recognition. Although, men with guns, dogs and logs seem to be waiting at every turn..... :P

Çiao!

Deadly Honesty

There exists an adage saying, "Honesty is the best policy". Now to most people, this adage just means that one must be honest and keep lying to a minimum. Others may believe, when in doubt, be honest. I'on the other hand, can't really say I believe in the adage. That is mainly beacuse I find it very hard to lie conciously. Through some miracle (fortunate or unfortunate, you decide) I've been given the quality of unconscious radical honesty. No matter how hard it is to believe, trust me when I say that I have no control or, to put it in my terms, I have no ' filter between my mind and my mouth". Now this quality of mine has led to many awkward situations in which I'm surprised to say I've not walked out unscathed.

My cousin once took me to his friend's wedding as I was alone at home with him and he had to attend it. The wedding went of pretty well and the food was laid out over a huge area. As you all already know, me and food have a karmic connection. Quick as a flash, I visited every single stall there was and reported my opinion of them to my cousin even before he had finished congratulating the bride and groom. As we were eating, I was suddenly struck by a doubt I had with my computer. My cousin being a technical genius, already having built a lock for his room using a gaming keypad and a few pieces of iron to simulate a password-locking system, I posed my question to him. One of his friends decided to get fresh with me and asked me to pose the question to him. I turned to him and asked him if he knew anything about computers. I didn't know at the time that he was my cousin's boss and much more qualified than him so when he said he knew a bit, I condescendly told him that the question involved more knowledge than he possesed and said he didn't deserve to be asked the question, turning away from him. I guess being snubbed by an 8 year old is a big ego breaker. Ever since then, my cousin has been very careful about taking me anywhere involving his friends.

Another instance was at a wedding I attended. My mom's cousin was getting married and the ceremony was on it's way. People were still arriving and being received. Just then, a cramped van came outside the hall and (through my perspective) a ruffian wearing bermudas and a shirt clambered out. I later came to know he was my mom's other cousin. But at the moment, I walked straight up to him and asked him why he came to wedding looking like a beggar and how come he couldn't clean up. Flabbergasted, he just stood there staring at me, wondering how a 9 year old could even come up with opinions like that. My mom later pulled me away, yelled at me for not having manners and let me off with a warning never to say things like that again.

Over the years I matured and tried my best to control this wicked tongue of mine but it never worked. Just a few years ago, I told a girl she was fat ( which caused her to stop talking to me for a week) and told another one she had dandruff (which caused he to stop talking to me for 6 months). On the side, I still find it difficult to undertstand how having dandruff is worse than being fat. In my defence, I only said those things because I had them too and thought people wouldn't mind knowing. More recently, I also told a certain milky white complexioned (almost albino) teacher of Brit Lit that her smile was creepy and that her earrings looked like white chocolate in addition to asking Mrs.Matthews why she doesn't brush her teeth, leaving them plaque-ridden. Just yesterday, I asked 3 of my classmates if they really were blonde or if they were faking it.

I'm serious when I say I can't control it. No wonder I don't have too many friends. But still, it's the way I live my life and try as I might, I can't regret it. Being a journalist may be a good option for me but I wonder if I'll actually live that long to see it happen..... ;)

Çiao!

Such Beggary

It's always been said that India is a land of diversity; but what people (including me until recently) fail to realize is that this diversity even extends to India's beggars. Just as handicrafts, cultures and languages change as one travels from one region to another, so does the type of beggars one encounters.
Chennai hosts a very aggressive breed of beggars who take pride in their occupation and don't take no for answer. I was recently on the receiving end of one of the above mentioned society's wrath. While minding my own business, waiting at the bus stop, I was accosted by a woman asking for money. With a turn of my face, I attempted to dismiss her but the next moment, I felt a stinging slap on my cheek (It's amazing how often I seem to get slapped by random people off the street) and felt my face being turned to her. With regal demeanor, she began yelling at me in the filthiest of Tamil terms asking if I considered myself too high brow to give her money and how dare I turn away from her. Thankfully, the bus arrived just then and I escaped with nothing but a bruised ego and a burning cheek.
 Hyderabad offers yet another view of this diversity. Though similar to Chennai, these beggars take it one step further by adding competition to their personalities. When I was 9 and before I was sentenced to a prison term (read: shift to Saudi) I was walking down the road and found a 10 rupee note lying on the ground. Not knowing of the words 'good Samaritan' at the time, I took the note and continued walking. Later in the day, when I was travelling with my parents, we stopped at a signal and a beggar passed us. I decided to give him the note I found on the ground and once done, I was sitting contentedly when another woman clouted my head and asked me for money too. When I refused, she began yelling at me asking how I had enough money to give the other man but not her. I explained how I had found the note but she still did not relent and followed us for 2 more signals before giving up. Ever since then, I've resolved never too use any money found on the ground for personal gains.
 Delhi truly offers some of the shadiest beggars I have ever seen. They will literally do anything but beg to obtain money, even if it involves a little bit of 'golmaal'. Once, my uncle came to drop us off at the railway station and as he was backing up we heard a scream and something falling. After getting out of the car, we saw then an old beggar woman had been knocked down. After being helped up she began threatening my uncle with the police and other such stuff till he loosened his purse strings and let a few 100 rupees fly. Later, in the train, a fellow passenger told us he had seen the whole thing and that the woman had thrown a stone at the car and fallen down at the exact moment to simulate the entire episode. Such is life in the capital of 'the greatest democracy in the world'.
 Mumbai offers a more business oriented outlook to beggars but not all. When I asked one of them why he was begging when he was able bodied and could go find a proper job, he replied,"Mere paas time nahi ahi, saab." I guess he hasn't heard of the spirit of Mumbai where holding just a day job and not multi-tasking is considered lazy....
 Finally, Bangalore offers us a very cosmopolitan beggar as well as the pinnacle of beggar evolution: Eunuchs. I recently dropped a coin in a beggar's bowl and was shocked to hear him say, "Danke" which is  thank you in German. Eunuchs on the other hand need no introduction. They are literally highly evolved beggars, steeped in the nuances of the science of beggary. They hunt in packs and rob you of more than just your money. A recent auto ride was the scene for one such encounter where I escaped pretty much unharmed while my friend was poorer by 300 rupees and suffered a traumatic experience that isn't going away anytime soon.
 Thus is the geography and diversity of the Indian beggar. I wonder what international ones would be like.....

Çiao!

Re-invention

In honour of all the new blogs that I have seen (and felt inferior about), I decided to spruce up my blog so that it looks decent enough to stand in the same league as the above mentioned blogs. I would appreciate it very much if the lot of my esteemed members would tell me how it looks now. Feel free to be brutal about anything you don't like, seeing as how you've got to be able to read whatever will be written in the future. I just hope it's good....

Çiao!

Vege-life

I've always had an interest in non-veg food though I don't actually eat it. When I tell someone else this,  the immediate question is something I can never anticipate: "Are you a Brahmin?". Granted, it's a common conception but still, just because I'm a Tam Brahm doesn't mean we don't touch the stuff. In case you haven't noticed, a lot of them eat meat on the sly; in fact, KFC, at any point of time, will always have at least one of them gorging on a chicken bucket. But I'm not one to judge. My reason for refusing to eat non-veg is something very few people both believe or accept: I'm allergic to it. I start choking if I have any product that was once a part of an animal. And no, that does not include leather, in case anyone thinks of it. Now, this becomes a huge problem when you live in a country that hasn't heard of the term 'vegetarian'': Saudi Arabia. In fact, they don't have a veg Happy Meal or a veg burger either. People literally stare at you if you ask them for a veg burger, as if not opting for a kind of meat is blasphemy, a crime worthy of death. The situation becomes more acute as you move towards East Asia. My dad once took a trip to Taiwan and had to survive a week on Cup-a-noodles and fruits. Now, personally, I wouldn't mind a diet like that but not for more than a day. In that case, I admire his fortitude to stay in a country where vegetarian translates to 'non-seafood yet meat'. I remember an exchange I had with one of my Dad's colleagues; in response to why I ate only 'vegitabools', I replied," You eat the bull. I eat what the bull eats." which for some reason he admitted was reasonable. I said this when I was 9 so I still have no idea how it makes any sense. But then, I also went to my cousin and ate the paper wrapper of the chocolate she stole from me thinking it would spite her so I guess I'm not going find an answer.
Eggs on the other hand have always been a hotly contested issue as to their vegetarian nature. I guess we shall never resolve that one issue. But then, there will always be people like my friend, a die-hard 'eggitarian', who say, "Egg is a vegetable!" (which leads me to seriously question her mental age)...... ;)

Çiao!