RoadShow

Phew.

For the first time since forever, I'm actually a teeny weeny bit glad to be back home. Allow me to elaborate.

It all started last Sunday, when my mother decided to accompany me to Bangalore, a city that's as close to my heart as it is accessible. Mother dearest went one step further and opted to drive down(needless to say, with our man friday, the driver). My financial state of affairs being further down than the doldrums even, I was glad for the all-expense paid trip. And so it was planned, and scheduled, and suitcases were packed accordingly, with extras thrown into paper bags, since we were, after all, traveling in our own car.

All hell broke loose when my grandmother, who was supposed to tag along as well, felt like opting out of the roadtrip, triggering all kinds of reactions from her daughter. A flurry of phone calls later, nothing had been resolved, save for the momentary mutual hatred between mother and daughter, each feeling that the other was being terribly unfair. Of course, I as official grand daughter, added my twopence worth, and did my fair share of ranting and sulking, claiming that I'd much rather have taken the train. Thankfully no one called my bluff.

Eventually, grandmother was coaxed and cajoled by all her sons to make peace with her only daughter and she grudgingly agreed to come along. Mother then decided that she couldn't go empty-handed. So she stayed up until 3 a.m. making some sort of halwa that I wasn't allowed to pinch because it was for the 'hosts'. Of course everyone knows what happens when Mother decides to venture on a midnight foray into the kitchen. The morning smells divine, yes, but mother mopes and moans till noon the next day.

So it came to pass that we who were to get a headstart on the sun, well, let's just say that the sun had the last laugh. My other grandmother was invited at the last minute, and full credit must be given to my aunt who had her packed, powdered and ready to go much before all of us. I must add that grandma 2 is adorable in every which way, but of late, has been losing her grip on an erstwhile sharp as a razor memory. At this point, it might be helpful to add that grandma 1 has her memory intact, but not her hips, and needs a walker to ferry herself from place to place. Still, they are both strong, determined women, from the WWII era, and with that diversion sorted out, I'll get on with the story.

The man friday was definitely not smiling when we finally trooped down to the car. He muttered to himself, since ranting was not an option, and we started off. The first hour or so went along rather smoothly, with us feeling super smug about the excellent time we were making with our wonderful car. Then as it always happens with my life, things began to unravel.

Man friday's muttering grew noticeably more audible, always a bad sign, and the air-conditioning seemed to be dying a slow, painful(for us in the backseat) death. After a bit of sputtering and praying(mother and grandmas 1&2 are staunch Catholics), we were duly informed that our wonderful, comfy car would not go any further because its delicate insides were being burned to death on the merciless highway.

We were in shock, and in two minutes flat, I was bathing in my own sweat, that's how ridiculously hot it was out there. When I asked about the radiator, man friday shot me a dirty look, as if to say- hello, im not such an incompetent that I don't check the radiator before taking off, this is what happens when you don't leave early in the morning! I shrank back into my sauna seat, and looked around for some semblance of shade while mother whipped out her phone and proceeded to make a series of SOS calls to everyone on her phone directory.

A minute later, having spotted a lone tree just off the highway, I seated myself on the little wall that ran the length of the road. The breeze was delightful, and frankly, I'd just about had it with the combined nostalgic recollections of 3 post-menopausal women, one of whom took to repeating things every couple of minutes(grandma 2) although I love them dearly and know that someday I shall turn into a frightful combination of all 3, since I am a direct descendant and all that.

At that point, a man in a turban magically appeared. He was a local furtune-teller and made a grab at my hand. I blushed dutifully, and then let the old man do his thing. He took a long look, and said a lot of things which I didn't understand. The essence of his reading was translated by man friday, and it was simply this-that I should've been born a man.

Feeling robbed of my effeminate charms(whatever little I thought I possessed), I turned my attention to the fields below. But the fortune-teller wasn't letting my hand go until I'd contributed a bit to his own fortunes. An argument ensued, with the grandmas, who obviously still calculate WWII style, feeling that 2 rupees would be a good enough fee. Mother was upset at this breach of christian faith and didn't want to give him any money at all. Frustrated, I dug out my wallet and pulled out the first note I saw, which seemed to make the fortune-teller happy, but earned me the scorn of everyone else.

After a couple of hours of sunning ourselves, we had consumed enough liquid for me to start hunting for an appropriate pee-stop for grandma 2. We hobbled along, down the road, to a piece of wall which just sat in the middle of a field, not joining or holding up anything. It had been built just so us city-types could take refuge behind it, I thought gratefully. On the way back up, grandma 2 gleefully picked up bits of sweet tamarind, and we sucked on a piece that hadn't rotted yet.

By this time, mother's SOS calls had paid off and a white ambassador was despatched to rescue us, along with a mechanic to rescue the car. We went our separate ways, leaving car and man friday behind to be towed back home, while our amabssador ambled along to Bangalore.

One thing though, no one had taken into account how slow this car was actually was. My mother, in her desperation, decided that it was a conspiracy to make her pay the driver extra. This despite me pointing out to her that she was paying him per kilometre, not per hour. Still, the amby was air-conditioned, the sky had turned dusky pink, and we were relieved to be on our way again.

The rest of the journey was uneventful, save for the need for speed, and a coffee break at a place called 'Darling Bakery'. How absolutely darling is that? I bought a load of quaint cream cakes which no one, including myself, ate.

I wish I could say that we had a happy ending. But no, like a nursery rhyme, we went round and round in circles on the ring road, my mother and I yelling at each other or to the driver, each grandma bursting into a fit of hysterical laughter at periodic intervals. As a result, I missed the mehndi function I was to attend, my mother and grandmas 1&2 missed the the golden wedding function they were to attend(despite grandma 1's bold decision to change into her fancy clothes while the driver was at the checkpost) and the purpose of our long and arduous journey remained unfulfilled.

Tired, hungry and angry, I made my way to my friends place, and was duly handed a glass of Roohafza with cold milk, to soothe my frazzled nerves. It was delicious, and after I'd calmed down, I called grandma 1 to see how they were doing. I asked her if she was ok after the long trip, and she said she enjoyed the drive immensely, and was only sad that she missed her brother's golden wedding, because fifty years ago, she'd missed his actual wedding as well, and she thought that making it to the golden wedding would make it up somehow.

I don't know why exactly, but that managed to make me feel ashamed of myself and proud of them, those wonderful women who were obviously much better-equipped to handle life's potholes than I could ever hope to be. And what was I, 1/4th their age, with every single bone in good working condition?

I do hope that when I'm 80+, on a roadtrip with my grandkids and the car stalls in the middle of nowhere, I'm half as much of a rockstar as my grandmas were that day.

Still, phew.

Praying for Deliverance

Lately, I've been feeling like there's too much pressure on me, as an Indian.

Allow me to explain. I have not left the city, let alone the country. I merely refer to the happenings on this side of the world.

There can be no 'right' way of categorizing the following in order of importance without offending some or perhaps even everyone, so I'll just rattle them off-the great sweat festival, elections, cricket and then some, refugee boats, and people who dare to get married in the midst of such mayhem.

The sweat fest needs no introduction, and certainly requires no description. I am one of those unfortunate persons that suffers from heat intolerance, yet Fate has damned me to live in Chennai. To make matters worse, I am also intolerant of air-conditioners and have been accused of messing with the a/c vents in friends' cars more often than I care to remember. Be that as it may, I am currently enjoying the cloudy day that the weather Gods seem to have unknowingly bestowed upon us in the middle of May. So what if it isn't scheduled in the calendar? I am watching the sky with a smug smile on my otherwise heat-exhausted face.

Moving on, I am proud to declare that I fulfilled my fundamental duty as an upright citizen of this grand hypocrisy of a democracy and I've got the blackened fingernail to prove it. It was my first time (blush) and I had to change my clothes twice before my mother approved and sent me out the door, with a warning to be careful of the trouble-maker types that tend to hang around polling booths. It was quite uneventful though, save for the fact that I was momentarily baffled by the assortment of symbols. I hadn't expect to see that many. Oh well, variety is the spice of life, and also the cause of indecision in the New World.

As for the IPL, I wish I knew enough to write two lines about it. All I can recall is a rather touching photograph of Preity Zinta feeding one of the boys something, prasadham apparently. It's kind of wholesome really, this marriage of filmdom and cricketdom. Earlier, they used to compete for attention and endorsements, but now, it's like a fairytale ending where everyone splits the big bucks and lives prosperously ever after.

Alas, the LTTE and the refugees are paid scant attention since India's attention is currently elsewhere. I'm sure enough goes on in that island to cause us all to jump out of our skins the way we do when a potential sixer falls like manna from heaven into the outstretched hands of a greedy fielder, but who am I to judge?

And sigh, in the midst of it all, a dear friend of mine has chosen to marry. I am too broke to shop, and too heat-exhausted to plunge into the deep, dark crevices of my wardrobe in the hopes of discovering something suitable. My mother is too hooked on the IPL to deliver a miracle, as all mothers sometimes do. Still, I live in hope, the wedding is not for another week.

Wow. I just heard the news about Prabhakaran and his son. And it did make me jump out of my skin.

Heaven help us all.

Of chips,dips and trips to bankruptcy and back

So the other day, one of my friends was patient enough to take the trouble to explain the concept of investment banking. He used the great American fiasco as an example to run me through the motions. I was flabbergasted to say the least. And at the end of our session, I had but one question.

So investment bankers make money by selling the idea of money?

Apparently, my question was not just a valid one, but also, the answer is a resounding 'yes'. No wonder the economy is in such devastating shape. Most of us honest workers, who actually have a skill or two to sell to the world, and are willing to give discounts and make other such compromises, don't make a hundredth of the killing most investment bankers might refer to as their monthly stipends.

I mean, seriously, I was in shock for the rest of the evening. I just couldn't get over it. My friend, who had gotten pretty excited just by talking about so much money, seized upon my silence as an opportunity to drill some more disillusioning information into my already fried brain. When people sell stocks, he said, they aren't selling the actual value of the company, but instead they sell to the innocent public (such as me) the value they decide to put on themselves.

That really knocked the breath out of me.

Especially since I, with my impeccable sense of timing, had chosen to invest in stocks for the very first time ( I remained a stock virgin as long as I could) just a couple of months before it all came crashing down. I'm still licking my wounds. But the idea that what I'd actually invested in was a lot of hot air, well, that got me pretty upset.

It's a matter of trust, he said, trying to calm me down. The companies sell the worth of their trust, and when they do well, the price on the trust goes up, and so does its stock. Hmph. And I'd spent my life imagining that some agency in the world puts a price on the company, and then, just like breaking up a cookie, they distribute the pieces, the ACTUAL pieces to everyone who wants a share.

And to think, to actually think, that gambling, where you buy a chip with actual money, and the chip is only ever worth that amount for the whole night, and if you choose to come back the next night, will still be worth the same, and if lady luck chose to smile down on you and multiplied that one chip into a prosperous chip nation, sitting in a fat pile on your side of the table, and nobody else decides that any one chip is going anywhere, nobody but you, and you couldn't possibly sell the idea of yet-to-be-born chips to anyone else at the table even if you happened to look like Helen of Troy dressed like Paris of Hilton...to think that gambling is illegal.

P.S: Neither me nor my alter-ego are in favor of gambling, as a sport or alternate profession or otherwise.

The hands on the clock stop

Yesterday, I got a call from someone asking if I'd be interested in doing a voice-over for a documentary film. It turned out that the film was about the Sri Lankan issue, from the civilians' point of view.

Needless to say, I agreed. So as of wednesday afternoon, I will be reading a piece titled 'My Island is bleeding'. I hope to do a lot more for the refugees than just lend my voice, but I'll save the talking for after I've actually done what I intend to do.

Still, the whole of yesterday had me restless, the way I usually am just before I write something. The thoughts finally came out, in a song/poem. I'm sharing it with anyone who cares to read it.


The hands on the clock stop
And I don't know how to get to you
I'm running to the red rock
It's redness shines like blood on dew

The breeze in the air freeze
The smell of guns, more than the sound
I'm hiding in a hollow tree
And praying you'll be around

The stain of the morning rain
Is too much for me to bear
I'm falling into your pain
You told me once to beware

The land has turned to quicksand
And I'm drowning all alone
If only I could hold your hand
I know you'd take me home

The hands on the clock stop
The hands on the clock stop
The hands on the clock stop


So that's what I wrote. I don't claim to know what the refugees are going through, and until know, I've kept my civilian distance. But we've all experienced loss in some form, and a part of us is always buried with our tragedy.

Where have all the dreamers gone?

As I write this, John Lennon's Imagine plays in the next room. Immediately, I know what I'm going to be writing about.

No, it's nothing to do with world peace. I'll save that for when I'm a Miss.Universe finalist. It's about that wonderful line- they say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one...

Is it really true that each of us has a bit of 'the dreamer' locked up inside? I can vouch for myself, and Sir Lennon obviously thought he had company. But really, where have all the dreamers gone?

Sometimes, I think of myself as some sort of out-dated commodity. I really do feel out of place in the world the way it is. I've had some 'character-building' experiences, but when I look back, all I've built is a layer of cynical defense. A lot of people I've met seem to have turned out the same way.

Question is-why do we let it happen to ourselves? How do we go from young and hopeful, to slightly older but feeling ancient and tired of the world and its wily ways? And why is it so impossible to give the world, or better yet, to give oneself another chance?

The sad thing is, this sort of metamorphosis seems to be an eventuality of life. So much that, the people who manage to hold onto their inner child are the exceptions rather than the rule.

Makes me wonder, I don't want any child of mine to grow up in a world such as this. I'm only 24, and yet to feel the even the hint of a tick on my maternal clock, but still, I do wonder. And I think, if only every single person thought about the world in terms of their children or loved ones, then maybe, just maybe, it would actually be a better place.

I for one, am not so particular about myself. I tend to think I'm a survivor (though i probably won't discover the proof of that till its too late), but I do look out for others, just as others look out for me. I worry about the world. It may not be a good thing, but its what I do.

And while I don't wish the same fate on everyone else, I do wish that everyone would take some time out of their albeit busy lives, to worry about maybe one person other than themselves.

It might make you want to do something nice, for no reason whatsoever. And that's not such a bad feeling, trust me.

And maybe, just maybe, soon enough, you'll rekindle the dreamer in you.