Madly Badly Blindly

(A Morning Rendezvous) 

Hello Love

Here I come again to you

Up in the clouds before I descend

I start making plans

Of how I will spend time with you alone

What more will I know about you?

Please don’t be angry for coming after so long

I have a loving family back home

So can be with you just for the fleeting time

You know I love you

So be happy with the little time I can spare

So Love, here I come again.

They say you are old

No longer the beauty you used to be

So how can I be in love with you?

To them I say

I’m not getting any younger either

Yes you are old

But I love you for what you are

Where else will you find a rail car

Built a hundred years ago by the wayside

 

You still retain your old majestic aura O Dear

When I see your regal shadow shimmering in the waters

Every morning you come alive in brilliant radiance

Am happy to admire you from the shadows far away.

 

They say you are dirty, filthy and so crowded

But they’ve not seen the beauty

That lies in your old shabby lanes

How I wish I could bring them to the flower market

The fragrance shall enamor their nostrils

The colours will bedazzle their eyes

The simplicity of the experience will calm their minds.

And the crowds that throng everywhere

It is never a boring moment here

I am never alone in your company Dearie.

Your beauty is timeless and I’m a blind man.

  

I was not born here

Have little of my roots here in your midst

But memories of you, with you

Are there at every step

The Bridge over the flowing river

Used to look so big when young

Yet when I walked across the other day

T’was no more than a few hundred yards

The criss-cross steel structure tells me

Of a complex world above

And the mundane life that goes on unabated below

After years I again saw the Old Taxi Road

That drove me beside the Rajdhani platform

Nowhere have I found such luxury Darling

Little joys, great memories is what you are to me.

Hold me tight, don’t let me go.

 

Wherefore will you get food so good so cheap

Just ten bucks for a platter

Of freshly fried puri and subji

Then try a pot of mishti doi and a vegetable chop

Fills your belly, never empties the pockets

For once the plastic money gets some rest

And I feel rich and happy when I’m with you Love

The love gets stronger, the bond thicker.

You make me forget cholesterol

With you it is just Hungry kya?

 

How I wish I could read and write 

The language of your bards and commoners

Sing your songs of joy and pathos

Someday maybe will learn it

And love you even more.

But I can always be ‘inspired’ when not original

To change a few words

Of a song about another love of mine

Small changes but big difference

To bring out the character that is You.

And that makes me madly, badly and blindly in love with you.

Aye dil nahi mushakil jeena yahan
Zara hat ke zara bach ke
Ye hai Kolkata meri jaan

Kahin tooti building

Kahin ghissti huyi traam
Kahin peeli Ambi motor

Kahin bandh padi hai mill
Milta hai yahan sab kuchh
Aur milata bhi yahan dil
Business ka nahin kahin naam o nishaan

Har baat pe dikhta yahan michheel (procession)
Zara hat ke zara bach ke
Ye hai Kolkata meri jaan

Kahin lengcha kahin sandesh
Kahin phuchka kahin shorsheka dish
Kahin metro kahin thela
Kahin football kahin book ka mela

Kahin  cricket ka Garden

Kahin football ka hai Maidan
Kahin Kali kahin Durga

Yahan puja hota hai har din
Kahin chori kahin race
Kahin daaka kahin phaanka
Bekaaro ke hain kai kaam yaha
Zara hat ke zara bach ke
Ye hai Kolkata meri jaan.

Dear City of Joy,

It is so difficult to say why I love you.

Once your walls were painted all Red

Now they have turned them into Blue

Tomorrow someone may paint you Green

But Dear Kolkata my love for you is true

And I’ll always be in love with you.

SS

The Anti-National

Order! Order!! 

"My Lord, this is an open and shut case. The accused, who thinks he is ‘Sen’sible, is an anti-national and he should be given the strictest of penalties, if possible, hanged till death."

Judge, “You want to defend your own case, so proceed.”

“Thank you, My Lord. The accusation against me is showing disrespect to the National Food. So let me state what I have against such a declaration of khichadi as the National Food of India."

"My Lord, my I ask you a simple general knowledge question…what is the National Animal of India and why was it chosen?”

Judge, “Tiger is the national animal and it was chosen for its magnificent and royal look and gives the country a good image.”

“Thank you My Lord. Now look at the logic of Kichadi being named- it is eaten by all in some form all over the country. Compare this logic to where all a tiger is found…nowhere other than a few select jungles and national parks and yet we chose such an animal and not cow, which is found in every state, district, town, road and gully. Sorry for using the holy cow as an example to prove my point. Tiger is known as the Lord of the Jungle and known for its strength, power, agility and beauty…remember William Blake, Sir, when he wrote Tiger Tiger…surely you remember Sir but still for the sake of others let me repeat it.

Tiger Tiger burning bright

In the forests of the night.

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

Yes Sir, only a truly immortal and supernatural power could have created such a beautiful creature. Can we say the same about the beauty, taste and presentation of our recently declared National Food, that will evoke such poetic lines?"

"May I now ask the famous chef Sanjeev Kapoor to step into the witness box to answer my next set of questions.”

Sanjeev looks amused yet steps in.

“Sir, you are a great chef and have helped my wife make some edible stuff which is far better than what I ate before you appeared on the gluttony horizon. Sir, please tell me, what is the first thing that comes to your mind when you think of khichadi?”

Sanjeev, an honest chef, says, “Sick person and hospital.”

“That’s it. My Lord, this food brings to mind those days when you have an upset stomach, when you have fever and every time anyone is admitted to a hospital, this yellow shit looking stuff is what he gets to eat without fail.”

“Mr. Sen this is an Honourable Court and your four-letter word is to be expunged from the recordings.”

“No, my Lord, please let me explain to you why I used the word. Sir, eating Khichadi in a food rich country as ours, is similar to finding muck on the roads of the world’s cleanest city, Singapore. Think of a foreign tourist who comes to India for the first time and goes into an eating joint and happily asks for the National Dish. The waiter brings a thali of some yellow looking stuff and places it before the unsuspecting man. The tourist’s eyes will pop up and you know the conversation he will have inside his head…

This looks like sh** but can’t be sh** for this is foodie’s paradise India

This smells like sh** but can’t be sh** for this is spice country of India

Even after this, if he finds the courage to take a spoon full of it, I am sure he will come to the same conclusion…"

My Lord, the whole world knows how rich and varied India is in its foods and spices…every area has its own unique specialty. How disappointing, My Lord, will you and all of us feel?”

The judge has a handkerchief over his face and asks the Super Chef to counter. Mr. Kapoor is now poor in arguments and lets it pass.

“So if not khichadi, what according to you should be the National Food of India?”  asked the Judge.

“With your permission, I wish to ask you a simple question. What is the Indian Currency called?”

“Indian Rupee. But what’s that got to do with food?”

The accused asks for one note from the judge and continues, “Sir, on the reverse of this note are 17 languages and not one. Sir, India is too diverse and that is what makes it so beautiful. We are like a mosaic…all different and scattered and no symmetry and yet when you see us as a whole, we look a piece of art…”

The note is handed back to the judge who doesn’t put it in his wallet but gives it a re-look and smiles.

“Sir, but if you have to still think of some food which is eaten all over the country and yet is delicious, aromatic, exotic and yet mundane at the same time and you would be happy to serve it if a guest were to come to your house, is Biriyani. Just thinking about it salivates your tongue and gives you pleasure. Do not brush it aside, just because Biriyani is a Urdu word. It is as Indian as you and me. Deny it the status just because it is non-vegetarian, you do it at your own risk for 72% of Indians are non-vegetarians. So just because some high ranking people in the executive are vegetarians, we must do butt-licking and impose on the vast majority a dish which is like comparing Jantar Mantar to the Taj Mahal. Incidentally, Sir, when people lick the butt too often, we all know what comes outta there… Let me also add that when you go to Pure Veg eating joints, they do serve you Veg Biriyani cooked with gobi and alu like the way the entire veggie community enjoys Veg-Chinese…Gobi Manchurian and Paneer in Szechuan sauce being the ultimate delicacies."

"Now let me speak about the dish called Biriyani."

"The first thing that comes to mind when I think of Biriyani is Hyderabadi Biriyani. No visit to the city is complete without a meal at Paradise and also packing a plateful for home. It is made with Basmati rice, spices and meat. These ingredients are common to all forms of Biriyani cooked at different parts of the country in their own style and is eaten at the best of eating places and also eaten by the poorest of the poor for whom this dish is one wholesome meal…all in one, at prices which are paid for sometimes in plastic currency but at other times, just pittance, which all can afford."

"From Hyderabad, let me take you across to Lucknow, which apart from the famous Tunday Kebabs, is known for its Awadhi Dum Biriyani. This is cooked with rice being boiled separately in spiced water and then layered with meat, then the utensil is sealed and finally cooked over low heat until done. The vegetarian version is called Thehri Biriyani."

"Let me now take you down south to Kerala where you will find Malabar Biriyani and also Thalaserry Biriyani. In Malabar Biriyani you add huge quantities of spices and also add cashew nuts, sultana raisins. There is also Ambur/ Vaniyambadi Biriyani cooked in Vellore District in NE Tamil Nadu where Biriyani is accompanied by Dhalcha made of a sour brinjal curry and pachadi or raita which is sliced onions mixed with curd, tomato, chillies and salt. And who can miss the famous Chettinad Biriyani of Tamil Nadu which is made of sambar rice with spices and ghee and taken with a spicy tangy mutton gravy. They also add curry leaves to the dish."

"Come with me to Kolkata and let me treat you to the famous Arsalan and Royal Biriyani. The Biriyani here evolved from the Lucknow syle when Awadh’s last Nawab Wajid Ali Shah was exiled to Kolkata and he brought with his entourage, many cooks. The Calcutta Biriyani is much lighter on spices. They marinate primarily using nutmeg, cinnamon, mace along with cloves and cardamom in the yoghurt based marinade for the meat which is cooked separately from rice. This combination of spices gives it a distinct flavour as compared to other styles of Biriyani. The rice is flavoured with ketaki water or rose water along with saffron to give it flavour and a light yellowish colour. Here, you might find potato and eggs in your famed Biriyani."

"From East to the West where you can find Memoni, Bohri and Sindhi Biriyanis. Upwards North welcome to Delhi and the Vibrant Delhi if I may so say…places near the Jama Masjid and Nizammudin’s Dargah are teaming with Biriyani joints, each one better than the other. All of them, however, will say their’s is the Original Shahi Biriyani which traces its origin to the Mughal Emperors."

"Sir, every part of this country has its own variety of Biriyani and is loved by all. I do not favour one dish out of so many that this country has to offer to be named the National Dish, but if there was a choice, Biriyani would outstrip Khichadi in every respect. Biriyani is like listening to the beautiful lyrics of Sahir Ludhianvi set to the tunes of S.D. Burman and sung by Kishore and Rafi to the Khichadi of Mika and Honey Singh we get to hear."

"Sir, people are fighting in your courts about Right to Privacy. My fight is for Right to Life…the Right to Food which is far more primary than privacy. Some people are misinterpreting the Prime Minister’s clarion call of, “Na Khaaunga, Na Khane Doonga,” (Nor will I eat, nor will I let anyone eat). The man’s intention was Corruption and Bribery…I won’t accept bribes and will not let anyone take it. By imposing Khichadi as the National Food, they are taking away my fundamental right to living and surviving. Next they will ask me to stand up and eat this food when it is laid before me, for after all you must show respect to all National Symbols!”

The judge is disgusted and refers the matter to the people of this country, “Let there be a plebiscite to decide the National Food. Till then, this in-Sen-sible man must stay behind bars as the charges stand till people decide against it.  The Super Chef Kapoor is also to be put behind bars as this court believes in equitable treatment.”

As My Lord is returning home, he gets a call from his loving wife back home. He incidentally asks her, “What are you cooking for dinner this evening, Darling?” “I was planning to cook Khichadi with alu bhaji today,” and the judge’s mind goes to the proceedings of the court and all the obnoxious and un-courtly un-parliamentary things said. He quickly tells her, “Darling, how about eating out today? I discovered today an authentic historical Mughlai food place called, Karim’s, where they’ve been cooking some excellent Biriyani over the last two hundred years.” “I love you Darling!” came the happy reply from the other side, something the Judge had been waiting to hear for long.

Watch Republic tonight when Arnab asks, “The Nation Wants to Know- Khichadi or Biriyani?”

SS

I Have A Dream

It was 2^nd of October about a month ago, a day when we remember Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi. While some speak about his being the apostle of peace, others will eulogize his role in the freedom movement and then there are those who blame him for his so called role in the partition of the country and the ills that followed. However, lately, his mission of cleanliness seems to have swept all his other achievements and failures into the dustbin of history. Today, I shall neither praise him nor raise him to the level of a Mahatma nor will I decry him but just write about another part of him beyond this debate.

When in school, often we were asked to write an essay on ‘India of My Dreams’ and I would refer to a kunji (guide) which inevitably started with a quote from Bapu which read: “I shall strive for a constitution, which will release India from all thralldom and patronage, and give her, if need be, the right to sin, I shall work for an India, in which the poorest shall feel it is their country in whose making they have an effective voice; an India in which there shall be no high class and low class of people; an India in which all communities shall live in perfect harmony. There can be no room in such an India for the curse of untouchability or the curse of the intoxicating drinks and drugs. Women will enjoy the same rights as men. Since we shall not be at peace with all the rest of the world, exploiting, nor being exploited, we should have the smallest army imaginable, all interests not in conflict with the interests of the dumb millions will be scrupulously respected, whether foreign or indigenous. Personally, I hate distinction between foreign and indigenous. This is the India of my dreams….I shall be satisfied with nothing less.”

Over 70 years have gone by after independence and yet what the man said then still holds good as goals for any person who loves and thinks good of this nation- freedom, poverty alleviation, harmony amongst its diverse people, the curse of untouchability, care and respect for women and world peace. No wonder the man was different and about  whom Albert Einstein remarked that, “Generations to come, it may well be, will scarcely believe that such a man as this ever in flesh and blood walked upon this earth.”

Will the Mahatma’s Dream remain Utopian thoughts of a man long gone and oft ridiculed by many today? I recently lay my hands on one such dream of a person of today, an IAS Probationer, whose script of her two minute speech delivered sometime ago before the Indian President at Durbar Hall of Rashtrapati Bhawan en-capsuled two months of Bharat Darshan where the probationers needed to traverse different parts of the country and experience India and its people. 

Honourable Mr. President,

It is a matter of great pleasure and honour to be standing here in the hallowed arches of the Durbar Hall to recount our Bharat Darshan experiences. These 55 days have made us observe, reflect and internalise learning from very diverse platforms- all of which are cogs in the wheel of nation building. Our exposure to the Armed Forces sensitised us to the harsh conditions and way of life in which these brave men and women serve, and that too with pride and dignity. We witnessed how human capacity can be stretched to its limits in the freezing heights of Nathu La, in the dense jungles of Kibithu and in the inhospitable terrains of Poonch.

Nathu La, Sikkim

Kibithu, Arunachal Pradesh

We learnt about the many facets of civilian-military interface during our ground level interactions. We realised that not only at the higher echelons of the Defence Ministry but also at the lower levels of district administration, we can play a key role in the lives of our army men. These were mostly manifested in the very basic but extremely important issues like civil disputes on land and succession affecting a jawan's family or providing speedy monetary compensation for our martyrs’ kin. And it is in these aspects, we intend to bring more synergy between the different arms of the administration.

At the bedrock of all our takeaways was an appreciation for diversity – not just in cultures and traditions but also in administrative structures. From urban local bodies in Gujarat to tribal village councils in Nagaland, we realised that governance has a truly panoramic character. In many a hinterland, the traditional sources of local authority have been perfectly wedded to the modern democratic institutions to provide administrative efficiency.

In the milieu of these varied structures, we tried to imbibe best practices across regions because that is the basis for evidence based policy making. Successful government ventures– ranging from Kudumbashree* in Kerala to the BRTS Scheme** of Ahmedabad – made us realize that government machinery can be galvanised to deliver efficiently with good implementation and political will. And this applies to rural and urban areas alike. While rural and urban problems have different flavours altogether, they do have common threads like the population pressure on land, the need for quality infrastructure and the use of technology in the betterment of lives.

And, speaking of creating an impact, Sir, we also saw the importance of civil society in the process of nation building. It is often said that the success of a democracy depends on a well-informed electorate. We realised that when this electorate mobilises itself to address its own issues, they can truly supplement and complement the government in its efforts. For example, the low cost innovations like the Jaipur Foot which is helping scores of disabled people daily for years together and which now needs to be scaled up. Also, worth mentioning is the Akshayapatra Foundation which provides mid-day meals across various states in India that has helped in improving the nutritional status of the children. Voluntary organisations have therefore truly helped in elevating economic profiles, building capacities and changing lives of many in this country.

Akshyapatra Kitchen

Sir, in these travels across the nation, each one of us captured fond memories and many stories of fortitude, resilience and enterprises. As they say that the best steel is forged in the hottest fire and so it is in human lives. In many strife torn regions, we found many a burning ray of hope. In the Naxal district of Dantewada in Maharashtra, we found one of the best residential schools for physically challenged students, while in Manipur we came across a well-developed sports infrastructure which has given the nation many a sports superstar like Mary Kom and Dingko Singh. These tales were narrated to us in many different languages, but each more inspirational than the previous.

Sir, during these travels, apart from these insights about our wonderful nation, we have also got to know our own self and our colleagues better. We learnt about lessons of teamwork, leadership, crisis management and adaptability. And for the great camaraderie and lifelong friendships that have been forged, we will indeed look back on these days with fond nostalgia.

Finally, it is rightly said about our great nation that no matter where you go, it becomes a part of you, and today we can proudly say that we truly carry India in our hearts.

Thank you!

Jai Hind!

The first thought that comes to our mind when someone utters Indian Administrative Service is Power- Power of the ‘Yes Minister’ bureaucrat and also their Powerlessness before the political masters. These are officers selected after a couple of rigourous written examinations followed by an interview where finally only the best are filtered and then the top rankers of the lot get selected to join the elite service called IAS. With power in their hands, many of these individuals have over the years made a difference to the lives of the countrymen. When I read the speech, I could feel the honesty and simplicity of the young probationer with a deep appreciation for the Wonder that is India and a small flame of hope in wanting to do good for the nation and its people.  How this young lass, who happens to be the daughter of a colleague, will shoulder the hopes and aspirations of a billion people is anybody’s guess and a tale only time will tell but for the sake of all of us and our children, let us wish her and her young tribe luck, fortune and everything that’s nothing but the best. May the power be wielded well for betterment and greater good and her dream come true, for her sake and ours.

Happy Birthday Bapu.

SS

NB: 

*Kudumbashree is the community based women’s empowerment and poverty eradication program, framed and enforced by the Government of Kerala with the support of Government of India and NABARD. It aims to eradicate absolute poverty within a definite time frame.

**BRTS, Ahmedabad is Bus Rapid Transport System is operated by Ahmedabad Janmarg Limited, a subsidiary of city’s municipal corporation. BRTS has gone along way in providing safe, accessible and efficient transport system and one which has won many international laurels.

Hangout

My medium sized VIP was hanging out in the sun,

When Dhobi Chacha hung near me an XL sized one.

What brand is it, mine wondered? Must be a firang,

Surely with Stars & Stripes spangled, must be American.

With a Bald Eagle patch on the crotch,

Surely he belonged to someone top notch.

Mine asked the biggie neighbor, “How’d?

Who does belong this undie?”

With tear drops dripping, he said in pain,

“I once belonged to the US Presiden’.”

Now I’m old and used, so was thrown away,

Landed in India as aid and now am here to stay”.

How does it feel to be the undies of the Most Powerful Man?

You too must be revered as much as the clan.

Yeah t’was nice to be under the Don,

With so many of us around, was hardly ever worn.

But yeah I was so much cared and protected,

Not hanging out alone like this, badly neglected.

Tell me some tales O Ye Undies of the Lord,

Of how you felt and what you saw and heard.

Ho! Ho! Ho! What a wonderful time I had,

Living beneath the man with golden locks on his head.

If you promise to hangout with me Mate

I’ll tell ya some secrets of the Head of the State.

I knew whenever came home Mr. Vladamir Putin,

For the man would go so cold within.

Often felt him shivering and sweating,

Afraid of some tales gettin’ leaking.

“I know what you did last summer Don,

Now no more games with us Ruskies”, he’d warn.

The Big Man always got excited with Ms. Clinton,

He could never hide his elation.

Every muscle of his would get taut,

The Raging Bull was ready for a bout.

“We shall make America great again,

Build wall, stop émigrés, reverse Obama care”, he’d be shoutin’.

But the best was reserved for Kim Jong,

Now the gong would really go ding dong.

Agitated and mad for sure he would be,

Ready for war and bring the Mad King to his knee.

“Don’t show me you’re middle finger O Ye Fool,

I’d nuke you outta this world,” said Prez , not so cool.

And then there was this funny bearded Harappan man from the East

Who would come often, would speak a lot but wouldn’t feast.

We were always afraid of his coming up and close,

For he’d hug the Prez so hard that crushed me and my resident folks.

We cried,“Bring Acche Din in your own land if you can”,

“Your thepla, fafda, dhokla we’ll bear but just keep out your huggin’ Man.”

Don’t ask me what happened at night,

I’m still bound by Official Secrets Act.

Even though am in a forlorn land,

Hanging out with a Mr. Nobody’s jocks on a stand.

Am an emotional knick with loads of tales to state,

But for now stand still My Hangout Mate.

And sing with me the Star Spangled anthem!

SS

PS. This modified limerick is written in good humour and not to hurt any sentiments or show any disrespect towards anybody. Hope my readers take it in the right spirit.

Remembering Hugh

“All the Playboys come out,” shouted aloud, from outside the classroom, our very own Joginder Singh, the football coach of the school. Of the players in the school senior football team that year, there were six of us in one section and the man actually had called out in order to hand over the new school jersey and shorts of yellow and green to each selected player but the words used made each one of us blush and the classmates had a hearty laugh. The term Playboy brought to mind images of the kind I leave it to your imagination. Joga Singh was known to speak such horrendous English in a school where we were taught not just the proper usage of words but there were pretty looking teachers who specialized in ‘Elocution’ or the art of correct pronunciation. They taught us how in V we are to bite our lower lip and W the pout was to be initially formed.

For imps like us the elocution class was not only a good break from the math and other subjects where we were always trying to duck from the sight of the teacher lest he picked on us to answer any question. It was possibly class V when we always looked forward to the elocution class of Ms Sudan. She was fair, she was tall and curvaceous and she was absolutely stunning. In fact she was a model for a well-known ice-cream brand. But the best thing about her was that she wore dresses and skirts hemlines of which were well above the knees…almost to the upper thigh. The teacher’s chair and desk was at a higher level and there wasn’t a boy in the class whose pencil wouldn’t drop ‘accidentally’ and he would go down to pick the lost item and try to peep at the teacher’s legs and get a high. In our school alumni Whatsapp group, many fondly remembered what they saw ‘down under’ so vividly and with so much joy, even after thirty five years of passing out of school, showed what it meant to them. The Little Boys were fast turning into Playboys.

This was also the time when we saw the porn magazines for the first time. Thanks to our friend Prince who would bring them to school and a few lucky ones got their first look at Playboy in between classes and tiffin breaks. Prince soon became the Best Friend to almost all in the class except for a few nerds sitting in the first row. These pieces of art were known as Pondy in those days. As times went by, the flow of magazines increased and the boys got bolder. In one such class when the Hindi teacher was trying to explain Kabir’s doha, he was distracted by a student, Kanwarjit, who was constantly opening and shutting his desk top.  “Kya hai bay desk ke andar?” shouted the teacher as he put down his book to walk towards Kanwarjit who quickly raised the desk completely with one hand and with the other passed on the Playboy magazine to the boy behind. The boy behind took perfect hold of the treasure, rolled it and smoothly handed to the next boy behind…all happening under the table. I am certain that the Usain Bolt’s Jamaican relay team would have been pleased to see perfect baton changing. Kanwarjit got an earful for being inattentive in class but became the true Playboy Hero for the class. Prince undoubtedly remained the Pondy King and he later graduated to bringing film negatives of the same genre. The whole of Section C from 5^th to 10^th will always be in gratitude to the Pondy King for helping them see life’s beautiful moments.

When Hugh Hefner, the person who started the Playboy magazine died recently, a part of our generation that attained eternal knowledge and joy in the pre-internet era of 60s and 70s also  died with him. How much we longed to lay our hands on one of the magazines and a quick peep inside was completely heavenly experience. Today, times have changed when on a click of a search or a casual forward one gets to see the darkest of secrets. Our times were slightly different. It was Playboy in English with pictures or crude Hindi script of Mastram. How we held these books under the Atlas and practical copies to see and read while unsuspecting parents thought their son was getting serious about studies. The results would however pour buckets of water over their hopes.Boys will always be boys.

Thanks to Hugh Hefner the term playboy is now part of dictionary.I believe every man dead or alive would have wanted to live the life of Hugh. In one of his interviews he said during his lifetime he had thousands of girlfriends. At any given time he had seven bunnies by his side and he was proud of the life he led, not apologetic. He said, “Surrounding myself with beautiful women keeps me young.” He then goes on to describe his life, “In my wildest dreams, I couldn’t have imagined a sweeter life.” Read it somewhere that Hugh had paid a huge amount of money to reserve a grave next to Marilyn Monroe’s, someone who was possibly the first cover girl of his magazine, started way back in 1953. Jeetey Hain Shaan Se, Martey Hain Shaan Se!

While falling in love was something that happened very often with me but it remained mostly one sided. If at all someone I have come across who could come close to the standard definition of the term Playboy was a friend from college. Let me just call him Ranveer for now. Ranveer was a fair looking, tall fellow with light brown eyes. While there were many boys in college who would have been better looking or charming but none could match Ranveer when it came to talking, especially with women. Wherever he went, you could see people enjoying his company. He came from a good public school and he was staying at Chanakya Puri. While we were in second year of college, he told me about his crush on a girl from his school, one year his junior. It took him quite some time and one day he invited me to his colony for a game of football and after the game we went for a walk where he introduced his girlfriend to me. Wow…she was possibly six feet tall and extremely beautiful with big eyes and a slender frame.

By the time we were in third year of our graduation, Ranveer was going steady with the Tall One at home and was pally with a host of other girls in the college. Hindu College never had a good girls’ basketball team but Ranveer made sure he tagged me along to the court every time a match was on. In the team was a very petite girl Radhika who was an apology to playing basketball for she covered one hand over her eyes to protect her complexion from the sun while dribbling with the other. Although Radhika and her team did not win many matches but crowds would throng just to see her. In those days there were radio programmes where people could send out requests and there would hardly be a programme where one song or another was not requested for by an admirer for Jersey No. 9 of Hindu College basketball team. It took Ranveer a couple of visits to the court and the girl was head over heels in love with him.

Ranveer officially now had two pretty girls madly in love with him. He also was more than friendly to many more. You had to see him at any party and realize his real worth. There was something about him that girls found irresistible. He reminded me of Lou Bega’s famous  song Mambo Number 5:

A little bit of Monica in my life

A little bit of Erica by my side

A little bit of Rita is all I need

A little bit of Tina is what I see

A little bit of Sandra in the sun

A little bit of Mary all night long

A little bit of Jessica here I am

A little bit of you makes me your man.

To lonely people like us Ranveer was Osho, the Eternal Guru. The other gyan we could amass elsewhere but the art of ticking with girls was something we looked up to Ranveer. Not that he never tried to help me but possibly it was missing in my DNA and so found happiness in the company of Osho.

Radhika graduated and joined an international airline as an air hostess. Before leaving she shed loads of tears and we felt Ranveer would melt in love and stay loyal to this beautiful girl if not to the tall one back home who by now had joined St.Stephens College which was just across the road. Ranveer and I were part of the college football team and we would always take the first University Special at 12.30pm back home. In order to get a place to sit, we had one day gone to the place from where the U Specials started and were happy to find an empty seat. As the bus moved a number of students climbed in and soon the bus was almost full. A very pretty girl with long hair came to stand near our seat. We both looked at her and smiled to each other. The very next minute Ranveer nudged me with his elbow and said, “Get up.” I was surprised and looked at him while making an awkward face. “I said get up quickly.” And I obeyed my Master. Ranveer offered the empty seat to the pretty girl. No sooner had she taken the seat than Ranveer started a conversation with her and by the time the bus had moved from the university area towards Lutyens Delhi, the two were in such a mood that you could not have guessed that they had just met 20 minutes ago. The girl got up from her seat after some time and so did Ranveer and both got off the bus together. Bemused I took my lost and forced evicted seat back and wondered how Osho managed…Dhanya Hain Aap Guruji.

Ranveer was now to be seen often with this beautiful girl called Sonya who happened to be the niece of a member of the World Cup winning 1983 squad. They were seen everywhere…at the cafeteria, at the basketball court and on the footpaths around the college. One morning when Ranveer was sitting with this new found love, Radhika returned to college after her training program abroad. She got for him plenty of stuff including T shirts, perfume and sports accessories. Ranveer accepted them all, thanked her and then introduced her to Sonya. Radhika was no fool and she left them teary eyed and was not seen in college thereafter. I felt bad for Radhika and so did many of our other friends. We tried talking to Ranveer who was unmoved by our protests and explanations and pretty much unrepentant.

Ranveer later joined the armed forces where I heard he had hooked on the commandant’s daughter at his place of posting and got into big trouble. But Hugh Hefner of our times always lived life his way…never to change, never to look back. Last heard he had actually married his first Tall Love who had gone on to become Miss India and then after a awhile they parted. I am sure my friend Ranveer too believes in Hugh’s dictum of, “Several girlfriends are easier to handle than one wife.” Surprisingly my friend too almost used the same simple lines while starting conversation with women as did Hugh and it worked for both, “My Name is Hugh Hefner.”

SS

Hand that Rocks the Cradle

The other day I got a forward from my father which caught my attention. This is how it went:

My Mom’s Saree Pallu

I don’t think our kids know what a pallu is as mothers now rarely wear sarees. The principal use of Ma’s pallu was to provide the elegance to her drape. But along with that, it also served as a potholder for removing hot pans from the stove.

It was wonderful for drying children’s tears and on occasion was even used for cleaning out dirty ears and as a hand towel.

For sleeping kids her lap was the mattress and her pallu the warm cover.

When company came, the ideal hiding for the shy kids were the saree pallus… And when going out as little kids the pallu became an anchor, a guide to follow the Mom in the big, bad world.

And when the weather was cold, Ma wrapped it around her arms.

Those glorious sari pallus wiped many a perspiring brow. It doubled as her apron too.

From the garden, it carried all sorts of vegetables and sweet scented flowers that had fallen from the trees.

When unexpected company drove up the road, it was surprising how much furniture that old saree pallu could dust in a matter of seconds. It also carried so many toys as a proper basket.

It has been a long time before someone invents something that will replace that old time sari pallu that served so many purposes. The pallu is nothing but magic woven. And know what this pallu carried….I don’t think I ever caught anything from my Mom’s pallu but Love.

Dad wrote, “Your Mom was full of emotions after reading it and could co-relate to many a thing she had experienced when she was a kid and am sure you too will feel the same about some of the magic the pallu is able to weave.” Yes, the message did get me nostalgic and I remembered my experiences with Ma’s pallu, but then a question struck me, “Ma had a pallu which did so much to me while growing up, how will I remember Baba who didn’t have one?”

I started browsing through the photo gallery on my phone and found a picture of Baba in a saree which Ma had sent on Whatsapp a few months back!!! Since I was far away in Delhi and a college function was forthcoming where I had to wear a saree, Baba practised under Ma’s expert guidance the fine art of wearing the full six yards to be able to help me wear it well.

No! This is not how I will remember him. I ransacked the almirah and pulled out old photo albums with our pictures together. I remembered the drawer at home where Ma had preserved all the birthday cards and small notes on hand made paper I had written to Baba with my tiny hands long ago, my art books and craft work. As I sat browsing through pieces of our lives lying scattered all round me I realized that I will remember him as so much more that it is difficult to pen in a single blog….and so I jotted down a few of my stray fond memories that kept coming to me without much trying… for it was all real, I had experienced it, I had lived every moment of it.

My Daddy’s Loving Arms

My first picture with my Dad is sitting atop his shoulders and laughing, just like a bird atop a branch singing a sweet note. Yes, my father’s arms are like the branches of a tree. I know this tree stands tall and gives me shelter in rain and snow. For me this tree is evergreen and not seasonal and its leaves will always be green, fruits sweet and branches gentle.

This tree stands there whenever I open my eyes. First it was to go to the school. We never had a car in those days but he was there everyday to pick me up in his arms and walk me to the bus stop. And this was no ordinary walk for this was the time when the branch holding me close would narrate some of the best extempore stories of my friends and heroes Salman, Rahul Dravid and the like. 

These arms taught me everything beyond books like riding my first bicycle. He would hold it tight when I started my rides, running beside me and gradually his arms loosened as I got better and confident of riding freely. He would rush to pick me up in his arms when I fell down and put me back on the seat.

These arms gave me the confidence to take to the water I was so afraid of.  He held me in his arms, never letting go, taught me swimming so lovingly that soon I was able to swim the breadth of the pool first and then the length. Till date I don’t remember having entered the pool without him around for those arms give me the floats I never have used.

My Daddy’s arms would toil with me on my craft projects and summer projects. He always could make me do things in a different and creative way that the end result would often be quite spectacular. I still remember the fancy dress costumes that he made. From Munna doodhwala and Merlin the Magician to Mr. Vajpayee, he could transform me into almost anyone.

While there was this driving instructor who got me my driving licence, but it was my Daddy’s arms that held the emergency brake and gently helped me steer the wheel as I graduated from a learner to a driver who could manoeuvre the streets of Mumbai.

These were the hands that wove their magic with words and helped me with all my elocution, debates and fuelled my imagination and inspired me to write.

His arms and fingers gave me some of the best chumpi (head massage).

When my Board results came out, he hugged me and then lifted me high and then swirled round and round forgetting that I was no longer a baby who weighed ten kilos. He never complained that it led to the recurrence of his back problem.

My Daddy’s arms carry numerous dabbas from home filled with food and they experiment with new recipes each time he visits me in Delhi from Biryani to fish moily.

Even after all these years, when I walk beside him, I unconsciously end up holding his hands like I used to as a kid, a firm, reassuring grasp.

It has been a long time before the Creator creates something that will replace a father’s arms that served so many purposes. The arms are nothing but magic woven. And I know what these arms carried…I don’t think I ever caught anything from my Dad’s arms but Love. And I know these loving arms are my biggest safety ring in this world full of uncertainty and fear.

Life is made up of these things…a mother’s saree pallu, a father’s protective arms…unconditional love is hidden in these small everyday things. Nothing else matters at the end of the day. When you take away all the coarseness, unpleasantness and the grotesque from life, what remains is a mother’s pallu, a father’s loving arms, a partner’s immense patience or a child’s unconditional trust. That is what ultimately matters in life. Not the laurels earned or the targets achieved; not the meanness or hatred all around. It remains hidden in an old stainless steel bowl or an enameled mug; in a hurriedly created fancy dress costume or a discarded old kantha; a rusted bicycle or a much used durrie…a loved one lives in all these things.

MS