The Great Wave

The Great Wave Off Kanagawa by Hokusai Katsushika. Courtesy: Wikipedia

I was surfing through the Amazon website looking for a birthday gift for my friend's daughter when I chanced upon a framed canvas print of The Great Wave (Kanagawa Oki Nami Ura) by Japanese artist Hokusai Katsushika. The woodblock print is one of the most famous examples of Japanese art in the world.

Hokusai Katsushika (1760-1849) was a ukiyo-e artist. The term ukiyo-e (浮世絵) means "picture of the floating world. The ukiyo-e genre of art flourished between the 17th and 19th centuries. Ukiyo-e artists created prints and paintings of women, kabuki actors, sumo wrestlers, travel, landscapes and erotica among other things.

If you look at the painting, you will notice a large wave looming threateningly over smaller boats with Mount Fuji in the distance. The extended wave has a claw-like appearance. The dark blue paint used by Hokusai, called Prussian Blue, was imported from England via China. The wave looks like a monster about to strike the boats. According to art critics, the painting symbolises the force of nature and the plight of humans when faced with Nature's wrath.

Hokusai produced this painting, generally considered his masterpiece, when he was around 70 years old. At the time of its creation, the Wave was not considered great art by leaders in Japan but over the years it has acquired something of a cult status, spawning countless reprints and inspiring poetry and music. The one I saw on Amazon was a cheap reprint that I now intend to buy.

The image is said to have inspired Claude Debussy's orchestral work, La Mer. Bohemian-Austrian poet Rainer Maria Rilke was also struck by the diligence of Hokusai and wrote the following poem, The Mountain.

"Six and thirty times and /
   hundred times
the painter tried to capture the /    
   mountain,
tore it up, then pushed on again
(six and thirty times and /
   hundred times).

Many years ago, much before I was born, my father's ship ran aground due to a tidal wave near Hachinohe in Japan. I remember all the stories growing up about how brave he was and how he'd managed to get out of a sticky situation. This painting reminded me of him and I couldn't help wondering how he'd felt when the wave had struck.

It is also uncanny how relevant the painting is in the current context of the pandemic.

We have two choices - we could be the panic-stricken fishermen in the boats facing the wave that threatens to obliterate our existence. Or we could be the serene, solid, resilient Mount Fuji in the distance - watching the drama unfold, knowing as Donald Finkel had written in his ekphrastic poem:

In the painter's sea
All fishermen are safe.

The painting has another message for us artists. Hokusai started painting at 6 and produced a masterpiece when he was 70. If that is not a case of persistence paying off, I don't know what is. So keep at whatever it is that you are working on. Things are bound to work out in the end.

Fast and the Furious

My neighbour, let’s call him Mr M, should never have been given a driving license. The man is a real menace on wheels. I’ve had to turn down more invitations from him than from my entire extended family because the thought of sitting in his car makes me break out in cold sweat. He imagines himself to be a Formula One driver. Thankfully, the state of the ageing Maruti 800 has prevented many of mishap on Gurgaon’s chaotic roads.

People like Mr M make me question the survival of the human species. And I’m not just talking about people racing down roads in their cars and bikes. There are the supermarket speeders who are equally dangerous - people who race through aisles of supermarkets with their shopping carts knocking down innocent shoppers in the process. They just need to get to the finish line – in this case the checkout counter – first. I’ve had multiple run-ins (quite literally) with these adrenaline-fueled aisle sprinters. In my most recent (mis)adventure, a woman rammed her cart over my big toe so forcefully that I briefly considered flinging a baguette at her in retaliation.

Why do people speed? Well, there’s research claiming impulsive people are more prone to speeding, while folks with terrible time management skills try to compensate by racing through life - literally. People who have difficulty managing anger may be more likely to engage in risky driving, studies say. Meanwhile, cautious drivers spend half their time wondering whether they are the only sane ones left. Whatever the reason - fragile ego, poor impulse control, or an inability to leave home five minutes earlier - the collateral damage inflicted by an individual’s personality quirks can ruin lives.

Delhi has the highest number of road accidents in India, but Gurgaon could give Delhi a run for its money. A quick Google search of Gurgaon’s traffic news reads like a thriller you wish you hadn’t started. Depressing doesn’t even begin to describe it.

So the next time someone speeds past you - on a road or in a supermarket aisle – get out of the way. Some people are simply wired to believe the world is one giant racetrack. And the rest of us are the unfortunate spectators hoping that they won’t get run over.

A Simple Question

I was in the cab yesterday, returning home from Delhi, when I suddenly had the urge to ask my cab driver how long it would take to get to Farrukhnagar.  Farrukhnagar is a small town nearby that flourished under Mughal rule due to its salt trade. I’ve been reading up about the place and want to schedule a day trip to see the remnants of the Mughal era, mainly old forts and baolis (stepwells)  -- that are still there. 

In the old days, a question like this would have unleashed a flurry of comments from the old man. He’d probably say some relative of his lived in Farrukhnagar and the place was no longer like it used to be. As child he’d would go there to play with his cousins and they’d climb trees in the big field next to the Gol Baoli. He would smile, his eyes would light up and the ramshackle cab - that had looked as though it would fall apart any second - would suddenly pick up speed. A simple question would have turned into a lively exchange of memories. We’d talk about how monuments need to be better looked after. And then, I’d reminisce about my childhood and the antics I’d get up to with my cousins. You need to call them and find out how they are, I’d remind myself.

But I don’t say anything to the driver. 

I mean, it’s probably a daft question anyway. I can always look up the internet and see how long it will take me to get there from Gurgaon. And while I’m at it, I can also find out about hotels and restaurants where I can have a quick bite and use the washroom. Technology has made it so convenient. No need to ask anyone anything. All the information is at your fingertips.

But then, a tiny voice whispers in my ear. Convenient, yes. But at what cost? All of this convenience is robbing us of human connections, isn’t it?. What about all the stories you won’t get to hear? Technology is not going to bring you that, is it?

I take a deep breath and lean forward, “How long would it take me to get to Farrukhnagar?” I hear myself saying.

Handshakes terrify me, how about a namaste instead?

A few days ago, I was seated at the reception of an office in Delhi waiting for a client. As the man finally appeared in my line of sight, pushing open the glass doors and striding purposefully towards me, I felt my heart sink like the Titanic. My palms felt clammy and my fingers started twitching involuntarily. A voice inside my head whispered. Will he, won’t he? And then my worst fears came true when he stretched his hand towards mine, lips curving into a smile. I responded with a plastic grin and grudgingly offered my hand, shoulders hunched in defeat. What followed should have been a friendly greeting but felt like a hostile takeover.

I’m talking about the handshake. The ritualistic greeting that is supposed to signify trust and a sense of connection between two people. Except I feel none of those things when I’m faced with the prospect of shaking hands with someone. What I feel instead is gasping-for-air kind of terror. At the thought of encountering fingers (in a grip) that can go from awkward to repulsive in a matter of mere seconds. Give me a namaste any day. 

Namastes are no contact sports, respectful and non-intrusive. A swift fold of hands, a nod and then it’s done. One can get straight down to business after.

A handshake, on the other hand, is much more complicated. You don’t know which way it will go. Now, don’t get me wrong. This isn’t my inner Sati Savitri rebuffing contact with men. I don’t like shaking hands with women either. In fact, there is probably good reason why women are excluded from handshakes in some cultures. The feminist in me has no problem with that. I will happily forgo a handshake if I am given the option. The problem occurs when I don’t have a choice and I have to go along with it.

You see, I’m a firm believer in doing things right or not doing them at all. The handshake falls into that territory. Most people just cannot get it right. A firm, generous shake of the hands. Friendly but impersonal. The right amount of pressure. Palms that are clean and dry, not sweaty or clammy. That is what a good handshake should involve. Not a limp, half-hearted attempt or some sort of indecisive finger manoeuvre. 

Did I tell you about the time my hands were subjected to what felt like a chiropractic session with an energetic hand-shaker? His grip was so tight, I could hear my knuckles cracking with the strain. I had to immerse my fingers in an ice bath for weeks to get rid of the pain.

The worst part is, there is no knowing what you will be subjected to. There is no science to predict what sort of a handshake a person is likely to offer. Or an app that can make the deductions. So it’s best not to second-guess and greet like an Indian.

History says handshakes originated as a sign of peaceful intent. Hands that held no weapons came together as a symbol of friendship or a pledge of peace. Ancient cultures such as the Assyrians and Greeks were known to shake hands. The Knights did it too, when they ditched their weapons and made peace. While some cultures frown at it, it is more or less acceptable the world over as a business greeting. The pandemic might have turned the handshake into a hazardous activity with the danger of germs being exchanged along with pledges of friendship. But it hasn’t lost its pride of place, sadly. 

I once had to shake hands with someone who had walked out of a washroom. There was no knowing whether their hands had been washed or not. So I began carrying my own version of a hazmat kit in my handbag. Sanitizer, wipes, the whole shebang. One can never be too careful. If you ever see me disappear into a washroom after shaking hands with me, you will know that I am not powdering my nose. I am, in fact, scrubbing my hands clean like a modern-day Lady Macbeth.

Let’s try a namaste next time, shall we? 

Catty Behaviour!

Cartoon by Paul Tarnowski

The other day, while waiting to pick up my daughter from the metro station, I almost had a cardiac arrest. I was inside an auto, aimlessly scrolling on my phone, when I glanced towards the pavement and saw a big leopard standing there.

The newspapers are full of stories about leopards straying into swanky condos or running off with cattle from cowsheds. Last month, a leopard even gatecrashed a wedding in Lucknow and snatched a gun from a police officer. 

Still, it’s one thing to read a report or see a video on a device and quite another, to see an actual one standing next to you at a bus stop. 

I felt as though someone had reached inside my chest and squeezed my heart in a vice like grip. I started sweating profusely and the sound of my heartbeats drowned out the peppy Bollywood number blaring on the auto driver’s phone. I could see the newspaper headline flash in front of my eyes – Gurgaon woman attacked by leopard outside metro station. I gulped and closed my eyes, waiting to cross over to the afterlife. 

Moments passed but nothing happened. There was no commotion, no shrieks from frightened passersby, no police whistles for crowd control. Instead of the heavenly harpsichord I was expecting to hear, the loud Bollywood song droned on. I opened my eyes reluctantly. I was still inside the auto and the driver was staring at his phone. I didn’t seem to be dead or in any kind of physical discomfort. 

I glanced towards the leopard cautiously only to find it cursing loudly in Hindi into an Android smartphone. That’s when it hit me. It wasn’t a leopard at all. Just a big woman wearing a leopard printed shirt and matching leggings. I heaved a sigh of relief and slumped back in my seat. 

I’ve always considered animal prints to be a bold sartorial choice. Risky even. Especially in a place like Gurgaon where being mistaken for a leopard means the indignity of a tranquilizer shot in your rear or a stun gun to knock you out.

Unfortunately (or should I say fortunately) – lily-livered folks like me are a minority. Leopard prints (like leopards) are the flavour of the season. On fashion runways, designer store clothing racks as well as Gurgaon streets. Our Bollywood A-listers and self-styled local fashion influencers have often been spotted sporting leopard printed garments and accessories. And now, Gurgaon’s friendly neighborhood aunty has jumped onto the leopard print bandwagon.

 
Just take a moment to think about the poor leopard. Not only are we taking over their spaces, we are taking the skin off their backs and robbing them of their identities. The famous Aravalli Leopard Trail (where one could spot a leopard or two if one was lucky) has become the venue for birthday parties and alcohol fuelled bashes accompanied by loud music and crowds. No wonder they are straying into our spaces and walking off with our livestock and ammunitions. The way things are going, I wouldn’t be surprised to find a leopard sitting on dharna outside the ZARA store at Ambience Mall demanding that the leopard prints be cancelled.

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Five Ways to Find Love in Gurgaon

Remember that saying about the Universe conspiring to bring us something we
really want right when we need it?
 
Well, that’s hokum. I don’t believe in it at all.
 
If you really want something, you have to go out and get it yourself, not wait for the Universe to do its thing. Which is nothing.
 
So if your goals for this year include finding love and getting hitched, you need to get off that couch, switch off the telly and get busy.
 
Life isn’t a movie, even if you would love for it to be so. It’s certainly not the desi version of Serendipity where you bump into the love of your life at the neighbourhood kirana store while buying bread and eggs, fall in love, get separated and then miraculously reunite just before the end credits roll.
 
Real life is seldom like that.
 
So don’t bother wishing on stars or snowflakes and expect the love of your life to materialise in front of your eyes with a copy of Love in the Time of Cholera. It’s not that simple.
 
However, with a little bit of ingenuity, you could hunt down the chosen one and update the relationship status of your Facebook profile with a smug smile. No Universe required.
 
Curious to find out how? Here’s what it takes.
 
Join a Gym!
 
Gurgaon residents are very particular about the way they look. So you will find that your friendly-neighbourhood gym full of hot guys, girls and the occasional Aunty or Uncle (if that’s your thing). With all the happy chemicals in your body on overdrive mode (from all that exercising), there can only be good things in store. Plus, you end up looking like a million bucks. What’s not to love?
 
Start Running. You could talk too!
 
If being cooped up with strange, smelly people in a small room gives you the heebie-jeebies, do consider an open-air activity instead. Why not join a running group? Or a walking one, for that matter. Plenty of eligible men or women there. You could strike up a conversation while huffing and puffing your way to the finish line. Who knows where that could lead?                      
 
Hit the Malls!
 
There’s nothing quite like retail therapy. Especially when it gets you the man or
woman of your choice. Gurgaon’s fancy malls are teeming with fancy, young people and one of them may take a shine to you. The multiplexes, food courts, designer stores. Brawny young men and nubile nymphets. What are you waiting for? Get moving, you!
 
Get a tattoo!
 
Tinder is passe, get a tattoo instead. Who knows, your better half might be getting ready for the needle right this minute at a tattoo parlour somewhere in the Millennium City? Sparks flying over whirring needles? Forget the momentary pain and think about the stories you could tell your children.
 
Drink some coffee. Or Tea!
 
Tiring isn’t it? Hunting down the love of your life. Time you took a break for some coffee. Or tea, if that’s your potion. Walk into a Starbucks or a Café Coffee Day, find your corner, sink into that sofa and put your feet up. “Excuse me, is this seat taken?” someone may ask you politely. Well, that’s your cue.
 
Live happily ever after and don’t thank me. Or the Universe.

(Originally written for the Juggernaut Books blog in 2017)

 

Hair today, gone tomorrow!

A few years ago, I was at the salon getting a haircut when the hairstylist suddenly announced that a clump of my hair was missing.

“What do you mean it’s missing?” I turned around to glare at him. “Did you chop it off by mistake?”

He stuck his tongue out, tips of his ears turning red. “No Madamji, I did nothing of the sort. It is not there only.”

“What do you mean it’s not there?” I couldn’t believe my ears. It was there this morning. Where on earth had it vanished?

Seeing my face turn purple, the young lad hastily fished out a mirror and positioned it behind my head. I watched with horror as he flicked aside a few strands to reveal a shiny bald patch.

“It’s a keera (worm), madamji,”  he said consolingly. “It ate up your hair. You need to rub a paste of onion and garlic on it for a month and your hair will grow back.”

I wasn’t about to rub masala mix on my scalp! I was a human not tandoori chicken. I got up from the chair, paid my bill in a hurry and rushed to my doctor’s clinic in the floor below the salon. She examined my scalp, listened to my rant calmly and told me that I had alopecia. The clump of hair had fallen out possibly due to stress and there was an alarming possibility that more hair would vanish.

She told me to apply Rogaine for a month. My hair would grow back soon. Only I had to be mindful while applying the solution. One false move and I would turn into Thomson and Thompson from the Land of Black Gold.

It was either that or Persis Khambatta from Star Trek. I didn't have much choice. 

Thankfully, a few days (of Rogaine) later, the missing hair reappeared. I was relieved. Not just because the hair grew back. I was beginning to tire of the Rogaine drill. I wouldn’t have minded going bald if that meant not having to fuss over my hair.

Which made me wonder why men go through the ordeal of dressing up their bald pates with transplants and ridiculous looking toupees. Or even endure the Rogaine ritual. Why don’t they own their receding hairlines? It’s only hair. Hair today, gone tomorrow.