Crooked Uncle

The Bengali Baboo. Twenty-One Days in India (1878–1879). The Teapot Series by George Aberigh-Mackay

Crooked Uncle would visit our house once a month. Always on a Sunday at twelve thirty in the afternoon, half an hour before lunchtime. I would wait anxiously for the doorbell to ring, announcing his arrival. Three short rings and then silence. He would hobble into the house, wearing a crisp white kurta and flowing dhoti, propelled by his walking stick. His chauffeur would rush forward to help him up the stairs.

Crooked Uncle belonged to the same village as Grandmother. He wasn’t her biological brother but the two of them had grown up together. I always wondered why he had such an unfortunate name that drew attention to the condition of his legs. When I asked Grandmother, she wagged her finger and said that he’d been rude to his mother when he was a child and that God had punished him by giving him crooked legs. 

There was a steely glint in her eyes when she delivered this information. A warning that children rude to their mothers were almost always punished with a physical deformity.

I made it a point to keep a safe distance from Crooked Uncle when he visited. His legs both frightened and fascinated me in equal measure. I felt God had been unfair, the punishment too harsh for a man who seemed quite amiable otherwise. But he’d also taken my father away, much before his time. So I harboured no illusions about fair play in the heavens above.

I'm sure Crooked Uncle had no idea how dark my thoughts were. He would smile at the solemn-faced little girl standing near the stairs and hobble his way up to the first floor where Grandmother lived. There he would chatter away with her, reclining against fluffy pillows on her four-poster bed, eat a sumptuous lunch of rice, dal, fried vegetables and cottage cheese curry finishing it off with piping hot samosas and an assortment of syrup-laded sweetmeats for tea. He would leave when the skies turned scarlet. The chauffeur would help him into the car which would then roll down the street and disappear round the corner. For the next couple of days, I was careful not to be rude to my mother. Till it was time for his visit again. Children have incredibly short memories you see.

When I grew up, I discovered the truth behind Crooked Uncle’s legs. It wasn’t divine justice but a case of ignorance and apathy. Crooked Uncle had been born bow legged and no one had bothered to rectify his condition. With the help of his chauffeur and servants, he had managed to get by without much difficulty. Money was never a problem, his father had left him a tidy allowance that he lived off. I don’t think he had to work for a single day of his life. He died peacefully at a ripe old age of 90, surrounded by his helpers. 

Crooked Uncle never married. I guess no one was willing to take a bet on him with his physical deformity. I sometimes wish I hadn’t gone through most of my childhood being repulsed by his legs. He might have been excellent company for a lonely little girl. I can still hear his booming laugh echoing off the walls of our house if I listen hard enough.

 

Clubbing with the Gods

I was about to climb onto the exercise bike at my neighbourhood gym the other day when strains of a popular Indian devotional song began blaring from the loudspeakers. I stopped dead in my tracks thinking the gym manager, a brawny young lad with an abundance of gel in his hair, had somehow mixed up the tapes. I waited expectantly, one foot suspended in mid-air, for the usual peppy dance number to follow.  As if on cue, there was a rhythmic thump of an electronic beat and the devotional song had turned into a dance number. I looked around me in alarm. Was the gym hosting an flashmob satsang? Were we supposed to step off our machines and fold our hands in prayer? 

The others around me didn’t seem to be affected by this rather strange choice of music. The gym folks were on their machines or flexing their dumbbells, as usual. My neighbour Mrs M leaned over from the next bike and whispered with a smirk on her face. “Arrey, don’t look so shocked, babes. They are playing the new bhajan club mix.” Seeing the confused look on my face, she let out a shocked gasp. “Haven’t you heard of bhajan clubbing?”
 
Now it was my turn to look shocked. Bhajan Clubbing. Two words I never thought I'd hear clubbed together. But Mrs M proceeded to tell me, in between huffs and puffs, that bhajan clubbing is a thing. And judging by the crowds that turn up for the bhajan clubbing concerts at stadiums, a very big thing in this part of the world. Mrs M tells me that her friend’s housing colony hosts regular bhajan nights featuring live dhol, remix aarti, snacks included. She started attending them for the snacks initially but somewhere between the third “Radhe Radhe” remix and a catchy dhol beat, she felt something awaken inside her. She says it’s devotion. But I suspect it was her long-forgotten desire to become a dancer.
 
Almost overnight, Mrs M has become a nightlife enthusiast. She has a bhajan themed wardrobe. She’s ditched her sensible cotton suits and acquired an assortment of sequined dupattas reflecting divine light, jangly bangles to add to the percussion and a glittery pair of juttis that lights up when she stamps her feet during the chorus. Her friend circle has evolved too. No longer just kitty party companions, they are now her satsang squad. Mrs G is the lead vocalist, self-appointed of course. Her falsetto can shatter glass. Mrs V makes up the rhythm section with two spoons and a steel tiffin dabba. Mrs S is backup vocals and freestyle devotional choreography. Stay clear of her arms if you see her though. You could land up in hospital with grievous injuries. The colony also hires a DJ for the events – Devotional Jockey in case you were wondering.
 
Ever since my strange encounter at the gym, she’s invited me for various dos. Retro Bhajan Night, Bollywood Bhakti Fusion, Garba with God. The colony children are fascinated, she says with a giggle. “Your mom goes clubbing?” one kid asked her son recently. He shrugged. “Kind of. But instead of alcohol, they have Rooh Afza. And instead of ‘DJ Wale Babu,’ it’s ‘Bhagwan Wale Babu.’ 
 
I haven’t been a single of these clubbing nights yet. I’m still not convinced prayer and clubs go well together. But I’m tempted by the sound of the free snacks. Maybe there’s hope for me yet.

God of Problem Clients

I wonder if there is a God of Problem Clients.  A sub deity responsible for creating difficult people, sent to wreak havoc in our professional lives. You know the ones I’m referring to, right? The ones who refuse to pay even after getting the work done, the ones who always haggle – for them, the price is never right, the ones who are never satisfied – I’m talking about endless reiterations, the ones who can’t make up their minds, the ones who have absolutely no boundaries – they’ve paid you and that makes you bonded labour. 

We have all encountered one or all of these types in the course of our lives.

I, for one, have been dealt more than my fair share and I’m thinking of putting forward a complaint. But to whom? Is there a judicial commission for Gods? Like a heavenly version of a consumer court where one could file complaints? Or does Brahma have a cosmic helpline where one could complain about a member of his team? I need to tell him to stop sending problem people my way and let others benefit from his generosity. Others need a turn while I need a break. 

Are you also one of the chosen few (like me)? Maybe we could start a prayer group – chant mantras or bang utensils – whatever works. Our thali banging got rid of Corona, didn’t it? Maybe this would work as well? 

Better a utensil than someone’s head.

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?