A Christmas Carol

 

 
I was woken up this morning by a ghastly sound. At first it sounded like someone was being electrocuted. 
 
Aaaah eeeeeeeeehhhhh eeeeeeoow
 
I jumped out of bed in alarm trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. It seemed to be originating from the school next door so I pressed my face against the window trying to make sense of the horrific cacophony. I soon realized that no one was dying a painful death. A woman was singing Christmas carols over the loudspeaker.
 
Aaaah eeeeeeeeehhhhh eeeeeeoow
Saanta Claus is comeeeeng to taaaoouuun!
 
Don’t get me wrong. I love carols. There’s nothing that puts one in the festive mood like the sound of voices singing in perfect harmony. Divine voices. Angels we have heard on high.
 
But this carol singer had a spectacularly bad voice. She'd managed to scare off the pigeons on my ledge. And that is no mean feat. I felt like opening the window and yelling at her.
 
Lady, if you keep singing like that, forget Santa - no one will be coming to town! 
 
I didn’t obviously. It did cross my mind, however, that now would be a good time to try the ice bucket challenge. Mental peace is as good a cause as any.
 
But Christmas is all about feeling sisterly and charitable, blah blah blah, so I closed my windows with a crash and decided to sulk all day. 

A microphone, in the wrong hands, can be a weapon. I hope Santa gets me a pair of noise cancelling headphones this Christmas.

Six Degrees of Social Media!

My cook sent me a friend request on Facebook the other day.

It was her all right. There was no mistaking that round, smiling face, red bindi plastered on the forehead and brightly coloured saree. The notification said: Shakti D wants to be friends with you.

Below the friend request was a lineup of people Facebook thought I should befriend. The list included my plumber, Acquaguard service technician and the cab agency owner I hire taxis from regularly. As I stared at the screen in disbelief, I realized that six degrees of separation was not an abstract idea anymore. It had become a rather grim reality in my case.

Now it’s one thing being connected to Kevin Bacon through someone or the other you may know in life. Footloose is one of my favourite movies. I’ve practically grown up watching it and drooling over Bacon and his slick dance moves. But the rest, I have a problem with!

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not me being snobbish or classist. I’m an intensely private person and the only thing I share with the world at large is my writing and funny takes on life. It’s bad enough that my family and an assortment of relatives have invaded my online space and I have to befriend them on various social media platforms and dutifully like their Whatsapp messages (read spam) on a daily basis so that they don’t get offended. Relationship quotes, inspirational sayings, funny videos and memes. Bring it on. My phone is struggling to function with the burden.

But when I get a message and a picture of an ugly-as-hell bouquet of flowers from an unfamiliar number that says: “Didi, how you like my latest flower arrangement? You can buy from my shop” I have a problem. I mean, I’ve just ordered flowers from the guy once and he is already on my Whatsapp list of contacts behaving as though he were an old friend!

Delete. Delete. Delete.

Block. Block. Block.

As for my cook, I’m still wondering what to do with that invitation. I really don’t want to offend her. My life depends on her turning up to work at the right time and putting hot food on the table for the family. If I jeopardise that relationship, my life will be turned upside down. Literally.

I could live without my relatives but not my cook.

Kevin Bacon can wait. I will make do with Shakti D for the time being.

The Horrors of Halloween!

It was eight in the evening and I was getting ready to settle down in front of the television when the bell rang. Several times. Loud and insistent. Cursing under my breath, I ran to the front door and opened it. Count Dracula stood outside, scowling at me. 

He was probably around eight, dark circles under his beady eyes and red lipstick smeared all over his mouth. He held a Meena Bazaar plastic bag under his arm which he thrust at me, somewhat rudely.

 

‘Aunty, give me candy!’ It wasn’t a request, but an order.

 

‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ I asked him.

 

‘Forgetting what?’ Dracula Junior blinked at me. ‘It’s Halloween today. You are supposed to give me candy. Don’t you know that?’

 

I noticed that he was yelling but that didn’t bother me. The last part of his statement made me wince, however. The underlying assumption that I was expected to fall in line with his demand.

 

Now I know he was merely a child but something about his attitude had started grating on my nerves.

‘I know its Halloween and I will give you candy but aren’t you forgetting something?’ I asked him again.

 

He looked really angry now, eyes flashing. I could make out that he was used to getting his way at home. An image of an indulgent mother running to cater to every whim and fancy of his popped up in front of my eyes. I was sure the little fella would stamp his feet and have a hissy fit right in front of my door. Well, let him, I thought to myself, I do not like impudent children.

 

‘Before you ask anyone for candy, you are supposed to say, ‘Trick or Treat’ and wish them Happy Halloween. Don’t you know that?’ I told the little brat. It was really juvenile on my part but I’m sure you are not going to grudge me that. I couldn’t help but smile when I delivered the last part of my sentence.

 

The vampire shrugged. The expression on his face said that he was bored and couldn’t really care less. Could he have his candy now and leave?

 

I sighed and headed back to my kitchen. I didn’t have a lot of sweets lying around but there was a packet of Cadbury’s Eclairs left over from a birthday party. Grabbing a fistful of Eclairs, I walked back to where Dracula stood, fidgeting with his Meena Bazaar bag. ‘Here you go,’ I said, extending my arm to dump the sweets into his bag. He moved the bag away quickly staring at me as though I had morphed into a ghoul myself. 

 

‘Eclairs? Kya aap ke paas achhe candies nahi hai?’ the scorn in his voice was

unmistakeable.

 

I could have smacked him right then and there but I didn’t. My fingers were itching desperately. 

 

‘What do you mean by ache candies?’ I asked innocently.

 

‘Who on earth eats eclairs these days. Don’t you have Ferraro Rocher or Sour Punk, Aunty?’ 

 

Was that the hint of a smirk on the child’s face?

 

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘No, I don’t,’ I said. ‘This is all I have, you will just have to take these.’

 

‘You could always give me money!’ That brazen little...!

 

I regained my composure and told him coldly, ‘I most certainly won’t give you money. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. So please take these sweets or ring someone else’s doorbell if you like!’

 

That monster. He stormed off in a huff, his red cape flying around him. I’m quite sure I heard him abuse under his breath.

 

I slammed the door shut.

 

Over the years, Halloween in Gurgaon has become a frightening experience for me and it has nothing to do with witches and warlocks. I’m scared of the ill-mannered little children (read brats) who land up at my door demanding outrageous things. Foreign candy, money, the list goes on.

 

Gurgaon’s Halloween phenomenon is fairly recent though, the expat population having imported the spook fest to the city. What’s alarming is the gigantic proportions the festival has assumed in the last ten years or so. Everyone in the Millennium City celebrates Halloween these days. Kids dress up and go from door to door collecting candy.

 

It’s not just the children. The adults dress up and throw Halloween parties. You will find party shops all over Gurgaon stocking imported Halloween costumes and accessories to be bought at astronomical prices for these parties. I’ve been invited to a few myself but I’ve had to decline politely. Spending the evening dressed as Morticia Adams sipping a Bloody Mary is not exactly my idea of fun. The funny thing is, I’m quite sure if you quizzed these Halloween enthusiasts about the origins of the festival, they wouldn’t have a clue! Like most things in Gurgaon, this one is a fad too!

 

Growing up, the only exposure I had to Halloween was through comic books, story books, movies and the occasional postcard sent by a relative abroad with a picture of some kid dressed up as a ghoul holding a giant Jack o’ Lantern.

My daughter was invited to a birthday party on Halloween once. When all the guests had assembled at the birthday girl’s house, the mother had sent all the kids out to collect candy from the neighbours. The chocolates, sweets and chips that the kids got as loot was the food served at the party. If you can call that serving food. I was horrified when I heard the story, making a mental note never to send the girl for Halloween-themed birthday parties again!

 

I don’t think it’s a terribly good idea to send your kids to a stranger’s house asking for candy. It is asking for trouble, in my opinion. Renting out exorbitant costumes to dress children is also a no-no in my books. If you really must dress them, why not put some thought and let the kids create the costumes themselves?

 

Still, I’d be willing to tolerate it all if the children, in question, were better behaved and minded their Ps and Qs. I am not very good with entitled brats!

 

I had lousier luck for the rest of the evening. An assortment of ghosts, ghouls, vampires and witches came calling, asking for expensive candy and money. Some had maids in tow, lurking about furtively while the kids made the demands. These were all sorts of scary creatures, dressed in the finest of clothes. I could hear them laughing in the corridors outside. ‘I will drink your blood,’ one of them was threatening the other, rather dramatically in Hindi. ‘I’m a vampire, I will bite your flesh!’ Loud shrieks, squeals and howls echoed in the stairwell throughout the evening.

 

I’ve never been more frightened my whole life. What horrors are we unleashing onto the world, I wonder.

(excerpt from my book, Gurgaon Diaries: Life, Work and Play in Drona's Village)

Cat-astrophe!

The Village is in a state of high alert with news of a couple of leopards having been spotted in some residential areas doing the rounds. Residents have been advised not to go out on foot after dark and some folks (like me) are keeping doors and windows shuttered. Just in case the leopard decides to climb up the drainage pipes to say hello. 

The leopard sightings are the talk of the town with everyone and his काका wondering why the cats are in our space.

If you ask me, I think the cats are unhappy. I mean wouldn't you be? Your phoren cousins are being flown down for a glitzy birthday bash and staycation. There'll be photo ops, cake and some peacocks too. While all you are going to get are boring bugs and slugs from the wilds of Aravalli and a brush with the electric fence. Ouch. 

No wonder you'd come out of the wilderness. And in keeping with your true Indian nature, you would walk right up to where the birthday party is being planned and demand your share of the birthday cake and a selfie with the birthday boy. A leopard padayatra if you will.
 
I hear they are combing DLF Phase 5 for the missing cat (s). I'd say get a helicopter and survey the tops of the trees. The desi cats might be hiding there and once things on the ground cool, they will leap down and march right up the Kartavya Path and demand justice. All well to have roads named after duty but what about duty to the original inhabitants of this place, huh?
 
We go on and on about make in India -- yet we ignore those that are made in India and fawn all over the exotic, phoren ones. I hear a fancy plane that has a cat's face painted on it is going to get them from Africa. And all our desis will get is a painful tranquilliser shot in the butt and a hired tempo back to where they came from. The disgrace. Hrrrumph.
 
Hell hath no greater fury than a scorned cat.

Meow.

Perfumes of Gurugram!

I don’t know which is better - too much perfume or none at all. 

The other day I was stuck inside a lift with both varieties – the fragrant and the fetid – and I came out smelling like an animal that had died inside an exotic flower garden.
 
I wish people would bathe regularly (read: daily) instead of using perfume to disguise body odour. It doesn’t work people. You are still smelly. 
 
I can understand folks dealing with mental health issues that make it difficult to get up and have a shower every day. But the others, what’s your excuse?
 
Water is inexpensive and while not available in plenty, one shower a day is manageable. It would cut down your perfume bills by half. And our elevators could be rid of ghastly smells.
 
In fact, most days I am huffing and puffing my way down from the fourth floor of my condo just to avoid being in a lift with the perfumed elites (as I’d like to call them). And no, the masks do not keep out the stink.
 
Folks in the Medieval Ages didn’t bathe regularly. The Mayflower Pilgrims had an aversion to bathing. Even French King Louis XIV was scared of baths. Legend has it that he had three baths in his entire life. Water was rumoured to spread disease so the rich bathed less. But it’s been centuries since the Middle Ages and the French Revolution. I wonder what keeps the Gurgaon elites from bathing daily? Are the fancy washrooms featured on the décor mags just for show? 
 
On a recent visit to the mall, I noticed a swish new store with glitzy black-and-gold décor and smartly attired salesmen. My neighbour whispered that Oudh Arabia was a premium Dubai-based perfume brand and that we were spoilt for choice with Sephora next door. I felt faint and there was a ringing in my ears. On hindsight, I think it was Lady Macbeth’s voice.
 
“All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten my little elevator. Oh, oh, oh!”
 

Leftovers

 

Photograph: my own

The eight-year-old stood outside the shop, clutching her mother’s hand. A few of their neighbours waited alongside them. Shakti mashi from down the hall, Amina khala from next door, Rani who had recently delivered a baby girl but was no more than a girl herself. 
 
The women weren’t smiling at her today or ruffling the curls on her head indulgently. Instead - their eyes were trained on the entrance to the shop – keenly watching the arrivals and exits. Each time, the door was pushed open, the smell of fresh fish wafted across to the girl’s nostrils accompanied by a blast of cold air.
 
At the end of each week, the girl’s mother along with a few others gathered in front of the fish shop at noon. After wealthy patrons had left with the good cuts, the women took their pick from the remains – mostly innards and guts, bloody bits of head and tail. For a few rupees, they were able to get enough for a spicy fish stew.
 
The little girl licked her lips at the thought of her mother frying bits and pieces in scalding hot oil and immersing them in a rich gravy made with onions, ginger and garlic. Her belly rumbled with hunger. She hadn’t eaten anything since dawn when the two of them had left the house. She accompanied Amma, like most days, as her mother went from house to house doing domestic chores in exchange for money. Wiping the sweat trickling down the sides of her face with her dress, the little girl tugged at her mother’s saree. Shhh, Amma whispered, her body rigid, eyes focused on the store. Be patient, our turn will come soon.
 
The customers filtered out one by one. A lady wearing sunglasses and a shiny red dress passed by leaving behind clouds of sweet-smelling fragrance. Another woman, wearing fine clothes and a chauffeur in tow carrying several polythene bags. A man, thin as a reed, walked away quickly, muttering angrily under his breath as he spotted the dishevelled lot by the side of the shop. The little girl frowned as she caught the look in his eyes. She hadn’t seen anyone look at her with such distaste before. She suddenly felt ashamed of her printed dress and slippers, donated by one of her mother’s employers.
 
Her mother tugged her hand. One by one the women were walking into the shop. Pulses racing, the little girl followed her mother into an airconditioned room. A sour-faced-man on his haunches stared down at them from the marble counter. There’s nothing left today, he shrugged, gesturing towards the plastic bucket next to him, containing pinkish-red water.
 
The mother let out a resigned sigh, her bony shoulders hunched in defeat. She dragged her daughter out of the shop into the sunlight. The little girl turned around for one last look before the doors swung shut. The man was rinsing his knife with water from the bucket. She closed her eyes and breathed in the smell before committing it to memory.

 

 

Age is but a number. Not!

The internet is full of helpful articles on how to combat ageism during the job search. Rejig your resume, the experts say. Remove all references to your age. Focus on your skills instead and how you can provide value to the company.

Fair enough. I decided to follow their advice. After all, an expert is an expert, right? So I rewrote my resume focusing on my skills and removed all references to my age. Not that I’m Jurassic by any stretch. But I merely wanted to give it my best shot so I played along.

Unfortunately what the internet won’t tell you is that the rot lies deep. No matter what companies will mouth at conferences or releases, ageism is an unpleasant reality at most workplaces. For women at least.
At a recent interview with a young, international EdTech startup, the interviewer – a bright young thing - gushed about my resume and said the talent team were very impressed with my credentials. That made my eyes sparkle. More so, since I’d just caught Covid and determined not to let the virus slow me down in any way, I had logged in bright and early for the online interview. I had decided to ignore my raging fever and nagging headache and go for it. And the initial validation from her made me feel that perhaps it would be worth it.

But in the next couple of minutes, the interview went rapidly downhill. The woman kept trying to find out when I had worked at X company or at Y agency. I don’t see any dates here, she said squinting at her laptop where presumably my resume was displayed. Can you give me an idea of the time period?

I realized at once what she was getting at and I told her the dates without dilly dallying. As soon as she heard that I had worked at X company in the late nineties, her eyebrows all but disappeared into her hair. She ended the interview rather abruptly after that promising to get back soon.

She got back the next day saying I hadn’t made the cut. But I already knew that. Working in the nineties had already disqualified me. The next couple of interviews would be uncannily similar. The same open-mouthed surprise. “Oh, we were expecting someone much younger” or “You are far too senior for this role.”

I am wondering whether I should put an end to the job hunt. If this is the way it is going to be, I’d rather not be discriminated against. But I’m not going to stop talking about it. And if necessary, call out companies for their ageist attitudes.

What do you think? Have you faced something similar? 

***

The original post appeared on LinkedIn. Read it here.

Brands and the Millennium City!

I can’t understand why folks are getting their knickers in a twist over a certain politician’s Louis Vuitton bag. Where I live, designer accessories are part and parcel of everyday life. From the little mouse in my apartment, the kids who land up at my doorstep on Halloween to my cleaning woman. Then, there are my friends and foes. 

Everyone has a thing about brands in Gurgaon.

 

The mouse will only nibble at branded cheese and turn up its little nose at anything else I place inside the trap. The trick-or-treaters insist on expensive candy and my cleaning woman has a shiny red designer clutch. Okay, it’s a Chanel knockoff but you get the drift.

 

If you can’t afford the real thing, you make do with a fake. Like my latest purchase. A pair of Adrcombie and Fetch sandals from the friendly neighbourhood shopping mall. There is absolutely no way you can tell that it’s not the real thing. My big fat feet hiding the logo probably has something to do with it. But seriously folks, I am not kidding. Even our local cows will only shop for Washington apples at the fruit mart.

 

Personally I don’t think it’s a big deal. If you have a thing for brands and can afford them, why ever not? Though I do think some designer wares look quite obnoxious and while I wouldn’t spend my hard-earned money on them, I wouldn’t grudge someone who does. 

 

Growing up in Calcutta, shopping for brands meant trips to Fancy (Phency) Market in Khidderpore. My first Yamaha synthesizer was purchased from a dingy shop inside the market. The best part about going to Fancy Market those days was the thrill factor. There would be frequent police raids and one never knew whether or not the raid would happen in the middle of one’s shopping expedition. So you had to be really quick and watch your back all the time!

 

Then, there was the stretch along Chowringhee – from New Market to Dharamtolla where vendors would sell phoren goods traded by cash-strapped foreigners to pay for their expenses on holiday. A selection of watches, unwashed clothes, handbags, belts, sunglasses would be hung on the racks for sale. My friend even discovered a few dollars inside the bag she bought with her birthday money. 

 

A far cry from shopping for branded stuff in Gurgaon. Here it’s completely legit and above board. No chance of a police raid unless the shop keeper hasn’t paid his taxes or has murdered someone in cold blood. But my friends swear that shopping expeditions to swanky malls are just as adrenaline-inducing. Since I’ve never been one to get my kicks that way - give me a trip to Fancy Market in the eighties any day. Throw in a time machine too.

10 Types Of Parties That Will Destroy Your Day

Courtesy: Anja  Rabenstein

Gone are the days when an invitation to a party filled the heart with much joy. But then, life is so very different when you are six and have an evening of birthday cake, games and take-home goodies to look forward to. Sigh. At the wrong side of 40, I find my heart sinking at the thought of another party. Joy has been replaced by dread and the only piñata I look forward to smashing has an uncanny resemblance to the host's head!

There's no way you can escape. The doors are locked. You might consider jumping out of the balcony in extreme cases. Death seems preferable to this ordeal.

 

If all of this sounds rather extreme to you, perhaps you haven't had the good fortune to be invited to the wrong kind of parties. Thank your lucky stars! If you had, you might have seen the woman sulking in the corner, glowering at all and sundry, blaming the world for her misfortune. Yes, I'm the one who couldn't get away.

 

Do you feel my pain? Read on to find out whether you have been to any of these dos:

 

1. Musical soiree

 

This one is strangely reminiscent of a hostage crisis. You and a motley group of individuals are taken captive by the host or hostess and tortured by an unending medley of songs (original or covers)/instrument recitals/recitation/impromptu dance performances. One after another. Then another. And another. If that wasn't enough, there are a few people recording your agony on their smartphones, though I don't think any television channel would be interested in airing this show. There's no way you can escape. The doors are locked. You might consider jumping out of the balcony in extreme cases. Death seems preferable to this ordeal.

 

2. Potluck party

 

This one makes Breaking Bad look like Candy Land. This isn't the kind of potluck party where you show up with Tupperware filled with your signature curry. Potluck means pot-luck. Everyone around you is puffing away to glory, squinting their eyes and laughing a great deal. They are on top of the world while you stumble from one corner to the next trying to find some clean air to breathe. Gasp!

 

3. Selfie party

 

You better have your best clothes on for this one. Picture perfect makeup and not a hair out of place. Oh, did I forget the pout? The hostess will corner you at every step, whip out her smartphone and click selfies. One near the stairs, another next to the dining table, another one on the balcony. Oh dear, the light is too dim on the balcony, my double chin looks exaggerated. Let's get one with the dog and the goldfish in the bowl instead. If you are lucky, you can throw her smartphone out the window when she's not looking. Dogs don't just eat homework these days. That's your excuse.

 

4. Spiritual party

 

This one is a real nuisance if you are a non-believer like me. You can't hurt the host's feeling or religious sentiments so you fall in line without overt protest. If you think the ordeal ends with the prayers, you're wrong. There's song and dance too. Much swaying, clapping and waving of hands. Perhaps you can stretch your arms out a wee bit and strangle the host. That might end the agony.

 

5. Housewarming party

 

This one should be called "Buy Me A Present Party" because that is what you are expected to do. Buy a ridiculously expensive gift in exchange for a conducted tour around someone's new home. Marvel at the godawful décor, bizarre colour scheme and the rather strange curios and paintings the host brought back from his latest trip (read Chatuchak Market) abroad. I'd rather courier the gift and skip the tour. Thanks but no thanks!

 

6. Office party

 

You see them every single day of the year. Why on earth would you want to socialize with them over some flat Coca Cola, chips and stale pizza while Daler Mehndi belts out ancient balle balle numbers over a music system? Oh wait, there's Antakshari too. You are herded into a circle and you have to start singing Bollywood songs. A for Aaja AajaMein Hoon Pyar Tera! Arrrrrrrgh, come and kill me now!

 

7. Kiddie birthday party

 

Three words for this one. Are you nuts? Wailing children, maids in tow and yummy mummies do not a good party make. There's one person in the crowd who's looks sorrier than you do. The magician that the host hired to do magic tricks for the little brats. Wait a minute, isn't he getting paid for the magic tricks? If you pay me, I might show you a trick. I will do the disappearing act for you!

 

8. Wellness party

 

If you think discussing nutrition, dietary supplements and fitness was my idea of fun, you might want to take a hike. Literally and figuratively. It would do you a world of good. Keep me far away from the nuts and seeds. Those are for birds and I'm not one. In fact, I don't particularly like birds or bird food. The lecture on transfats will be wasted on me so spare me the invite. I'm going to Wendy's instead. I have a date with their Baconator!

 

9. Diwali party

 

I'm quite sure Agatha Christie was invited to a Diwali party once and her angst at the ordeal drove her to write Cards on the Table where the host Mr Shaitana was murdered after a bridge get-together! Get the drift? I'm a writer too and I might end up murdering you in my next book. So save me the invite and keep your cards close to your chest for this one!

 

10. Theme party

 

Dressing up as Morticia Addams for an entire evening is not my thing. Don't get me wrong. I love ghosts and ghouls but only in books and movies. I don't want to mingle with them in a party over chicken tikka kabab and Breezers. I'm not too fond of movie stars either so don't expect me to turn up with my bouffant hairstyle, flared pants and over-sized goggles if you are planning a Bollywood retro party. I tried to make myself look like Whitney Houston for a party once when I was a teen but an allergic reaction to the lacquer from the perm made my face swell up like a puffer fish. Need I say more?

 

First published in Huffington Post

Tea and snakes!

I’m thrilled that wildlife is reclaiming its territories from human beings. But I refuse to give my kitchen up to a snake. Or my sofa for that matter. 

Gurgaon’s snakes are now making their way into condominiums and penthouses for a taste of urban living. Not content with slithering around gardens and car parks, these reptiles are climbing up drainage pipes and stairwells into apartments.

 

I can’t blame them really. I’d trade the Aravallis for the Aralias any day. But the residents aren’t exactly ecstatic with the new company. 

 

A few years back, a woman went to make herself a cup of tea in the morning and found a snake curled up on her gas stove. By the time she had brought the place down with her screams, wildlife officials arrived to take the snake away. And they had the audacity to call it a “distressed” reptile. I’m not sure who was more distressed. The woman or the snake.

 

Another chap found a snake cozying up on the sofa with him one night. Thankfully, he leapt out and called the wildlife department before the snake got too close. The snake was kept under observation and released into the wild. No news about the poor chap.

 

Stories like these in the newspapers are giving me the heebie jeebies. I give the kitchen a thorough inspection in the morning before I make myself a cup of tea these days. And I don’t venture into the bathroom without my spectacles on. The internet is rife with stories of snakes hiding inside commodes you see. And when the doorbell rings, I make sure that a snake hasn’t slithered its way to my doorstep along with the Amazon parcel I ordered. 

 

I am taking no chances.

 

I’ve read that around 20 species of snakes are native to the Aravallis and four of them, the monocled cobra, spectacled cobra, black cobra and the common krait, are really poisonous. These four snakes are given the highest level of protection by law under the Scheduled II species of the Indian Wildlife Protection Act, 1972. That’s well and good but what about extending some of that protection to humans as well? All lives matter -- as far as I’m concerned. 

 

Did you know that even Salman Khan was not spared? The actor was bitten thrice at his Panvel farmhouse! As if once was not enough. One hell of a vindictive snake I'd say. Though I’m glad that he’s doing well now. Salman that is. Not the snake.

 

I’ve read snakes can’t stand the smell of garlic so I made a garlic repellent the other day and sprayed it liberally around the flat. The only problem is that it is so damn strong, I can’t stand the smell of it either. So I might have to move homes soon.

 

Snake – 1. Human – 0.

 

Mapping Misadventures!

pic courtesy: pixabay

When we moved to Gurgaon decades back, the first thing we did was to buy ourself a map of Delhi/NCR. Best decision ever. We spent the first decade navigating in and out of Gurgaon and Delhi holding on to the Eicher city map for dear life. And it never let us down. I would provide the directions, the husband would drive and we would find our way to places we wanted to find.

Technology changed all that. With the arrival of smartphones and Google Maps, navigation became a nuisance. Now I’m not a luddite - my wariness is well-founded. Google Maps has landed us in many sticky situations over the years. There were times when it promised us a smooth road but delivered a cow-dung-plastered brick wall instead. At other times, what was meant to be a highway turned out to be a unnavigable dirt track and we had to retrace our steps throwing angry expletives at whoever happened to be in our way. The worst was when we turned a corner while racing down a village road and found ourselves in someone’s courtyard. Now I don’t know who was more shocked – me and the husband or the group of Haryanvi elders on their charpoy peacefully smoking a hookah on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Thankfully, they did not make us sweep their courtyard. They just blinked at us in confusion while we reversed in haste and made a dash for it with indignant street dogs on the chase.

 

Just the memory of that day makes me flush.

 

I feel sorry for the man who was misled by Google Maps and made to sweep the road. But then again, I feel sorry for the guard who probably has a thing about muddy tyre tracks on clean roads. I would have hated it too. Let’s hope they sort their differences amicably. After all, keeping a road clean is a civic duty. Hardly a harsh punishment.

As for me, I will keep the Eicher guide handy on my next long drive. Just in case.

 

 

 

 

Here a theka, there a theka, everywhere a theka theka!

When the teen returned from university for her summer break merrily singing “Ganpat Chal Daaru La” (all the rage among Gen-Z apparently), it suddenly struck me that if Gurugram had an anthem, this one would certainly make the cut.  

I mean - take a look around you. There are more daaru shops here than schools, museums, libraries and bookstores. Doesn’t that tell you something? And if that wasn’t enough, the Millennium City is all set to get 300 more liquor shops from June onwards. *eye roll*

 

Oh and we also have shoot-outs. In fact, there was an incident at 32nd Milestone soon after I'd moved to the Village. A few gangsters had shot someone dead inside a restaurant. Left me quivering in my boots it did. Avoided that place for the next twenty years though I hear it's had a natty makeover recently.

 

Initially, I found Gurgaon’s ahatas, liquor vends and the culture of open-air drinking quite fascinating. Men (and sometimes women) would be drinking by the side of the road or highway in the evenings with their alcohol bottles lined up neatly on the roof of the car. For youngsters looking for a quick drink and snack after work, Gurgaon’s ahatas were a pocket-friendly alternative to pricey pubs and lounges. Over time, the makeshift shacks/ahatas transformed into buzzing open-air restaurants replete with ear-splitting music and, in some cases, a compact dance floor. There were reports of drunken brawls every now and then and illegal ahatas being shut down. But each time an ahata would close, another would open further down the road. It was like magic. Except it really wasn't.

 

Nowadays, I don’t see people drinking by the side of the road anymore like they used to in the past. And there’s a spike in the number of swanky liquor stores selling IMFL. There are at least six to seven liquor stores + innumerable ahatas in my vicinity. But only one school and one and half bookshops. Gurugram is not just Haryana’s biggest market but also accounts for a whopping share of Delhi-NCR’s alcohol business. It’s a lucrative business, no doubt. 

If only writing were as lucrative. I’m seriously considering bidding for a vend and turning into a Ganpat. Might make more business sense than writing books for a living!

 

 

Poltergeist? No, Power Cuts!

The more things change, the more they stay the same. 

I don’t think Bon Jovi (or was it that Jean-Baptiste Karr fellow?) was talking about Gurugram but the chappal fits really well so I’m going to use it. Gurugram might have evolved into a swanky glass-and-steel Millennium City (just like Singapore) from a dusty hamlet but there is one thing that has stayed the same despite all the mindboggling changes. Come summer and the crippling power cuts arrive without fail – often much earlier than the langra aam I wait for patiently.

When I moved to Gurgaon from Calcutta in 1998, I was awed by my new surroundings. Vast empty spaces, stretches of unfettered green, quaint kothis and a handful of condominiums – ours being one of the few. It was almost as though someone had built me a house in the middle of the Maidan. On a clear day, I could see the planes taking off from the Delhi airport, from my 10^th floor balcony and there was a huge ravine (and illegal quarry – more about that later) in front of the apartment.
 
It was September, chill in the air, a glorious time to relocate from muggy Calcutta. I had left my job at British Council and decided to spend a few months unpacking boxes and doing up my flat before I began the job hunt in earnest. And right from the onset of that first winter, one woke up to a curious early morning power cut. Our neighbourhood friendly uncleji helpfully informed us that power would go to the fields as it was sowing season. A few months rolled into summer and the actual power cuts began. The condominium didn’t have power back up (there was a tussle going on between the builders and the residents that we had no clue about). The inverter ran out within two hours and the aircon didn’t work on it, in any case. So I sat at home and wept. My only company being the nesting pigeons and the heat rashes that had sprung up all over my arms and neck. It was an oozing mess.
 
In the evenings, when the husband returned from work, we would cruise round the block in our Maruti 800, air conditioner on full blast, buying orange ice lollies from the ice cream vendors and and chatting into the wee hours of the morning. You might think it was romantic but truth be told, I was nagging him to move back to Calcutta.
 
A couple of earthquakes later, we were shaken and stirred enough to move. Not to Kolkata but to a solid park-facing bungalow down the road. What a fall from the 10^th floor apartment it was. But like those pesky poltergeists from the American horror movies, the power cuts moved with us. There was just no getting rid of them. The house would heat up like a brick kiln during the day and husband and me would go around with buckets of water, hosing down the walls and floor to keep it cool. Thankfully, the bungalow had a nice little courtyard and we’d carry a cane sofa out and sleep under the stars at night. Romantic? Not at all. Uncomfortable as heck? Yes. You see, Gurugram mosquitos are warriors whose ancestors might have learnt a trick or two from the legendary warrior guru. And unbeknownst to us, Delhi was dealing with its monkey menace by deporting its denizens to the forests almost next door.
 
A year later, despite the crippling power cuts and the mosquito warfare, including waking up next to a monkey family, a baby came along and several months down the line, we decided to have a rice ceremony for her. Horror of horrors, on the day of the ceremony, the electrical wiring in the house went kaput. All that hosing down with water was probably the cause. So we were stuck without power for good and a house full of guests! That night, after everything was over, we booked a room at The Bristol (the only hotel in Gurgaon at that point of time) and had a good night’s sleep after months. 
 
Cut to the present. We live in a condo with functional gensets but every summer, it’s the same. The Return of Poltergeist in HD. The generators trip because they can’t carry the load of all the air conditioners running full blast in 900 odd flats. The electrical appliances go bust and I could be the heroine of my own horror movie. Often I let out a huge sigh of resignation and wonder whether things will ever improve here. Or perhaps it’s my destiny? After all I grew up in West Bengal in the eighties with rampant load shedding, candles and invertors for company with a Chief Minister who was called Jyoti (Light). It’s almost as though I landed from the frying pan into the fire. 
 
Dang - the lights gone again. See you later.

Gurgaon weather update!

 

Changemakers: Gurgaon Ki Awaaz

In the words of urbanist Jane Jacobs, people make cities, and it is to them, not buildings that we must fit our plans. 

Truer words have never been spoken. Yet tragically in cities such as Gurgaon, the real people have become the outliers. Don’t be misled by the swanky glass and steel towers, the real Gurgaon is much more than its uber chic facade. The pulse of the Millennium City consists of the people who keep the wheels turning. The migrant workers, farmers and villagers who prop up the city. The security guard in your building, the garbage collector who recycles your trash, the rickshaw puller at the entry gate, the shopkeeper at the sabzi mandi and countless others. Ironically, they are the ones we refer to as the people on the fringes. In reality, they are the real people of Gurgaon.

 

Founded in 2009, Gurgaon’s one and only community radio station – Gurgaon Ki Awaaz has been providing a platform for these voices. The station broadcasts for 22 hours daily but its programmes are a far cry from the stuff you would hear on popular (read urban) radio channels. In the true spirit of community radio, Gurgaon Ki Awaaz programmes are created for the people, by the people themselves. 

 

I spoke to station director Arti Jaiman last week who explained that the community radio began as a project on the sidelines of her NGO, The Restoring Force. Over the period of time, the project acquired a life of its own. The programmes include a mix of traffic updates, sessions on sexual health, empowerment, agriculture, counselling sessions and folk music in Haryanvi, Garhwali and Bhojpuri among other languages. Radio staff make regular visits to local communities to research on key issues. These are then woven into the programming. Local folk artists are invited to record sessions at the studio which is then broadcast to an enthusiastic, lively community. I tuned in last Saturday and listened to a rousing session of Antakshari played by community members. Music is the glue that binds the community together.

 

The all-women team of the station are from local communities. They speak the language, both metaphorically and literally. The community members trust them and open up to them. Not just that, the community radio station had a key role to play during the pandemic and the subsequent lockdowns imposed by the administration over the last two years. From relaying information about the timing of food delivery vans, Shramik trains to guiding people about restrictions placed on movement and quarantine status in various parts of the district, counselling migrants on how to dealing with anxiety, tackling food and money shortages, the radio station anchors dealt with it all with grace and elan.

 

Gurgaon Ki Awaaz has a fan following that runs into thousands. Shambhu (name changed) from Bihar is a security guard at a swanky condominium in Gurgaon. He works night shifts and is stuck behind a desk monitoring entries and exits. He is addicted to the community radio. It helps break the monotony of his work.

 

Mansoor (name changed) from Western Uttar Pradesh works as a tailor in Gurgaon’s Sadar Bazaar. He comes from a family of tailors and moved to Gurgaon several years ago in search of work. Now he has a job at a boutique and spends his hours stitching clothes. He is another fan of the community radio.

 

Not just locals, the popularity of Gurgaon Ki Awaaz is spreading far and wide. People have started tuning in from other cities and smaller towns as well. 

 

To tune into the radio and sponsor the team’s work, click here.

 

A dire situation?

Soon after Game of Thrones was aired for the first time in India, our condominium saw an influx of Siberian huskies. “Ma look – a dire wolf,” the girl screamed in excitement when she spotted one at the park for the first time. She was GOT-crazy, I wasn’t. I had no clue what she was talking about. All I saw was an unusual looking dog with intense blue eyes. When I went back home, I looked up dire wolves on the internet and learnt that Northern Inuit dogs played dire wolves in the TV series. Northern Inuit dogs are a crossbreed of huskies and German shepherds. 

 

In true Gurugram fashion, there had been a frenzied dash for dire wolves. In their absence, folks had scrambled to get the next best thing - huskies. The result - here a husky, there a husky, everywhere a husky husky in Drona’s village. I remember seeing an abundance of Dalmatians when I first moved to Gurgaon in 1998 (101 Dalmatians - the movie starring Glenn Close had released two years ago). 

See what I mean?

 

I couldn’t help but wonder whether the hot and dusty climate would be good for these dogs. How would huskies (meant to be raised in colder climates) adjust in poky flats and sultry weather? We can all wish for things. Doesn’t mean we have to have our wishes fulfilled, does it? I’d like to own a dragon. But that isn’t happening anytime soon.

 

Over the years, the numbers have multiplied. Young, old, in various states of disrepair. Most often the owners can't be bothered to walk the dogs themselves or give them a spot of exercise. The car wash boys drag them around by their leashes in the evenings, summer cut of fur and lethargic. I can only pray the owners keep them in air-conditioned rooms during the day. While I’m not a dog expert, I’ve grown up in a house with five dogs. I can tell when a dog is sad. The strays have more swag than these dogs.

 

I’m told a husky puppy sells for anything between Rs 40,000 and Rs 60,000. I saw one advertised on a dog website having blue eyes, strong bones and a smart personality. Asking price, Rs 56,000. A puppy with a smart personality? What on earth does it even mean?

 

My Bengali neighbour has named his Siberian husky Randy. After Randle McMurphy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, he offers helpfully in the lift (in case I didn't know). Also the way he says it, it sounds like Kaku.

 

Trying hard not to giggle but feeling terribly sorry for Randy the puppy. I hope he has a good life in Kaku’s Nest.

The Theory of Unidentified Flying Objects (that could be chapatis)

I was walking inside my condo last evening when something landed on my head with a painful thwack. I rubbed my head in alarm and found (of all things) a chapati. I might have eaten it. It was nearly dinner time and I was feeling nippish. Whoever says no to a free snack? But the unidentified flying chapati had turned brittle with age and it belonged inside a trash can. So I disposed of it and went to sit in the park outside my block of flats where I had a Newton moment.

In hindsight, it could have been a concussion. The top of my head felt sore and I could feel a bump forming. But in that instance, it seemed as though the Universe was providing some sort of insight into why people fling stale chapatis from their towers at unsuspecting people below. So I closed my eyes and listened intently to what it had to say. 

 

When the Universe started talking in Punjabi, I realized something was not right. I opened one eye to find my neighbour, Mrs Malhotra, on the bench next to me.  And she was talking (rather loudly) on the phone with someone. So much for my Newton-esque revelation. 

The woman finished her call, dumped her phone inside her bag and turned to me with a smile. “You got hit by a chapati, no? I noticed the lady in the flat above was feeding the birds.”

 

“Feeding the birds or trying to kill them?” I muttered. “She was flinging the rotis with great force. She could have hurt someone.”

 

“Arrey don’t be silly,” she giggled. “She’s a bird lover. And the birds love her.”

 

“How do you know the birds love her? Would you love someone who served you stale food? Besides, are stale chapatis safe for birds to eat? Why not give them some grains or seeds?” I argued. “If you won’t eat something yourself, why give it to birds and animals?”

I’d seen folks feed stale chapatis to cows on the streets plenty of times. At least they were not flinging food but I couldn’t ignore the traffic snarls that ensued.

 

She shrugged. “The birds don’t have a problem with it."

 

“How would you know? Have you asked their opinion?” I shot back.

 

She got up and walked off in a huff. I smiled to myself. She wouldn’t be lecturing me for a while. Never underestimate the power of a flying chapati. 

 

As for Bird Woman in the flat above, I think I’ll pay her a visit with a prezzie. A CD of an Alfred Hitchcock movie and a tale about the real-life incident at Capitola that inspired the film. 

 

I think I should start a movement to make our birds gluten free again. What do you think?