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.