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.

 

Missing: A Lizard!

Is there a word that describes what you feel when there is a lizard in the house but you don’t know where it’s at? A mix of fear, desperation and complete exhaustion? 

Both the herbal lizard spray and my patience has run out. The reptile has decided to pull a Pooja Khedkar on me and I’m not sure what I can do to draw it out.

In this round of lizard versus human, lizard is definitely winning. There have been no sightings over months other than the excreta it leaves as cryptic clues just to let me know that it is still around, I shouldn’t be getting too comfortable. The guest bedroom where it was last seen is kept under lock and key and I rarely go there unaccompanied.

I don’t like the thought of resorting to violence but if there was a gentle way to shoo away Lizzie to another flat, I’m willing to consider it. Coffee and cake on me if your suggestions actually work.

The (failed) Quest for Literary Success and Other Misadventures

The other day, my neighbour Mrs X accosted me in front of the elevator.

“You say you are a writer,” she wagged a finger at me threateningly. ‘How come I’ve never seen you on TV or in the newspapers?”

This is the same woman who had offered to get me a souvenir from the Glitterpuri Lit Fest that she religiously attends each year. 

I turned white under her accusing gaze.

“I do write books,” I protested feebly. “If you want, I can show them to you.”

I know she doesn’t read (other than the Fabulous at Fifty and Domestic Diva magazines) so I was on safe terrain. She looked queasy and promptly changed the subject. “You know my niece, Silky? She’s just published a book and she’s going to be at Glitterpuri this year. There are plenty of articles about her book in the newspapers. You must have seen it. It’s called Mr Lover Lover and it’s about love-shove. She was on TV recently talking about love in the time of corona. It's going to be a bestseller, I can feel it."

I jabbed the lift button with superhuman force, mentally willing the metal box to transport me to ground zero so that I could escape from the woman’s clutches.

She had touched a raw nerve. I have only been to two and half events in the last nine years – the half being a dinner party that I gate crashed and subjected the guests to a book reading. There have been a few blink-and-you-miss mentions in newspapers but only because there was space that needed to be filled. Glitterpuri remains an elusive dream and I don’t think anyone will ever interview me on television unless I do something drastic -- like kidnap a cow maybe. 

“You should come to the Litfest with Silky and me next year,” Madam announced, a parting shot, before she climbed into her brand new Audi. “Do some networking-shetworking and the invites will keep pouring in you’ll see.”

A conspiratorial wink and the Audi was gone. Not before blowing clouds of dust my way.

Suddenly, a life of crime-shime didn’t sound half bad. 
 
 

The Book Club

 

When Bansuri `Bee’ Kohli’s dead body is discovered in the middle of a high society book club meet, everyone assumes that her death is due to natural causes. Bee had just turned forty and heart attacks were increasingly common in women of that age. But, as the investigation progresses, it becomes obvious that there is something sinister afoot. All the guests present at the meet that night - from the hotshot novelist to the cut-throat socialite - had a reason for wanting Bee dead. And one of them is prepared to go to any lengths to keep a terrible secret hidden.

A twisty thriller about friends, deception and murder from the author of Gurgaon Diaries.

Click here to buy The Book Club.

Game of Smog

Is fog-hardened a word? Like battle-hardened ….

If it is, I am claiming the descriptor for myself. I might even put it on my LinkedIn bio. After all, having survived the Gurgaon fog for well over two decades is experience worth flaunting.

Before you call me a brag, let me tell you that the Gurgaon fog is unlike any other kind of fog. It most definitely does not come on little cat feet. More like heavy buffalo feet, to be honest. I’m sorry, Mr Sandburg. You haven’t lived in Haryana.

Perhaps I should call it The Smog. Because there’s an extra layer of filth from all the different kinds of pollutants in the air. Don’t even ask me what these are. I’ve simply lost count. There’s construction dust and vehicle fumes and The Thing we aren’t supposed to be talking about. It involves farmers and crops but that is all I can tell you.

For a few months every year, The Smog in Gurgaon turns one’s life into a science fiction movie. Remember The Mist? There is a thick blanket obliterating everything on the ground except instead of monsters, you have to battle invisible predators in the air that make it difficult to breathe. There’s no soundtrack to this movie just the ominous drone of nebulizers.

Driving in The Smog is adventure sport. A bit like one of those arcade driving games except you can’t tell a cow from a lamppost and if you hit either, you are dead. Game over. Of late though, we have been grappling with something called the GRAP III or a Graded Response Action Plan — the III should tell you how serious it is. The GRAP III bans non-essential construction and certain models of cars from plying on the roads. Not that any of this helps. The filthy air continues to swirl around us, GRAP or not.

My marriage has survived many smogs. Literally and metaphorically. The first run-in with The Smog made me want to go crying back to my mom in sunny Kolkata. The scenery outside our poky flat in Gurgaon stayed the same no matter what time of day it was. Our car didn’t have fog lights and it was dangerous to go out and risk ending up in a ditch somewhere, battered and bruised. I threatened to divorce my husband so he taped yellow cellophane paper on the headlights of his car and agreed to take me on a drive every once in a while. Thankfully, no cows were hurt and before we knew it, we had turned into experienced smog navigators.

Gurgaon’s smog is not for the faint-hearted. All it takes is one winter in this part of the world to find out what I’m talking about. Are you up for the challenge?

Game on.

First published in Medium.

A Mixed Bag of a Year

This year’s been a bit of a mixed bag. For the most part, I sat around waiting for things to happen and ended up feeling really dejected when they didn’t. So I turned to writing as a way to make myself feel better. Writing works as therapy for people like me. 

 

Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation ~ Graham Greene

The year started off with one of my novels, Mr Eashwar’s Daughter (a modern-day retelling of Jane Austen’s Persuasion) getting a mention in two articles on South Asian writers and their fondness for Jane Austen (Juggernaut & Globe and Mail, Canada). In fact, when the Canada-based journalist reached out to me for a quote, my joy knew no bounds. It isn’t easy to get noticed in India leave alone globally – if you don’t have a massive publicity budget or a team to help. It’s incredibly gratifying to have your writing reach foreign shares and I am really thrilled that it happened.

I published a short story that was initially commissioned by Juggernaut Books but somehow slipped under the radar due to the pandemic. The story, Chasing the Clouds, is about a young man who takes up a job in a remote village in the hills and ends up having a life-changing experience. You can read it here if you want.

 

Earlier this month, the third instalment of my Dragon Aunty series –
Mangar Mayhem was published. In this caper, Dolly Luthra and her sidekick Mini go to a spa in the Aravallis for some rest and rejuvenation and promptly get caught up in a murder investigation. It’s getting good reviews and the perfect short read for the holiday season.

That's it for this year. See you in 2024. Stay healthy, happy and read my books if you can!

  

A Birthday `Massage'

My daughter recently turned 21. A milestone birthday so it was extra special. But she was away at university so I decided to send her a cake. After much deliberation a decadent chocolatey cake with the works was selected. It had to feed some 40-50 of her friends. And the warden, guards and helpers. I selected the delivery date, filled out the address, paid for it with my card and it was done. I shut the laptop with a satisfied smile. 

A few seconds later, an unfamiliar number flashed on my phone. Normally I don’t pick up calls from strange numbers. There are all manner of scams floating around but something told me it might be the cake shop. So I swiped it and said hello hesitantly.
 
“Madam, do you want a massage?” the voice on the other end of the line said.
 
“How dare you!” I bristled with rage. I get my fair share of dating and massage service adverts but a phone call seemed downright audacious. 
 
I couldn’t bang the phone down (it’s a new phone and I can’t risk damaging it) so I disconnected and flung the phone down angrily on my bed.
 
A few seconds later, the same number flashed again. I picked it up intending to scream blue murder.
 
“Madam, the line got disconnected. Do you want a massage on your cake or not?”
 
How on earth did the man know I had ordered a cake? They say someone is always listening but this was taking the conspiracy theory too far.
 
“What do you mean?” I croaked in fear.
 
“You just ordered a cake from our shop Madamji,” the voice offered cheerfully. “Do you want a massage on that?”
 
This wasn’t a dodgy dark web operation at all. Just the man from the cake shop who wanted to know if I wanted a special “message” on the cake. In my hurry to get things done, I had forgotten to write a message for the birthday girl.
 
“I don’t want a massage on the cake, thank you very much, but you can write Happy Birthday Precious,” I said, trying to blot out images of a cake fuelled massage orgy from my head.
 
My daughter got her cake and her message. 
 
And I put my imagination to rest.

Bats in the Belfry!

I have bats in the belfry.

Okay, maybe not my belfry exactly but in the shaft outside my flat. Five little bats hanging upside down for the last year of so. Suspended from a concrete beam. Like ornaments in a Christmas tree.

 

I’ve realized now what the term batshit crazy means. There is a LOT of batshit and that is driving me crazy. We’ve barely recovered from Covid and I’m worried there might be another virus in the air. We’ve tried everything. Bright lights, fogging and frenzied clapping. But the bats refuse to vacate the space.

 

The other day, my neighbour rang the doorbell and politely asked if we could turn down the Qawwali music. “Oh that," my husband grinned. "That’s not Qawwali, it’s the sound of my wife clapping to drive the bats away.”

 

She wasn’t amused. But then neither am I.

 

I know what you are going to say. Why this kolaveri? Bats are good for the environment blah blah blah. In fact in certain cultures bats are supposed to be a symbol of prosperity and good luck. They eat insects, pollinate plants and maintain the balance in our ecosystem. But what about my mental balance?

 

The Covid virus came from a bat, didn’t it? So, as far as I’m concerned, they are bad news. I don’t want them anywhere near my apartment.

 

Of course the Chinese wouldn’t agree. The Chinese look at bats as a symbol of good luck. The Chinese word for bat also means good luck. Folks in China wear bat-shaped amulets and send out cards with bats on them. It’s not just them. Closer home, there are villages in Assam, Bihar and South India where bats are worshipped and considered to be guardian angels.

 

Christianity, however, views bats as malevolent and unclean, associated with demons and evil spirits. Even Shakespeare didn’t seem to be too fond of them. Remember Macbeth and the incantation of the three witches: “Eye of newt, and toe of frog, wool of bat, and tongue of dog.” Then there is Caliban’s curse on Prospero in The Tempest: “All the charms of Sycorax, toads, beetles and bats, light on you.”

 

The other day, I saw one of them hanging near my front door. Perhaps it had a tiff with the other bats and needed some space. But I nearly popped a nerve at the sight of the creature. And nothing has been the same since. It’s almost as thought someone has put a curse on me.

 

I’m going batty. Do you have any ideas on how they could be rehomed? Preferably far away from me?

A Sobering Thought

Pic courtesy: Herge

I have a drinking problem. And no, it’s not the sort of problem you are thinking of. 

The other day at a party, the host preened in front of his well-stocked bar and asked what I’d like to drink. When I told him that I’d like a Coca Cola (regular not diet), his eyebrows all but disappeared to the back of his head. To give company to his hairline I suppose. To make it worse, the hostess came charging at me like an angry bull who had been red flagged. “What do you mean, you will have a soft drink? We have plenty of alcohol,” she emphasized on the word soft and threw a pointed glance at the array of bottles lining the bar shelf.
 
At which point I mumbled that I didn’t drink. And prepared myself for the tedious exchange that would inevitably follow. The host with the disappearing eyebrows proceeded to mansplain that it was a good idea to have a drink so that I could enjoy myself. Besides, he made the best cocktails in town. He wagged a drink umbrella threateningly at me to demonstrate his point. The hostess glowered silently making me slightly nervous. You see it was her smoky eye makeup. It made her look less like Kristen Stewart and more like Valak the Nun. 
 
Obviously I stood my ground and weakly demanded my Coca Cola which I received with a generous serving of resentment on the side. The proceedings went rapidly south after that and I had to invent an excuse and leave in a hurry.
 
Over the years, I’ve found myself in pretty awkward situations having to explain why I don’t drink and how my social life is not amiss because I don’t consume alcohol. It’s not that I’ve never touched alcohol. I’ve had drinks now and then from the time I was a teenager but I’ve been sober for years. I find that liquor adds no value to my life. I don’t like the way I feel after I consumed a few drinks. Liquor slows me down. I prefer to be sharp and clear-headed when I am out with friends and I don’t need the fuzziness that intoxicants bring. I’m happy with good food, music and company. But It’s an entirely personal decision and I don’t ever find myself craving a drink ever. 
 
But stuck in a city where everyone and his uncle consumes liquor by the gallon, where there are more liquor stores than schools, I find myself having to defend my decision to stay sober with annoying regularity. All my friends drink and every party I go to, I find myself in a situation where the reactions range from shock to plain and simple disbelief. I feel like an outcast, a deviant. It is downright tiresome. 
 
I’m not asking why you drink, why do you need to know why I don’t? Both are perfectly valid choices aren’t they?
 
Unfortunately these days, being sober is regarded as an oddity. Especially in Gurgaon where the liquor industry is booming, sales are increasing by the minute and if that wasn’t bad enough -- the government now wants companies to allow their employees to drink during office hours. So there’s an off chance that I might be offered a drink at the workspace as well!
 
The situation is so bad that I’m seriously contemplating changing my circle of friends. The best bet for me would be to join an alcoholics anonymous group. That way I will have a group of friends who don’t drink or hold forth on the benefits of consuming liquor. A sobering influence if there was. Can you think of a more perfect arrangement for me?
 
 
 

Mackenna's Booger

Photo courtesy: MAD magazine

I have a problem with the term picking one’s nose. Some people don’t pick, they prospect. Like the man standing beside me in the grocery aisle contemplating cereal boxes. He’s not digging. He’s prospecting – as though MacKenna’s gold is buried deep within his nostrils. First one finger tentatively exploring the terrain and then two fingers aggressively going in for the kill. He’s focused on the job, eyes trained on a spot somewhere between the Fruit Loops and the Quaker Oats, not paying attention to the hustle and bustle around him, the clatter of trolleys, the piped music. Not even a glance at me who, at this point, is staring rather rudely.

Which brings me to the next booger .. sorry … bone of contention. Is there really a well-mannered way to pick one’s nose? Can one deftly insert a finger inside one’s nostril and remove the offending piece of snot before anyone around you has a clue? Or pretend to cough, cover nose and do the job before anyone bats an eyelid.

 

I guess there isn’t. Because the very act of picking one’s nose is not a polite thing to do. A book at the British Library, written more than 500 years ago teaches little children not to pick their nose or ears.

Pyke notte thyne errys nothyr thy nostrellys’

Don’t pick your ears or nose, the ‘Little Children’s Little Book’ says.

This is not fiction. According to science, it is not a good idea to pick your nose either because you might transmit germs into your brain unwittingly and end up with a severe infection or even Alzheimer’s. There is research to support this theory. Not a pleasant thing at all.

There’s even a gadget to discourage nose picking that looks like something Caractacus Potts invented. 

The man next to me hasn’t a clue about any of this though. He’s happily digging and by the look of it, he has enough to set up a souk near the house.

The Bird at the Crossing

The other day I was waiting for the traffic lights to change at Khushboo Chowk when I got the distinct feeling that I was being watched. I looked out of the window at the cars on both sides to see whether there was a familiar face inside one of them. But I couldn’t spot anyone I recognized. 

That’s when I saw it and froze. A gigantic bird on the pavement that had fixed me with a lifeless stare. 

 

Now I’m no bird lover. If you have been reading my blog (and my book), you'd already know that. And this particular one gave me quite a turn. I just wasn’t expecting to see it standing there staring at me with its creepy. metallic eyes. 

 

I found out later that the installation, made out of some 3,000 kilogrammes of industrial scrap (gear wheels and scooter panels) is a bid to draw attention to the plight of birds on the verge of extinction due to radiation from mobile towers. There is a honeycomb with a massive bee installed at another location to remind folks that bees are under threat as well. Thank heavens I haven’t spotted that yet. My aversion to bees is well documented. 

GMDA and M3M Foundation have been installing the birds and bees at strategic locations across the Millennium City. Why strategic you might ask? Well, Khushboo Chowk used to be Kachra Chowk, a foul-smelling dump site in the past till a group of well-meaning residents took action. They cleaned up the area, planted flowering shrubs and trees and renamed it Khushboo Chowk.

 

Garbage has always been a bit of a messy subject here in Gurgaon. As I write this, the Municipal Corporation is at loggerheads with its waste collection agency over unpaid dues leading to garbage pileups at several parts of the city. The residents are complaining, sanitation workers are on strike and the shit has literally hit the fan. The garbage mountain at Bandhwari landfill keeps growing taller and after an order from the National Green Tribunal to clear the mountain pronto, the Municipal Corporation is looking for alternative venues to divert the waste.

 

In the middle of a waste collection crisis, we have pretty birds and bees turning up at various spots where you'd least expect them. It’s a bit like my house cleaning. I shove junk randomly into closets and bring out the crystals and perfumed candles for show. 

But we need to get our house in order before we focus on beautification. And that's a reminder to myself as well. So instead of scrap art, we need to sort out the issue of garbage collection first. And if we must add value to our spaces, let’s consider utilitarian initiatives such as provision of drinking water for people on the go, seating for migrant workers and the elderly. Even a shelter for the urchins who sell balloons and toys on the Chowk.

 

Or Gurgaon’s beauty (if you can call it that) will continue to be skin-deep.

Dust to dust

Matilda "Tilly" Gooptu

The other day I found Baba’s album. It was inside a packet of old books my mother had brought with her when she moved to Gurgaon from Kolkata. 

Some of the pages inside the faded black cover crumbled to dust as I touched them – they were that old. There were pictures of his travels all over the world, neatly labelled with a few lines describing each photograph. Some pages were stuck together, many slots were empty, several pictures were lost in passage. But among the ones that had survived, were pictures of our dog, Tilly (short for Matilda) - an Australian wire terrier, with notes for my eldest sister behind each photograph. Pictures of Tilly having a bath, Tilly playing on the deck of the ship, MV Vishwa Pratap. 

 

Baba always been a stickler for perfection and his notes were just as I’d remembered him.

 

That is when the tears began to fall, without warning, surprising me. It was the first time in 42 years that I was shedding tears for my father. My Class 3 teacher might have felt vindicated had she been alive. She had tried to elicit the same response from me by placing me on a wooden stool in front of the classroom all those years ago and prodding me to talk about my feelings. My school friends tell me I sat stony-faced the whole time.

 

How is a little girl supposed to feel when a parent dies?

 

I discovered grief when I was eight years old. Only I didn’t know it was grief at that time.

 

I was hanging out of our balcony on the second floor to get a glimpse of my father as he locked up his green Premier Padmini and strode into our house. It was an everyday ritual for me. I’d hear the bell ring a little after six and drop whatever it was that I was doing and rush to the balcony to wave at him excitedly. Only it was different that day. I heard someone shriek from inside the house and saw his lifeless body being carried into the house by two men I hadn’t seen before. I learnt later that they were passing by when they’d seen him collapse in front of the house.

 

I was curious and bewildered at the same time, a hollow feeling inside my chest. A feeling that would return many times over the years when I encountered losses of any kind. A constriction in my chest, a feeling of not being able to breathe. Wanting to run away and hide from it all.

 

For my mother, it meant drowning herself in domestic routine. I remember her each evening after Baba died, sitting with piles of clothes, mostly our school uniforms, ironing with a vengeance. She didn’t shed a tear or complain and fret about the depleting finances -- she was ironing clothes with determination. Many years later, she told me that it was her way of dealing with her emotions. A catharsis of sorts. I understand it now. I feel the same when I do the dishes while the pandemic rages all around us.

Over the years, there have been many heartbreaks and losses and each time I coped with it differently. There were times I drowned myself in work, other times - in alcohol. There was times when music helped, other times I wrote bad poetry or even a book. But the hollow feeling in the chest was a constant. The wanting-to-fade-away-till-it-all-goes-away remained.

 

Is there any one way to grieve, I wonder? We have our own different ways of dealing with pain. I might not understand it but does it mean that it is not valid? Why are we so skeptical when people grieve in ways we don’t understand? I’m not sure what my class teacher was expecting me to do that day – bawl in public perhaps. Tears have always been an acceptable currency of grief. Perhaps if she’d just let me be, the tears would have come in due course? 

 

 

Grumpy Gram: Smiling is NOT injurious to health!

Photograph courtesy: www.bangla-kobita.com

There’s a woman I bump into when I go for a walk. She’s known me (by sight) for the longest time. We probably moved into the condo around the same time, twenty years back. Yet each time our eyes meet, she looks away, lips pursed. And it’s not her, there are others. They will fix you with a blank stare when you smile at them. As though there is a tax that’s been levied on smiling.

Now I can understand men not wanting to smile at other women. Especially when their wives or partners are within line of sight. But what’s with these women? There’s another one I know from back when my daughter was in nursery school. She behaves like Aamir Khan in Ghajini. The same glassy stare when he had memory loss. Only I'm pretty sure she has nothing of the kind.

 

Sukumar Ray couldn’t have possibly come to Gurgaon but I’m quite sure he was talking about these specimens when he wrote the poem Ram Gorurer Chana. The mythical cult of creatures for whom smiling is forbidden. Gurgaon is full of them. In fact, Gurgaon should be renamed Gorur-Gram from Gurugram. I think I’m going to write to the administration today.

Who are folks so unfriendly? Is this a Gurgaon thing or are people in other cities just as hostile? The Calcutta I knew growing up was never like this.

 

There are so many benefits to smiling. According to studies, it relieves stress, elevates your mood and helps you live longer - among other things. Given how fitness is a fad here, it would probably help people if they smiled more. Maybe I should offer face yoga sessions to help people smile. What say? Do you know anyone who might need it?

 

Why I love Gurgaon

I love Gurgaon more than the city of my birth - Kolkata. Before you raise your eyebrows, let me tell you that it wasn’t a love-at-first-sight kind of story for me. Rather, a love that developed, matured over the years and stood the test of time. The best sort of love really! In fact, I would go so far as to call Gurgaon my muse. Most of my novels and short stories have been written about this place that I now call home.
 
Twenty five years ago, when I arrived at this dusty hamlet, my first instinct was to hop right back on a flight headed to Kolkata. I still remember the first sight of Gurgaon from the airplane window, in between the cotton wool clouds, as vividly as though it were yesterday. Wide, open spaces everywhere I’d looked, not a building in sight. 
 
A bumpy touchdown later, I discovered that the hamlet was bustling with life. There were multinational corporations and call centres. Genpact and car manufacturer Maruti were the star attractions those days. There were condominiums, bungalows and a smattering of grocery shops, tailoring boutiques and hole-in-the-wall eateries selling rajma chawal, tandoori chicken and jeera aloo. There were no fancy malls, restaurants, lounges or pubs to hang around in. It was North India’s equivalent of a quiet little Gaulish village.
 
The years brought globalisation and rapid economic growth.  The sleepy Haryanvi hamlet was transformed into a throbbing, bustling urban hub. The empty spaces got filled up by glass and steel skyscrapers, the grocery stores turned into supermarkets and the local boutiques run by homely Punjabi women morphed into swanky malls and designer stores. Rajma chawaland jeera aloo became passe. Sushi, bulgogi and imported truffles were de rigeur. There was an influx of migrants from all corners of the globe.
 
The contrasts and contradictions of this rags-to-riches story were too obvious to ignore. With the glitzy hub having come up almost overnight, Gurgaon didn’t have the infrastructure to support the demands of development. There weren’t proper roads, lighting or sanitation.  Come monsoon season each year and all hell would break loose. The roads would be submerged (if they were not caving in, that is) leaving residents and officegoers stranded inside their fancy condominiums. In winter, there was the problem of heavy fog and inadequate street lighting. Add to that, the incessant power outages. 
 
Gurugram’s success story was developing holes. Almost as deep as the ones on its roads. The earthquakes only made it worse. Gurgaon was high risk seismic zone IV. 
 
The BPO boom also had an unlikely beneficiary. The language of the rustic hamlet had changed overnight in a manner that would have put Danish linguist Otto Jespersen out of business! People were now conversing in a language that can, at best, be described as a fusion of Haryanvi, Hindi and English, peppered liberally with Americanisms.
 
There were other, subtle changes in the colour of the place that were hard to spot at first. While, on the one hand, wallets were getting deeper due to the industrial and property boom, there were people living in abject poverty. The construction boom had also made the air in the city unsafe to breathe. Air quality index in Gurgaon had touched the 700-mark making it the most polluted city in India!
 
You may ask, where is the silver lining in this rather gloomy story? Well, I’ll tell you.
 
The best part about Gurgaon for me are its people. A motley crew that has gathered here from across the world – literally! The same bunch that gathered at Leisure Valley Park recently to protest against air pollution. It is Gurgaon’s community that gives the place a warmth and vibrance I have not found anywhere else in the world. Some of my closest friendships have been forged at Gurgaon. My human and book babies were conceived here. This place has given me a lot.
 
In fact it’s not just me. I’m sure the canines would also agree. Take a walk to Galleria, Gurgaon’s answer to Khan Market, that happens to be a few steps away from my house. You will find the strays well looked after -- blankets to sleep on, water and fresh food provided by kind-hearted Gurgaonwalas.
 
A few years back, I fell and became unconscious outside my condominium while returning from a grocery run. A young woman and some auto-rickshaw pullers found me, retrieved my mobile phone and dialed the last number called (which was home) to say I needed help. I will never forget their kindness. That to me, is the essence of Gurgaon.