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.

 

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. 
 
 

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.

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.