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. 
 
 

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?
 
 
 

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)

Brands and the Millennium City!

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

Everyone has a thing about brands in Gurgaon.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

10 Types Of Parties That Will Destroy Your Day

Courtesy: Anja  Rabenstein

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

1. Musical soiree

 

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

 

2. Potluck party

 

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

 

3. Selfie party

 

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

 

4. Spiritual party

 

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

 

5. Housewarming party

 

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

 

6. Office party

 

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

 

7. Kiddie birthday party

 

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

 

8. Wellness party

 

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

 

9. Diwali party

 

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

 

10. Theme party

 

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

 

First published in Huffington Post

Tea and snakes!

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

I am taking no chances.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Snake – 1. Human – 0.

 

Mapping Misadventures!

pic courtesy: pixabay

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

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

 

Just the memory of that day makes me flush.

 

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

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

 

 

 

 

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

 

Poltergeist? No, Power Cuts!

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

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

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

Gurgaon weather update!

 

What's cooking?

The folks in the flat upstairs are definitely involved in something shady.

For the last month or so, as soon as I lay me down to sleep, I hear noises.

Bump …. thud … bump

 

The first night I thought they were rearranging furniture.

 

But every single night?

 

The bizarre medley of noises include the sound of running feet, a series of muffled thuds, random chairs being dragged, pressure cooker whistles and vigorous mortar pestle grinding.  Now these are normal household sounds, you would argue. You are right. Of course they are. But who cooks at midnight?

 

Some days, it feels as though the ceiling will come crashing down on my head from all that running and thud-ing. Given the recent unfortunate happenings in Gurgaon, I’m not taking any chances. I have started going to bed wearing my Sunday best. Freshly laundered.

 

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the folks upstairs were disposing of a body. But unless they were part of some crime syndicate (Gurgaon Gangsters Alliance?), I can’t think of why they would need to dispose of a body every night. Perhaps I read too much crime fiction but a pressure cooker going off in the middle of the night is a red signal for sure. What or who are they cooking?

 

I’d watched a movie in my teens called The ‘Burbs and the scenario is uncannily similar. There’s definitely something cooking if you know what I mean *wink wink*

 

Perhaps I should call up the RWA and tell them about my plight instead of letting my imagination wander. But my brains are all muddled up from lack of sleep and I have no clue what to say.

 

Any ideas?

Things that go BLEAT in the night!

The silence was punctuated by a series of unearthly sounds.

Aaaa eeeee ooooo aaa eee oooo aaa eee oooo

 

I dropped the bowl of ice cream in fright and dashed out of my room to investigate.

 

It was nearly midnight and everyone should have been asleep. I stress on the word should since the pandemic (and Netflix) has messed up our sleep cycles. I stood in the corridor of our flat trying to ascertain where the odd sounds were coming from. The door to the teen’s room was ajar. What on earth was she up to?

 

My first thought was that she was holding a séance. That would explain the peculiar noises. When we were teenagers, we’d often play around with home-made Ouija boards (more about that later) so I wouldn’t have been surprised if she was doing something similar. I took a deep breath and peeped in cautiously.

 

The room was dark with fairy lights twinkling like stars near the window.

 

She was in front of her laptop, making weird sounds.

 

Aaaa eeeee ooooo aaa eee oooo aaa eee oooo

 

“What in god’s name are you up to?” I yelled at her. “Have you seen the bloody time?”

 

She grinned sheepishly and gestured for me to pipe down as she was on a call with a friend. Turns out the two girls were doing an online quiz and one of the clues involved figuring out what a mountain goat does. Hence the Alpine yodelling in the middle of the night!

 

The pandemic has messed with our brains, some of us more than the others. Now I’m not sure whether I'm shocked or relieved that she wasn’t invoking spirits from the other world. The house is cramped enough as is. Not sure we have space to accommodate more souls. Hopefully, now that things are coming back to normal, she can go outside and be a regular (masked) teenager again. I will tell her to refrain from bleating when she’s outside though. Not sure the goats of Gurugram will take kindly to cultural appropriation.

Monkey Business!

Where have all the monkeys gone?

 

No, I’m not improvising on the lyrics of the Pete Seeger song, silly! This is a genuine question. 

 

The monkeys that have been part and (hairy) parcel of my existence over the 21 odd years that I’ve lived in Gurgaon seem to have disappeared during the pandemic. You might think it strange that I’m missing a monkey of all things but the truth is, I’d gotten used to watching them as they wreaked havoc on my balcony, trampling my plants and breaking my ceramic planters. A watered-down version of Planet of the Apes if you will. 

 

Yes, one of them did pee all over my nasturtiums. Nasty business that was.

 

Every year, the monkeys would pay me a visit once or twice around this time. They’d come alone or they’d bring their entire families along. Their arrival would be announced by a bloodcurdling shriek (from the person who had spotted them) followed by doors and windows banging shut and the metallic clang of the rails as the primates jumped from one balcony to the next. If the monkeys had nothing better to do, they’d stare at us, rubbing their noses against the glass windowpanes. I guess it’s fair to say that there was curiosity on both sides of the glass.

 

I’d have expected them to return in greater numbers during this period. After all, wasn’t nature healing and all that? There was some talk about relocating them to Ferozepur Jhirka in neighbouring Nuh but the environmental activists were putting up a fight. According to them, the authorities do not have the equipment – either trained handlers, rescue ambulances and veterinary doctors - that can take care of the relocation exercise safely. Most of the time, the authorities rely on private catchers who trap the monkeys using langurs and then, after a couple of days, release them somewhere else. According to official estimates, Gurgaon has around 30,000 monkeys. That is a whole lot of monkeys that need to be treated with care.

 

Could the plan to relocate them have already begun? If not, where on earth are they?

If you have news of the missing monkeys, do share. NO rewards are being offered at this point of time.