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 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.

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.

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.

 

 

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.

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

Flamenco Season is Here Again!

Flamenco season is here again.

No, I’m not taking up dance lessons. Nor am I planning to fly to Spain to watch blonde-haired Jesus Cortes in action at the Patio Andaluz in Barcelona.

My life is nowhere near half as exciting.

With temperatures spiking, I have been gearing up for the latest season of the Lizards are Coming. It’s not a new horror show on Netflix. More like a live performance. The reptiles will be crawling out of the woodwork, in shades of brown, speckled, black and grey. 

Still, if they stayed put on the walls, I could have tolerated them. Thought of them as installation art on my walls. Jamini Roy. Lizard. Bernard Hoyes. Lizard. You get the drift. But when the damn creatures decide to go all pedestrian, “oooh let’s walk on the floor and all that” -- that’s when the problem starts. One minute, you are walking barefoot to get a drink of water from the kitchen in the middle of the night. Next minute there is a wet ssplishsquidge under your feet. Ughhh. 

The instant Gurgaon starts getting warmer, I steal furtive glances all over the place -- at the bathroom walls, behind the electrical appliances and under the beds. Any sign of movement and the frantic foot-tapping and hand-clapping begins. Instead of castanets, I have armed myself with Hit Spray.

I will do anything to get the damn lizards out of the apartment.

Though while I’m at it, I might as well get myself a red frilly dress and some exotic headgear. Make some money while I do pest control doesn’t seem like a bad idea after all. Oh and don’t worry, I will be careful with the Hit Spray. My eyesight is not that bad.

Tap Tap Tap

Spray Spray Spray

Stop right there
Don't you dare say Olé!

Unfaithfully Yours!

Of late, everyone’s favourite topic seems to be infidelity. At coffee meets, book clubs, lunch parties – after a bit of polite conversation, an awkward pause and then, the inevitable. The latest scoop on who’s dating who, and who doesn’t know. There’s just no escaping it. 

Just the other day, I was hungrily tucking into a dim sum lunch at a popular Chinese eatery when in walked a couple I knew very well. Desperately trying not to choke on my sui mai, I downed copious quantities of Coke in a hurry. You see, the reason for my discomfort was that “the couple”, in question, were not married to each other and I knew both their spouses extremely well. They even had two teenagers between them.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m no prude but I wished, at that very moment, that I was dining elsewhere.

“The couple”, however, did not seem to be bothered. Politely nodding their heads at us, the two seated themselves in a quiet corner, as far as possible from the rest of the diners. I marvelled at their quiet confidence, arrogance almost. Not worried that they would be spotted or that word would get back to their homes. “Is infidelity on the rise in Gurgaon?” my friend whispered across the table. “People are so open about these things these days.”

I shrugged. I really don’t know whether more and more people are allowing themselves to be carried away by reckless adventures of the body and soul in the Millenium City. What I do know, for a fact, is that it’s certainly easier to do so. Have a reckless adventure that is!

A certain man (middle aged by now), wherever he is, will certainly agree with me.

Fifteen years ago, when I first moved here, all that Gurgaon had was empty spaces. Wide, open, empty spaces with or without green. A few condominiums and a handful of shops selling vegetables and groceries. One or two hole-in-the-joint eateries whose owners actually heaved a sigh of relief every time you told them you wanted the food packed to take home. No fancy malls, restaurants, lounges or pubs to hang around in. No place to have intimate dates, really. Just your own home or outside, in the lap of Nature.

Every evening I would rush home from work, make a pot of tea and sit in one of the two balconies that our charming little flat possessed. With not many buildings blocking my view, on a clear day I could see right till the airport. There was so much to take in. I loved it.

One such evening as I was getting ready to pour myself a cuppa, my husband yelled out, asking me to come to the balcony immediately. Slightly annoyed, I shouted back saying I would, in a minute, as soon as I had poured a cup for myself. He yelled out again, a strange urgency in his voice that I hadn’t heard before. “Now!”

I rushed out, my tea forgotten for the moment.

And, I will never forget the sight that greeted my eyes, for as long as I live! 

A man was hanging from the balcony of the flat, adjacent to ours. Yes, you heard me right! He was hanging, clutching onto the railings, for dear life. A sheer drop of ten floors below him. Though he had his back to us, I could make out that he was quite young (possibly in his twenties) and well-dressed. Expensive shirt and trousers.

He was facing the inside of the flat. His head bent so that someone inside the flat would not be able to see him. Unless, of course, they came out onto the balcony. Sensing movement behind him, he jerked his head round and saw us gaping at him. Trying to look as nonchalant as possible (as though he was taking a stroll in the park), he went back to what he was doing, gripping the railings, looking down nervously once in a while. In those few minutes, I could make out that he was really scared. I mean, who wouldn’t be. One false move and you are history!

  

“Should we tell the security guard?” my husband whispered, sounding worried. "He may slip and fall." I agreed. I didn’t want it on our conscience. We rushed down to inform the guard but by the time we got to the bottom of our block of flats and looked up, the man had vanished. Into thin air!

Poor, unfortunate soul who had risked his life for the love of a married woman. Whose husband had walked in on her! Just think, how much easier their lives might have been, had this romance played out today, in modern day Gurgaon. So many places to go to. To disappear to. Why, they might have even been eating dim sums next to me!

Whoever said falling in love was easy. Falling to your death, however, is another matter!