Clubbing with the Gods

I was about to climb onto the exercise bike at my neighbourhood gym the other day when strains of a popular Indian devotional song began blaring from the loudspeakers. I stopped dead in my tracks thinking the gym manager, a brawny young lad with an abundance of gel in his hair, had somehow mixed up the tapes. I waited expectantly, one foot suspended in mid-air, for the usual peppy dance number to follow.  As if on cue, there was a rhythmic thump of an electronic beat and the devotional song had turned into a dance number. I looked around me in alarm. Was the gym hosting an flashmob satsang? Were we supposed to step off our machines and fold our hands in prayer? 

The others around me didn’t seem to be affected by this rather strange choice of music. The gym folks were on their machines or flexing their dumbbells, as usual. My neighbour Mrs M leaned over from the next bike and whispered with a smirk on her face. “Arrey, don’t look so shocked, babes. They are playing the new bhajan club mix.” Seeing the confused look on my face, she let out a shocked gasp. “Haven’t you heard of bhajan clubbing?”
 
Now it was my turn to look shocked. Bhajan Clubbing. Two words I never thought I'd hear clubbed together. But Mrs M proceeded to tell me, in between huffs and puffs, that bhajan clubbing is a thing. And judging by the crowds that turn up for the bhajan clubbing concerts at stadiums, a very big thing in this part of the world. Mrs M tells me that her friend’s housing colony hosts regular bhajan nights featuring live dhol, remix aarti, snacks included. She started attending them for the snacks initially but somewhere between the third “Radhe Radhe” remix and a catchy dhol beat, she felt something awaken inside her. She says it’s devotion. But I suspect it was her long-forgotten desire to become a dancer.
 
Almost overnight, Mrs M has become a nightlife enthusiast. She has a bhajan themed wardrobe. She’s ditched her sensible cotton suits and acquired an assortment of sequined dupattas reflecting divine light, jangly bangles to add to the percussion and a glittery pair of juttis that lights up when she stamps her feet during the chorus. Her friend circle has evolved too. No longer just kitty party companions, they are now her satsang squad. Mrs G is the lead vocalist, self-appointed of course. Her falsetto can shatter glass. Mrs V makes up the rhythm section with two spoons and a steel tiffin dabba. Mrs S is backup vocals and freestyle devotional choreography. Stay clear of her arms if you see her though. You could land up in hospital with grievous injuries. The colony also hires a DJ for the events – Devotional Jockey in case you were wondering.
 
Ever since my strange encounter at the gym, she’s invited me for various dos. Retro Bhajan Night, Bollywood Bhakti Fusion, Garba with God. The colony children are fascinated, she says with a giggle. “Your mom goes clubbing?” one kid asked her son recently. He shrugged. “Kind of. But instead of alcohol, they have Rooh Afza. And instead of ‘DJ Wale Babu,’ it’s ‘Bhagwan Wale Babu.’ 
 
I haven’t been a single of these clubbing nights yet. I’m still not convinced prayer and clubs go well together. But I’m tempted by the sound of the free snacks. Maybe there’s hope for me yet.

God of Problem Clients

I wonder if there is a God of Problem Clients.  A sub deity responsible for creating difficult people, sent to wreak havoc in our professional lives. You know the ones I’m referring to, right? The ones who refuse to pay even after getting the work done, the ones who always haggle – for them, the price is never right, the ones who are never satisfied – I’m talking about endless reiterations, the ones who can’t make up their minds, the ones who have absolutely no boundaries – they’ve paid you and that makes you bonded labour. 

We have all encountered one or all of these types in the course of our lives.

I, for one, have been dealt more than my fair share and I’m thinking of putting forward a complaint. But to whom? Is there a judicial commission for Gods? Like a heavenly version of a consumer court where one could file complaints? Or does Brahma have a cosmic helpline where one could complain about a member of his team? I need to tell him to stop sending problem people my way and let others benefit from his generosity. Others need a turn while I need a break. 

Are you also one of the chosen few (like me)? Maybe we could start a prayer group – chant mantras or bang utensils – whatever works. Our thali banging got rid of Corona, didn’t it? Maybe this would work as well? 

Better a utensil than someone’s head.

Five Ways to Find Love in Gurgaon

Remember that saying about the Universe conspiring to bring us something we
really want right when we need it?
 
Well, that’s hokum. I don’t believe in it at all.
 
If you really want something, you have to go out and get it yourself, not wait for the Universe to do its thing. Which is nothing.
 
So if your goals for this year include finding love and getting hitched, you need to get off that couch, switch off the telly and get busy.
 
Life isn’t a movie, even if you would love for it to be so. It’s certainly not the desi version of Serendipity where you bump into the love of your life at the neighbourhood kirana store while buying bread and eggs, fall in love, get separated and then miraculously reunite just before the end credits roll.
 
Real life is seldom like that.
 
So don’t bother wishing on stars or snowflakes and expect the love of your life to materialise in front of your eyes with a copy of Love in the Time of Cholera. It’s not that simple.
 
However, with a little bit of ingenuity, you could hunt down the chosen one and update the relationship status of your Facebook profile with a smug smile. No Universe required.
 
Curious to find out how? Here’s what it takes.
 
Join a Gym!
 
Gurgaon residents are very particular about the way they look. So you will find that your friendly-neighbourhood gym full of hot guys, girls and the occasional Aunty or Uncle (if that’s your thing). With all the happy chemicals in your body on overdrive mode (from all that exercising), there can only be good things in store. Plus, you end up looking like a million bucks. What’s not to love?
 
Start Running. You could talk too!
 
If being cooped up with strange, smelly people in a small room gives you the heebie-jeebies, do consider an open-air activity instead. Why not join a running group? Or a walking one, for that matter. Plenty of eligible men or women there. You could strike up a conversation while huffing and puffing your way to the finish line. Who knows where that could lead?                      
 
Hit the Malls!
 
There’s nothing quite like retail therapy. Especially when it gets you the man or
woman of your choice. Gurgaon’s fancy malls are teeming with fancy, young people and one of them may take a shine to you. The multiplexes, food courts, designer stores. Brawny young men and nubile nymphets. What are you waiting for? Get moving, you!
 
Get a tattoo!
 
Tinder is passe, get a tattoo instead. Who knows, your better half might be getting ready for the needle right this minute at a tattoo parlour somewhere in the Millennium City? Sparks flying over whirring needles? Forget the momentary pain and think about the stories you could tell your children.
 
Drink some coffee. Or Tea!
 
Tiring isn’t it? Hunting down the love of your life. Time you took a break for some coffee. Or tea, if that’s your potion. Walk into a Starbucks or a Café Coffee Day, find your corner, sink into that sofa and put your feet up. “Excuse me, is this seat taken?” someone may ask you politely. Well, that’s your cue.
 
Live happily ever after and don’t thank me. Or the Universe.

(Originally written for the Juggernaut Books blog in 2017)

 

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.

Mughal E Azam 2.0 - Brick in the Wall

When I decided to write a modern-day fictional adaptation of Mughal-e-Azam a couple of years back (still writing it BTW), I didn’t realize my art (if you can call it that) was going to imitate life. Cut to the present. April 2021 - the condominium in which I live, is inching close to being sealed by the authorities in Gurgaon as we have had a significant outbreak of coronavirus infections. 

Now I truly understand what Anarkali must have felt like when that first brick was laid. 

Okay, I guess I’m being slightly dramatic here. I’m not being walled in. One of our gates has just been sealed and residents have been asked to clamp down on visitors and domestic help. Not just that, there are a couple of Plods manning the main gates and several inside the condo making sure folks don’t break rules. So if you are out without a mask or two, gossiping in a group or trying to sneak out after curfew hours for a drink with your buddies, you will be marched to prison. Do not pass go. Or collect the 200 dollars. Straight to prison I expect. Or worse, the entire condominium will be sealed off from the world at large. 

 

Mughal E Azam 2.0. Except my Salim is sitting beside me, balding and bespectacled, completely zoned out from being on zoom calls with clients. On my part, I’m jumping around from one room to the next like a cat on hot bricks. I don’t think that qualifies as dancing.

 

I’ve been told our condo is a containment zone. That’s what they call places that have a huge spike in infections. By policing it, the authorities hope to bring down the cases. A few of my friends whisper conspiratorially (over the phone) that they are in Large Outbreak Regions. All of these sound like names out of a dystopian novel -- so you have to excuse me for hyperventilating a wee bit.

 

Breathe in, breathe out.

 

I haven’t had any visitors or domestic help for over a year. From the first week of March 2020 to be precise. I’ve been scrupulously washing my hands using up gallons of liquid soap, wearing an array of masks and staying away from everyone and her aunt. Other than minor episodes of cabin fever, things have been mostly fine. But now, things are getting tricky.

In my version of the story, Anarkali escapes by taking a flight out of Gurgaon. I’m not sure that will be possible in real life. Perhaps I could be a fly on the wall instead?

 

(To be contd)

 

 

 

 

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!