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!

 

Changemakers: Gurgaon Ki Awaaz

In the words of urbanist Jane Jacobs, people make cities, and it is to them, not buildings that we must fit our plans. 

Truer words have never been spoken. Yet tragically in cities such as Gurgaon, the real people have become the outliers. Don’t be misled by the swanky glass and steel towers, the real Gurgaon is much more than its uber chic facade. The pulse of the Millennium City consists of the people who keep the wheels turning. The migrant workers, farmers and villagers who prop up the city. The security guard in your building, the garbage collector who recycles your trash, the rickshaw puller at the entry gate, the shopkeeper at the sabzi mandi and countless others. Ironically, they are the ones we refer to as the people on the fringes. In reality, they are the real people of Gurgaon.

 

Founded in 2009, Gurgaon’s one and only community radio station – Gurgaon Ki Awaaz has been providing a platform for these voices. The station broadcasts for 22 hours daily but its programmes are a far cry from the stuff you would hear on popular (read urban) radio channels. In the true spirit of community radio, Gurgaon Ki Awaaz programmes are created for the people, by the people themselves. 

 

I spoke to station director Arti Jaiman last week who explained that the community radio began as a project on the sidelines of her NGO, The Restoring Force. Over the period of time, the project acquired a life of its own. The programmes include a mix of traffic updates, sessions on sexual health, empowerment, agriculture, counselling sessions and folk music in Haryanvi, Garhwali and Bhojpuri among other languages. Radio staff make regular visits to local communities to research on key issues. These are then woven into the programming. Local folk artists are invited to record sessions at the studio which is then broadcast to an enthusiastic, lively community. I tuned in last Saturday and listened to a rousing session of Antakshari played by community members. Music is the glue that binds the community together.

 

The all-women team of the station are from local communities. They speak the language, both metaphorically and literally. The community members trust them and open up to them. Not just that, the community radio station had a key role to play during the pandemic and the subsequent lockdowns imposed by the administration over the last two years. From relaying information about the timing of food delivery vans, Shramik trains to guiding people about restrictions placed on movement and quarantine status in various parts of the district, counselling migrants on how to dealing with anxiety, tackling food and money shortages, the radio station anchors dealt with it all with grace and elan.

 

Gurgaon Ki Awaaz has a fan following that runs into thousands. Shambhu (name changed) from Bihar is a security guard at a swanky condominium in Gurgaon. He works night shifts and is stuck behind a desk monitoring entries and exits. He is addicted to the community radio. It helps break the monotony of his work.

 

Mansoor (name changed) from Western Uttar Pradesh works as a tailor in Gurgaon’s Sadar Bazaar. He comes from a family of tailors and moved to Gurgaon several years ago in search of work. Now he has a job at a boutique and spends his hours stitching clothes. He is another fan of the community radio.

 

Not just locals, the popularity of Gurgaon Ki Awaaz is spreading far and wide. People have started tuning in from other cities and smaller towns as well. 

 

To tune into the radio and sponsor the team’s work, click here.

 

A dire situation?

Soon after Game of Thrones was aired for the first time in India, our condominium saw an influx of Siberian huskies. “Ma look – a dire wolf,” the girl screamed in excitement when she spotted one at the park for the first time. She was GOT-crazy, I wasn’t. I had no clue what she was talking about. All I saw was an unusual looking dog with intense blue eyes. When I went back home, I looked up dire wolves on the internet and learnt that Northern Inuit dogs played dire wolves in the TV series. Northern Inuit dogs are a crossbreed of huskies and German shepherds. 

 

In true Gurugram fashion, there had been a frenzied dash for dire wolves. In their absence, folks had scrambled to get the next best thing - huskies. The result - here a husky, there a husky, everywhere a husky husky in Drona’s village. I remember seeing an abundance of Dalmatians when I first moved to Gurgaon in 1998 (101 Dalmatians - the movie starring Glenn Close had released two years ago). 

See what I mean?

 

I couldn’t help but wonder whether the hot and dusty climate would be good for these dogs. How would huskies (meant to be raised in colder climates) adjust in poky flats and sultry weather? We can all wish for things. Doesn’t mean we have to have our wishes fulfilled, does it? I’d like to own a dragon. But that isn’t happening anytime soon.

 

Over the years, the numbers have multiplied. Young, old, in various states of disrepair. Most often the owners can't be bothered to walk the dogs themselves or give them a spot of exercise. The car wash boys drag them around by their leashes in the evenings, summer cut of fur and lethargic. I can only pray the owners keep them in air-conditioned rooms during the day. While I’m not a dog expert, I’ve grown up in a house with five dogs. I can tell when a dog is sad. The strays have more swag than these dogs.

 

I’m told a husky puppy sells for anything between Rs 40,000 and Rs 60,000. I saw one advertised on a dog website having blue eyes, strong bones and a smart personality. Asking price, Rs 56,000. A puppy with a smart personality? What on earth does it even mean?

 

My Bengali neighbour has named his Siberian husky Randy. After Randle McMurphy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, he offers helpfully in the lift (in case I didn't know). Also the way he says it, it sounds like Kaku.

 

Trying hard not to giggle but feeling terribly sorry for Randy the puppy. I hope he has a good life in Kaku’s Nest.