The 'Serial' killer

"Where is the remote?" asked my friend's harried mother, "I don't want to miss the 11 o'clock serial". This, on a fine morning when my friend and I had decided to relax with a reality show, after a long time, was most unwelcome. "But amma", protested my friend, "it is a repeat telecast of what you saw yesterday." Amma turned a deaf ear to her protest call and smugly settled down on the sofa. Since we had nothing else to do, we decided to watch this one serial.

"Daily soaps make no sense to me and I always avoid watching them", said my friend, making a wry face. "It's so easy to get addicted to mindless and meaningless stuff in life. I am of the opinion that they never portray the real lives of people. The characters mouth dialogues that could make a sane person cringe in disgust. What I never understood was how could a villager possibly get hold of designer wear, jewellery and flaunt neatly ironed tresses. The good and the bad characters are clearly cut and dried. There are no shades of grey! The scheming men and women have a ball while the ever suffering ones do no wrong. They always suffer quietly and their heart is big enough to forgive even the most wicked ones!" said the agitated friend. Yeah, how true, I thought. Yet I was not able to let go off the remote after 9 pm.

"Tamil serials take the quest of conniving and vengeance to a new level so much so that there is a constant hostility and rivalry oozing from the word go", she continued with a passionate fervour that would put the grandest orator to shame. "The characters hardly ever smile, leave alone laugh, as though they know instinctively that laughing would  attract some evil news. Women are constantly at each other's throats, screaming revenge, for some reason that is actually forgotten. The makers, it seems, are fascinated by the 'other woman' syndrome, as they seem to make their presence felt everywhere to create havoc in others' lives.  The vamps get to wear the best clothes, best jewellery and also manage to steal the man from under the wife's nose. Whereas the good wife just becomes a mop of the house, even as she stays put with a gritty determination to win back the philandering husband! The nerves are made of steel!"

Phew!!! That was some speech, I thought. "Tell me, do you watch these nonsensical stuff?" she asked with fire in her eyes. "Me - nah! I don't think I'll be able to handle all those emotions", I said playing along with the mood of the moment.

"Emotions! There is only one emotion and that is of bitterness. See how they depict mothers? The not so well off are more often than not portrayed as this chest beating types, crying at the drop of the hat. The saree pallu comes in handy to wipe off the teary face. The rich ones do not have anything productive to do in life and their entire existence seems to be revolving in plotting murder or revenge. What a waste of resources! And the protagonist waits patiently for her moment of retribution, which comes in the form of divine justice." Okay, okay. Enough for today - I wanted to say, but could not gather enough courage. Amma and I quietly exchanged glances.

"Amma, do you know where audience like you fit in? You are left to face the retarded stuff and you enjoy lapping them up. They make so much money and what do you get in return? I think the audience should be paid as well", she said calming down a bit. I thought the storm had died. But the climax was yet to come.   "And when the going gets tough, the makers spice it up with a rebirth, plastic surgery, fourth or fifth marriage, ghostly encounters, death etc. I'm sure children will now start complaining that the serials are corrupting their parents!"

After I returned home, I thought about her speech. Yes, I actually need to introspect whenever I get time. But as of now, it's time for the 9 O'clock serial to begin. The mother in law has just devised a new plan to ensnare the 2nd wife of her step-son...

Dear Diary....

'Grrrr......', I know this is what you would say, if you were present in flesh and blood. But then I know that you are not and hence I have this audacity to take advantage of your quiet existence. I know that I had to dust you off from the pile of old books and also know that I remember you only when I want to share something with you. In spite of this callous attitude, I know that you will not complain. I know that my secrets, deepest desires, happiness and sadness, my regrets and disappointments are kept buried in your bosom. You are my punching bag and every time I take a look at you, it is not without a purpose.

You know Diary, as kid, I always thought that Aladdin's magic lamp existed, and I wanted to get hold of it to fulfil  my wishes. I imagined having the genie at my beck and call. Only I did not know where to search for it. I  wished  that I got the pot of gold whenever I saw a rainbow. I wished to see the chocolate house in which Hansel and Gretel were locked. I wished to meet Cinderella and Snow White and the seven Dwarfs. I wished to be the most intelligent student and be famous when I grew up. I wished that I could sit on the clouds and see the world from above. And when I used to see patterns on the sky made by these clouds I wished I could catch those fluffy cottons and take them home. I wished I were a bird and fly up in the sky, free, unbridled. I wished I had this magic brush with which I could paint the sky. I wished I could spin webs like Spider man and reach places easily. I wished I was a cuckoo and sing the whole day long. I wished to go to the moon.

But then I grew up, and I dismissed all those wishes as juvenile outbursts that held no water in real life. And I realized that the magic lamp was only a myth. The land of cotton candy vapourized into thin air and now I feel that my wishes have become more real. I wish I had more money to buy more comforts in life. I wish there were no worries to tackle with. I wish there was lesser noise everywhere. I wish the trains and buses were not so crowded. I wish the weekend had two Sundays. I wish that I can mend broken relationships, iron out the misunderstandings that drive a wedge in it. I wish humans had lesser egos, so that life becomes much easier. I wish greed takes a backseat; I wish anger is toned down. I wish people understand each other better......... and yes, I wish the magic lamp really existed.

But why do I have this strange feeling of being snubbed again....? OK OK, I know I've gotten too philosophical today and before you spring to life, I might as well shut you and keep you in the secluded corner, hoping that if not all, at least some of the wishes get fulfilled.

Yours truly,

Wish not, want not

Rambo

He had a smooth skin... light brown in colour, deep penetrating eyes and a swift and agile body. He was not very tall, and not exactly handsome, yet he had this inherent capacity to attract anyone who came in contact with him. Vying for his attention was our favourite past time, which he reciprocated magnanimously. He was fiercely protective of us and disliked any intruder who happened to try and take away his moment of.... well, bliss. For the uninitiated, he was a street dog named Rambo.

Rambo was christened........Rambo by the people of our building, who took it as their responsibility to look after him after he was found as an abandoned puppy on a rainy weather, shivering under a big mango tree inside the  compound. He was this adorable little thing who was separated from his mother, for some reason, which we knew we would never able to find out. Nevertheless, all were happy to have him. We used to take delight in bringing biscuits or some leftovers to feed him and see him gobble up the delicacies. He always seemed hungry and never refused any food. He used to enjoy all the attention showered on him and seemed very happy frolicking about with us. But I had always noticed a tinge of sadness in his eyes. They always seemed to be searching for something....his mother? Siblings? We'll never know. 

Rambo never had a home of his own. He used to make himself comfortable wherever he found a cosy place, whether in the building corridor, or near the electric box, or under a tree. He used to follow us wherever we went and we had to shoo him many a time, lest he discovered our secret places and showed it to our enemies. Of course, we too had enemies, with whom we fought and refused to play!  Time flew by and Rambo became er.... a dog. We had become accustomed to his presence and used to wonder how he managed to look clean. No one ever gave him a bath! He still considered our building compound to be his home and even if he was not to be found the whole day, he would dutifully return to his home in the night. We all slept peacefully, knowing fully well that he would bark down the guts of anyone who dared to sneak past his vigil. Rambo had made a place in everyone's heart. Or so it seemed!

One fine morning, we heard a shrill whining sound and recognized it to be that of Rambo. A small crowd had gathered and I too ran down to see what the commotion was all about. What I saw was unbelievable! Someone had poured boiling water on Rambo's body scalding his back to the extent that the red flesh under his brown coat was visible. He was understandably in pain and even though people gauged who the culprit was, no one said anything. After all, it was only a dog and not a human being, right? Human life is precious and who cares for a dog's life! The elders then put some turmeric on the wound and busied themselves for the day's work, strictly forbidding us not to go near him, lest we catch some infection from the wound. Rambo slowly retreated to his favourite corner. As days passed and the wound did not seem to be healing, they shooed Rambo away from the building. There was this huge open ground right in front and Rambo made  this ground, his home. He used to eat if someone fed him or go hungry as he was too weak to go in search of food. 

After some days, we heard that Rambo had passed away and the municipal van would soon come to pick up his lifeless body. To this day, when I see a street dog with a wound, I am immediately reminded of Rambo, who lived with us and served us, but died a....well......dog's death.

Fifteen minutes of fame

Everybody wants their share of fame and the strain to be seen and heard is more apparent than ever before. And fame, that elusive mistress, has always been an enigma for those on whom she does not choose to smile. The world looks for ways and means to get her attention and bask in the glory of her tempestuous gaze. Ask any child what he or she wants to become on growing up. The answer in all probability would be a want to be a famous actor/actress, Miss India, cricketer or any profession that guarantees glamour. Even babas and yogis are not immune to the adulation that comes with fame. And the common man... where will he go to for his share in the pie? In this small world, we all look for some means to massage the fractured ego and satiate the never ending appetite for self exaltation! If fame wouldn't touch us with a barge pole, reflected glory always comes to our aid.

The other day at a concert, I heard this lady sitting behind me, talking incessantly of how she knows the performing artiste through a friend. Her animated chatter at every given opportunity was driving me nuts. My exasperated looks had no effect on her, whatsoever. However, the initial annoyance turned amusing, so much so that I was all ears to what she was saying. Till today I wonder who she was because once the crowd dispersed, she became one among us.  Such an exercise, I think, gives us tremendous satisfaction for the time being, unmindful of what others think. A name dropping now and then is a great morale booster! We remain undaunted in our search for that moment of triumph.

A friend of mine excitedly narrated to me how a famous cricketer had come to attend the wedding of his uncle's sister-in-law's son's friend. "Wow!" I exclaimed, presuming he was there too. He replied in negative but not before adding, "Well, my uncle told me this." He then proceeded at length to talk about what the cricketer wore, what he ate etc. And the pride on his face was there for all to see. Wherever I go I find someone who knows some famous person. An acquaintance enthused about how a famous Bollywood actor has just shifted to his friend's cousin's building.

With so much going on in everybody's life, I'm feeling left out. After all, I'm human and I too feel the need to be recognized, even if the recognition rides on others' accomplishments. I think I need to talk about the connections that some friends or relatives or any remote acquaintances have so that I can earn my fifteen minutes of fame!

The Yoga class

'Lazy' had always been the word that describes me best. This laid back attitude follows me everywhere like a shadow, no matter how hard I try to shrug it off. I always start off something with a great excitement, but lose interest somewhere in the process and end up leaving the task incomplete. I used to get frustrated initially, but now it does not affect me anymore. I have learnt to live with it minus any emotional outbursts. One kind of becomes thick skinned, I believe.

I've always admired people who go for walks, exercise regularly, eat healthy food and take interest in the general well-being of their existence. I tried to make friends with these fitness freaks, so that their quality rubs off on me. But the lethargic being in me refuses to budge. I console myself by saying that its all in their genes. My genes are the culprit. They don't allow me to follow an exercise regimen. Am I to be blamed for it? You cannot select your genes, can you? Well, the friends were tired of persuading me to join some gym, aerobics or yoga class. A friend who had recently joined a yoga class, extolled its benefits over the mind and body, so much so that I started feeling guilty about not doing anything. "This is the 'me' time and nobody can take it away from me", said the friend, making me feel like a sacrificial cow at the altar of familial responsibilities.

A little voice in me, suppressed for ages, too weak to even get up and talk, said, "Please do something now." I made up my mind to act immediately. After all, we all need 'me' time! I accompanied the friend to her class. "Inhale....exhale out", said the teacher and the students followed suit. "Practicing Pranayam gives inner peace." I enrolled immediately. Quite excited that I was, I went in the evening, shopping for some yoga gear. The mat, the yoga wear, water bottle, towel, the works. Finally, the being in me is woken up. Or so I thought!

The first day, and I wanted to create a good impression. The teacher said that we will begin with meditation. "Close your eyes and let the thoughts flow. Do not be judgmental." Well, I let my thoughts flow, taking care not to pass any comments. But hey! Why has the flow stopped abruptly when I thought about the kitchen? Did I or did I not turn off the gas? I could not concentrate. My mind was racing fast. Fearing the worst, I excused myself for the day and rushed back home. By now a small crowd would have gathered around. But I  was surprised to see none. And more surprised to see that the gas was turned off. I was sure it was still burning. Oh hell! I wasted the day.

The next day, I checked everything properly, making sure that there is no room for doubt. The teacher began, "Take a deep breath.......". I breathed deeply........ hmmmm.... the aroma of some delicious food being cooked pierced my nostrils and I found myself salivating. I felt hungry all of a sudden, when a gentle tap on my shoulder rudely shook me off from the world of culinary delight. "Please pay attention and follow my instructions", said the teacher sharply. I felt ashamed. I decided to stay put and give it my best shot. I made a firm resolution to be a good student and learn the art of concentrating.

Yet another day dawned, and I awoke with a new vigour. After all, a resolution is for keeps. The teacher said that the session will begin with exercises. "Stretch your arms and slowly bend from your waist!" I did as instructed. And all of a sudden someone remembers me desperately and wants to talk to me. So sang my mobile, loud and clear!

I had told that it's all in the genes. But I did not pay heed to myself. Now, someone try to motivate me to join Yoga again!

The sacred and the profane

India's barefoot artist, Maqbool Fida Hussain, is no more. The maestro died in a foreign land, as a Qatari citizen, longing to come back to his motherland, a wish that could never see the light of the day. An artist, whose freedom of expression was curtailed, wings clipped and was made an alien in his own land.

Hindus revere their deities with a religious fervour, unseen in any part of the world. This is their sacred space. Hussain was accused of invading this sacred space, by depicting the deities in the nude. The so-called profanity of his expression invited wrath of the moral guardians who cried sacrilege. The atmosphere became vocal with protests and disapproval, all fueled by the political parties with an agenda. An acquaintance who was very vocal in his protest said, "How can an artist take the liberty of making such obscene paintings? This is not our culture." I wondered what this person was talking about. Since when did nudity become obscene in the art world? The stone sculptures of Khajuraho are a mute testimony to the fact that erotica was never viewed with contempt or prudery. These sculptures have stood the ravages of time dates back to around 10th c CE. And Hussain belonged to this era!

So why was he sent in exile? Was it because he was a non-Hindu who dared to paint the Goddesses from the Hindu pantheon? Or was it because the political parties, starved of ideas, got some issue to take up? Either way, Hussain's exile was coloured with a political hue and the parties in question managed to throw him out of the country. For centuries, Lord Krishna has been depicted as amorous hero. Even the miniature paintings show him not hiding his carnal desires. We then have the Tantra literature representing the erotica and of course Vatsayana's Kamasutra. Yet, the so-called moral guardians influence the public, create an uproar, condemning the freedom of expression in the name of morality. Morality, I feel, is a grossly misunderstood term in every century. Little wonder that Hussain's painting was dubbed amoral. As our logic professor had aptly pointed out, "What we have today is Victorian Hinduism."

Now that the voice has been quietened forever, a certain Raj wants to build a museum in his honour. Reason- Mr.Hussain was a pucca Mumbaikar and the museum should be on this soil. How more hilarious can this get? We have suffered the ignominy of an irretrievable loss. All we can do is pray for his soul to rest in peace. Amen.

Cutting chai

"Ek cutting", how many times in a day does the chai vendor hear this! Chai or tea, the humble beverage, has such a pull that even the high and mighty succumb to its charm. And talking of chai, in Mumbai, no one can escape the lure of its aroma emanating from a nearby street vendor's stall. Fondly known as cutting chai or simply cutting, when one does not want a full glass, this hot concoction peps up a lazy day. Any average Mumbaikar would vouch for it. At times I wonder what Mumbai would have done without these chai tapris. They are such life savers. It offers the common man a break from his drab existence. Whether it is simple conversation, friendly banter, serious talk or striking a deal, the unassuming chai has seen it all.

Be it a station, outside an educational institution, markets, offices.... you name it, the chaiwala will make his presence felt. His omnipresence is all the more strengthened by people yearning for that cutting. His important looking assistant, always seem to be scurrying everywhere with a hot kettle in one hand and a couple of glasses in the other. The paraphernalia consists of an old stove, probably brought from a second hand vendor, or inherited from his forefathers, a battered vessel, an old creaky table and of course, the magic ingredients, to churn out the never ending flow of chai. You ask for a cutting and what you get is not half a glass, but almost three-fourths of it, poured by the large hearted seller. The enterprising ones throw in a couple of worn out benches, spice it up with music from an old radio to give that complete experience. At any point of time these kitschy joints are crowded by people of all ages, enjoying their sip. The much needed respite for a normal office goer comes in the form of a cutting. How else would they beat the monotony of figures to show the required profits? So, in a way the chaiwalas are responsible for the economic growth of our country. In fact, all our netas should be given a 'cutting allowance'. This would help them from falling asleep when a parliament session is on.

Monsoon sees a spurt in their sales chart. The piping hot tea, with rain droplets falling into the glass, make it all the more divine. I remember the chaiwala outside my college who used to serve us such great chai, that the taste still lingers on. Years later, on one such wet day, I decided to pay a visit to his stall. I hoped it was still there. It was, but something was amiss. The vendor looked up but could not recognize me. And did I notice it right? He had become blind in his right eye. I inquired about his missing assistant. It seems some years back, the only stove that he had owned had burst. He lost his eye and his assistant in that accident. All his savings gone into his treatment, he had to wait for a long time to pick up the threads of his life. I groped for words. With a heavy heart I said, "ek cutting."

Of women and driving!

"Women can't drive", declared my cousin with an air of superiority that belied his short frame. Such a sexist remark from a person who himself could not drive without getting nervous, came to me as a surprise and shock. I distinctly remember the last time when he drove me down to the market. I was almost sure that he would knock down somebody. Well, even today I thank my stars that nothing untoward had happened that day. My  reaction, predictably, was that of anger. I wanted to know why he thought so. The reply that I got not just left me numb, but also gave me the taste of the general attitude of men towards the fairer sex, when it comes to driving. Yet, I am no feminist and I don't dismiss all of them as biased. With a smirk on his face, he said, "oh, they just don't know whether to go left or right. It seems cutting lanes is their prerogative. I'm sure women cannot differentiate between accelerator and brake."

I let out a mild protest, "but I drive too". "Yes, God save others", he chuckled. "Statistics show that in the number of road accidents that take place, more often than not, a man is behind the wheel. Road rage, drunk driving, over speeding, overtaking and simply for the thrill of speed has become the order of the day. How many women are caught for such reasons? I don't deny the stray incidents, when women are in the driver's seat, but the count is negligible", I said with indignation. "Oh, but how many women drive?", he asked in mock concern. Such talk was not only unwarranted but also bordered on being preposterous. It is a sheer waste of time to lose sleep over such a non issue. And anyway it is the thought of a minuscule population of the civilized society and not a general attitude, isn't it? Or is it?

A nagging thought just crossed my mind. Was my cousin's thought a representationt of a sizable number of the population? Yes I have seen people giving me angry looks, when I back my car or take a wide for a U-turn. I have also noticed that honking becomes incessant, even in a traffic jam, almost deriding my driving abilities. In fact the other day when I offered my friend a ride to the station, he politely refused, citing some silly excuse. But I insisted. On further probing, he let the cat out of the bag - he was not sure how competent a woman driver can be! Once I dropped him, he said with a guffaw, "I was worried whether I'll reach the station in one piece or not". Very funny, I thought. Well, such comments are just the work of a parochial mind, I consoled myself. Yet I found myself saying 'you are yet to come a long way, baby....'

Mobile woes

Consumerism is on a all-time high. Never seen such dedicated indulgence in commodities. Why, the other day when I was doing some window shopping to kill time, my eyes caught the fancy of a sleek shiny black beauty of a mobile, perched prettily on the window. 'What a seductress!', I thought. I wanted to possess it immediately. The salesgirl quoted an obscene amount, yet my mind was overpowered by the thought of owning the gadget. I could not sleep that night and the next morning, I let my vanity take complete possession of my modesty. I shelled out my savings to get hold of the latest arrival in the market. Finally, I should look trendy and very happening, I thought.

Well, I was bang on target! I had become a mini celebrity. I reveled in the glory. My friends and acquaintances wanted to check its features. The kids wanted to try the games and the husband wanted to check the latest apps. My neighbour's college going kid wanted to know if he could borrow it for a day to impress his friends. Even my building watchman, who used to ignore me earlier, wishes me now after he spotted the mobile in my hand. That was the last day, I actually used it. I always found it in others' hand. I was allowed only to take calls and check messages. I had to make do with the land line to make calls. I despaired. But there was more woe to come. The maid now wants a raise in her salary. Reason? If I could afford such an expensive gadget, I could surely afford her a raise. After the initial high, reality hit me hard on my face. So much for drooling over this innocuous looking beauty!

Not only have I burnt a huge hole in my pocket, but also I have lost my peace of mind. The kids tease me mercilessly for being so outdated on its functions. "Why buy when you don't know how to make use of it?", asked the wise husband. 'Enough is enough', I thought. "Phones are just meant to make and take calls", I proclaimed mightily, "why have an all-purpose phone when you have other gadgets to cater to your every need?". I decided to return this piece and buy myself a cheap basic model. I took the creature to the showroom where I had fallen in love with it. The salesman clicked his tongue and said "madam, this piece will not fetch you much now". "But I bought it just 10 days ago!", I protested.  "Yeah, I saw the bill. But don't you know the company has come up with a new model?", he asked, with a how-outdated-you-can-be look. So here I am - outdated and old fashioned once again! Even after much protest, the salesman would not budge and with a heavy heart I had to bring back the little monster home.

Now, it lies somewhere in a corner of the house. And every time it rings I could feel it mocking me in a different tune. And yes... did I tell that I am yet to learn to make proper use of it!

Paper boat

The westerlies are here! Wet roads, wet cars, wet trees, earth's distinct smell, hot tea and pakoras..... the list goes on! The lashing of the rains bring back the bitter sweet memories of childhood days, when we used to run out to get wet and come back drenched to the bone, shivering uncontrollably. The most prized possession-our paper boats, used to compete with other boats in the race. Predictably, there were no winners-all the boats used to get washed away. Yet, it was fun to fight over the best boat. And along with all the fun, cold and fever announced their arrival. But that was never a spirit dampener! Being a born day dreamer, I could sit near the window looking outside, lost in thoughts, even if confined to bed.

Years have passed by so quickly. Nothing much has changed - street children still huddle together under a big plastic sheet, their big bright eyes making you feel somewhat guilty of having a roof over your head, couples still sit together, vegetable vendors still sell their wares, dogs still find a cozy place.... only the rains have become more furious, power cuts more common, trains stopping due to flooded tracks more frequent and new diseases having made inroads, taking a couple of lives, more often. Yet there is one thing that I sorely miss! Paper boats! Where have they disappeared? The blue, pink, yellow artwork that dotted the gutters and little streams and floated away like magic, seems to have faded away from everyone's memory. The once ubiquitous paper boat have made way to computer games where one can sail a yacht, PSPs, various activity clubs that structure the child's activity, leaving no time to indulge in creative pursuits. The well-heeled parents (and not the so well-heeled ones) compete for a place in such clubs, for their tykes. And in a city like Mumbai, where latest gadgets are a fad, who has the time to make paper boats and watch it disappear? Reminiscing about this, walking on a wet road, I suddenly find myself face to face with a young street vendor, selling activity books for kids. I take my pick and open the first page. It reads, 'how to make paper boats'.