Come let's conference

I was reading some blogs and asked myself, what’s with me. Why can’t I write deep, reflective, non-vulgar, mature blog posts? The truth is I may try. I may struggle in my head to get out those calm, unruffled, deeply philosophical stuff. Such as a woman reflecting on the quality of life whilst sipping her chamomile, being a woman in a man’s world and such. A man writing on corporate resource allocation and sustaining successful businesses in economic downturn. Or vice versa. Being a man in woman's world sipping whatever...you get the drift.

When I write, only nonsense tumbles out. Petty observations about people, cheap humor and the disorderly tragi-comic way of the world in general. So that’s my voice then. Of a vulgar writer. And on that note, let me share a petty account of a conference on road safety I recently attended in Delhi.

At the thinly attended winter-morning, inaugural session, the only moment of excitement occurred when the young usher’s sari almost caught fire during lamp lighting. As the entire auditorium looked on in anticipation for her sari to unravel, some backstage boys quickly carried away the damsel in distress. In utter despondence we focused on the conference, that began with deep discussions on the dismal state of road safety, by Indian and international presenters in bad accents. 

Before the tea break, an eager beaver asked – “So when can we expect central funding on road safety?”

“I hop soon,” said the speaker from the stage gravely. Ignoring his hop, people wrestled each other out for tea and pakodas.

As the following session presumed, a man in the audience dropped some pamphlets that were balanced precariously on both his thighs. The papers from thigh no 1 fell and spread silkily on the carpet. The man (presumably lazy) didn’t wish to spare the effort of bending and picking up the papers. Innovatively, he tried to pull the papers closer with one foot. As he stretched his leg forward to gather the fallen sheaf, the other pamphlets resting on thigh no 2 slid and fell. All the participants across the aisle and others, by craning their necks, focused on this welcome distraction. As the speaker on the dais droned on, all eyes eagerly waited to see the lazy man’s next move. 

Now with all papers on the floor and both thighs freed, he stretched both the legs in a synchronized effort to pull the papers closer. With the effort, his right shoe gave away and lay footless on the papers. It was clearly not his day. Now he stretched his left leg clumsily to bring the papers closer. The truant papers shifted position and went hiding under the chair of a beautiful woman to his left. Keen to help her struggling neighbour, the beautiful lady asked ‘Shall I spread my legs?’ She was not just beautiful, but was generous too, I noted. 

The lazy man nodded solemnly and said ‘Yes please. I need those papers.’ (like those old jokes where a man attempting to mount a camel out of sheer frustration, saves a naked woman from a demon, and when the woman offers her booty in return, the man says – just hold the camel for me). With the papers finally collected and the generous neighbour’s legs closed, the audience tried to focus on the graph on the screen yet again. Finally a dapper presenter headed to the stage and started by saying ‘Relax I don’t have a presentation.’ As we were starting to clap and walk away, he launched into a diatribe on road safety audits, the various stages it needs to be done in and the types of audits. He spoke for 45 minutes sans slides and breath.

The post lunch session was a pure torture with soft paneer and succulent mutton rolling in our bellies. The wily organisers had kept the torturous ‘exhibitor sponsor session’ post lunch. Foreigners from Europe, Australia and Norway came and spoke relentlessly on new technologies for enhancing road safety, in an effort to convince the govt. departments to buy their solutions and consultancies. The govt reps on their part slept peacefully in the front rows, displaying their cavities to the world, from where flowed rivulets of drool. 

A speaker from Norway was pointing enthusiastically at the screen and saying, "Lukh at z line on z graph in z sthatisthics representhing z road inzury data percenth over z last thwen years". Zzzzs was all he got from the audience. In my immediate neighbourhood, an older man and a big eyed girl were getting to know each other in hushed tones. They whispered about their lives, their growing up years, joys and sorrows, likes and loves. The older man spoke about his successful career and the big eyed girl about her father’s contacts and money. 
The man then asked the girl, “So has your father retired or does he work somewhere?” The girl gave it some thought and said “No no, he hasn't retired, he works somewhere.” Sadly the balance conversation was drowned, when the Norwegian raised his pitch in a passionate rendering which went like - “The TC 226 is in charge of the European normalization concerning the road equipment markings...." 

Somehow the hours passed, they seemed like days and months. Finally came the valedictory session where everyone individually thanked everyone else and their great grandfathers. In his vote of thanks, the chairperson alternated between calling the sessions valuable and invaluable. Some awards were given out where the awardees hung precariously near the edge of the stage, since flower pots occupied most part. 

Finally at 6 pm, people wriggled out the hall with bloodshot eyes characteristic of disturbed sleep. As I made way to the washroom pushing through the crowd that was clutching the free conference kits like family jewels, the beautiful woman (of the spread my legs fame) walked slowly in front of me. 

Bright sunflowers adorned her yellow sari. Two large flowers sat snugly on her bum. I wondered if I should race with her before the sunflowers hit the pot. To my good luck, she stopped momentarily and stared at the men’s door. She seemed confused, tempted probably...it had been a long day. I took advantage of her indecision and raced ahead by elbowing her. The day was finally over, I could whistle.  





Serious note: This, like everything else, is written in jest. To those that sponsored my visit to the conference, I attended not one but all three days, in all earnestness and took copious notes (some of which have found their way into this). Please do continue to send me to future conferences.  

http://www.hypersmash.com/

Sex and the Indian woman

*Not suitable for children, contains explicit adult content

Strange, that the subject matter of making of children happens to be non-children content. Thinking of such ironies of life, I start my adult piece. 

Its 9 am and probably the best time to write this. So I start thinking of morning shows at Regal, Connaught Place in Delhi. Talking of Regal, you must checkout the regal facelift it’s got. From its crumbling, pornographic look in the 90s, it’s undergone a fine transformation. Today’s Regal is white, shiny and slutty like Sunny Leone. Talking of Sunny, she has turned out to be the most searched Indian celebrity online beating the likes of Aishwarya Rai hands down, rather pants down. Okay no more digression....

Very late in life I understood that being horny has nothing to do with being fertile. Turns out I have been the former majority of my life, and the latter for a much lesser time. In the pursuit of horniness, fertility takes a backseat and vice versa. Being a woman has its disadvantages. And if you are an Indian woman, you start a few notches down. For starters, you can’t talk of your sexual appetite, experiences or preference, except in blogs like this that no one reads. If you are talking sex, you better stay anonymous, they’d say, or at best use asterisk to take the sting out. You can’t talk about the bronze chest you were distracted with at a meeting (but men can casually joke about your rack). You can’t say you envied a friend in college who was dedicated the song Nymphomaniac Fantasia by her then partner. You can’t say you are distracted by women whose last names are Kant. You can’t say a lot many things, funny things, dirty things, serious things. The Indian woman is supposed to have repressed sexuality, and carry it around as her biggest virtue.

This is how the typical desire cycle runs through an Indian woman’s life - In your teens, you are so busy guarding your physical security that sexuality is mostly an unwanted or feared phenomenon. We jump the exploratory phase that is crucial to defining our sexual identity and assertion. In your twenties, love starts rolling into your life and alongside your horniness quotient becomes directly proportional to your position on the ‘loose girl’ index of the society (considering the mostly inseparable linkages between love and sex). Of course, with a high quotient you will have more loves, more heartbreaks, more life. But to beat the ‘loose’ tag, most girls try and behave on the face of it. That’s the cause of more repression and exploitation. 

Then you start your work-life, of an independent modern Indian woman who likes her whiskey and pays her own bills. In this phase, you get to call the shots in almost everything about your life except for the four and three lettered joys (love and sex) that never seem to come together. If you are worthy of an Indian man's love, you can't display uninhibited passion. If you express passion, you are just good for that. You can't be taken home to mum. So if you are in love, it will do you well to keep your sparkling sexual conversations in your head unless you can handle being judged harshly. And if you've given up on love, you might as well give up on sex. Keep the scenes where you pick up dashing men with your dashing pick-up lines confined to your fantasy. Indian men don’t like to be picked up. They like to pick their target, fool around, chase, hunt, and later, sit on judgment. 

Along the way, you may meet an evolved man who will know you and love you for your spunk and original passion, but don't bank on them. They are as rare as - I heard somewhere recently - the 6th finger, the 11th toe and the 3rd nipple. Majority you meet for dating or keeps, get excited by, as a matter of concept, the wild woman or the sexually assertive. But prefer the cloistered variety, the semi-puritans who keep their eyes shut, like their lights off and save bedroom talk for out-of-town (with capabilities of packing a gratifying four-course meal in a tiffin carrier the morning after).

Then marriage happens for most and post marriage action by both partners are for various motives – hopeful of an offspring before the female of the species runs out of eggs (offspring - offspringing like a byproduct); as an accompaniment to the vivid fantasy of Sunny Leone or Hugh Jackman or a real-life Sunny or Hugh you’ve been eyeing; or to keep your machinery in working order. Everything else, except love and sex for love and sex itself. 

And before you can say Jaaaccckkk Roooobbbiinnnsoon, you would be running downhill. Whether you have a bundle of joy to distract you, or are free of such encumbrances, your hormone switches start turning off and your balance life is spent in consolatory, loveless-sexless pursuits.

Given the bleakness of the situation, in my next birth I would like to be someone like ND Tiwari, the posterboy of unabashed sexuality - a Y chromosome, with the ability to buy choices and wave the stick of morality in someone else's face; all along enjoying fucking blessed longevity. 

And to the Gods reading this (since human beings are not), please throw-in a lifetime membership to mile high club...

I am complaining again

Jaipur, popularly and very gaily called Pink City came out tops in a 2011 Happiness Survey by Outlook-Mahindra Club (don't bash me up for Pink/Gay/Happy connotation, I am just feeling undiplomatic. Read Love in the Land of LGBT for my real views). Back to the survey - it's another story that about 2000 people out of 1.27 billion were surveyed for happiness. 

It’s soon going to be a year. Yet I don’t like the city any better. But that's my incorrigibility. I have whined before about not liking Bangalore's weather, it made me glum and suicidal; now I have a dislike for Jaipur's happiness. I feel hemmed in here. In this dead peaceful city, my restlessness grows. I am biased. I don’t like the street names I say - Imli fatak, Jaleb chowk, Jhotwara, Jhaalawar, Jhaalana Doongri, Moti Doongri. Awful, they sound. What do I prefer then? Timarpur, Mayapuri, Munirka, Masoodpur? Maybe.

I am a fan of the metropolis. I like the pulse of a big city. The glamour of non-stop action, of which you may or may not be a part; the madness of millions (including the serpentine traffic jams), the seedy underbelly and the anarchy. I love their unrestrained frenzy, loveliness, ugliness and vulgarity. Delhi, Gurgaon and Mumbai. (Bangalore is an overgrown halli). 

I miss Delhi. Its exquisite beauty in the winters, wrapped in fog. Throbbing with life and sweat in the burning summers. Bursting at the seams during rains. The green of the city's affluent, the brown of the down-to-the-wire, and the yellow haze of everything in between (like the glow of DDA flats in the fading sun). The boorishness of its men, the pigeons on its window sills. I love it all. The city's characterless character. Loosely moralled. With no respect for boundaries. Much like myself. Lacking in compunction. Standing tall, stuffed with pride, despite its failings. Yet, groveling time to time, to get what it wants. More like me.   

Jaipur is a peaceful city. Its people seem to have values. Values are supposed to be good. Family type values. Extended-family type values. Stable group of friends (who must be family folks too). They keep you grounded (chained, I think). Tethered. Like a farm animal. With a defined grazing radius. Lest you graze too far, run amok, snitch other’s people’s stuff, cause destruction. (In Jaipur, the State Women’s Commission is housed along with the Livestock Development Board. Such coincidences are not without reason).

To me, this city represents confinement. An oppressive pinkness. An unnecessary gaiety of the bazaars. Arches, pillars and havelis stifle you wherever you go. An old worldliness like a veiled threat 'Stay old and conventional'. It represents the suffocating safety of long marriages (not to be confused with security, physical or emotional). The elevation of virtuous women (the ubiquitous bhabhis) that cover their heads and spend their lives tending to families, birthing (and rebirthing, till they hit the right chromosomal combination). A city of 40 lakhs, confined by anchors - peace, joint family type values, stability, safety. None of the virtues I could ever hold dear. So what do I do? I spend my days foreboding about my de-tethering, if and when it happens. 


"We brought you to Richmond to give you peace," says Leonard Woolf in The Hours, when his crazy wife tries to run back to London.

Virginia Woolf responds, "I choose not the suffocating anesthetic of the suburbs, but the violent jolt of the capital. That is my choice."

The Diary of a Harridan

If you are a born harridan, people have trouble believing in your hidden goodness. Despite my pint sized structure, I am known to be quite a terror. It’s true I belong to what you call the no-nonsense category. I cannot deny that if you present me with a spade, I may end up calling it a spade. Ordinarily if you say "Oh what a beautiful morning!!" I am likely to give you cold stares. And when you grab my arm excitedly and say “It’s nice no” I would usually say no. You can also say with some certainty that I flare up quickly at the sight of stupidity. And you may call me caustic, once you and I have had a few drinks together. I'm called khadoos (obnoxious) - at work, by the biological family and the family acquired by marriage.

One day, after an in-depth analysis, I decided to show the world what a golden person lay dormant beneath the biting exterior. Here’s what transpired on that dark day of my life when I tried to reveal my innate goodness.

(Everything in red brackets are my thought crimes).

Abbreviations: Mother in law (MIL), Daughter in law (DIL)

Morning:

I decided to start the day of my goodness earlier than my usual 8:00 am. Firstly, it was a struggle to get up with the chirping birds and secondly to start chirping myself, especially when the first sight that presented itself was the MIL.

Me, trying to be enthusiastic: "Morning Mummy!"

MIL: "Oh what a beautiful morning!!! It was today. But how would you know? You are not a morning person."

Conversations between MILs and DILs are what workshops on ‘International Negotiation Strategies: Theory and Practice’ made of. They constitute layered dialogues, varied intentions, hidden agendas, cultural clashes, secret missions, blocs and alliances. Sometimes diplomacy and tact are displayed, other times strongly worded protests are exchanged and when nothing works, war and destruction follow. So when the not-a-morning-person bullet was fired at me, I was ready to fire my ammo. (This is the most morning I can wake up MIL. Besides your son never wakes up before noon. What do you have to say to that. Nothing, I am sure). However, remembering my resolve, I bite my tongue and decide to choke on the tea instead.

The next target of my chirping personality is the comatose husband: 

“Good morning sleepyhead. Here’s a cup of hottt ginger tea for you.” I coo into his ears, hair dripping with water and smile filled with rare love. No response. During the second coo, a few drops of water accidentally trickle into his ears and he shows some sign of life. Scratching his ear, he wakes up with a sudden jerk almost knocking the tea out of my hand. 

(Jerk!)

The better half stares at me with bloodshot eyes as if seeing a ghost. He then proceeds to look in shock at my hand as if it is holding a cup of steaming poison. Immediately, he closes his eyes to the nightmare that I am, and drops dead.

Unfazed, I take my pleasant and cheerful self to work. Usually, I get greatly annoyed because early in the morning, people gather around my cubicle, sitting on desks (and the lighter ones on arm-rests) giggling, while my garrulous neighbour talks authoritatively on clothes, fashion, make-up, film gossip or some such trivia. As I entered that day, smiles died mid-way on people’s lips and they started shuffling. However, I stopped them in their tracks and asked:

"So what plans for the weekend folks! Who’s watching the latest Salman Khan flick eh?" A few uneasy murmurs is all I get by way of an answer. Disappointed, but not over yet, I tell myself.

Afternoon:

Carrying forward my Goodwill Mission, I decide to call the MIL who complains that I never call her during the day or answer her calls:

Me: "Hello mummy! Hope I didn’t catch you sleeping."

MIL (in a heavy voice): "As a matter of fact I was." (That’s the reason you feel so tired. Maybe some work once in a while will keep the bounce in your step.)

Me: "Oh I’m so sorry. I just called to say I have got you a new handbag. Didn’t you need one?"

MIL: "I thought you don’t have a minute to breathe at work. So are they giving you the golden handshake?"

Me, ignoring the sarcasm: "There was a sale that I went to, with my colleagues. SO."  (So, just be grateful, say thank you and go back to your winks.)

MIL coldly: "I don’t buy stuff from sale."  (This is not a local sale you snob, it’s THE MANGO sale. Haa! what would you know? Mango for you and your relatives is what you eat all day).

Me: "It’s not just any sale Maa, its the Mango sale!"

MIL, false smile in voice: "I find Mango stuff very teeny bopper beta, but yes if you’ve got something for me, I am sure it is befitting my age."  (Finally, you’ve decided to act your age!! Praise be to the Lord.)

Me: "You’ll love it mummy! Its bright mustard with polka dots."

MIL, in an ice cold voice: "Sure. Do keep the bill."

Me: "I will. Promise. But you can’t exchange stuff bought on sale."

MIL disconnects the phone.

Ignoring the MIL, I decide to unleash my sparkling nature on my colleagues. It's time for the team meeting. I usually take this as a forum to whine and complain that I am overburdened and nobody works as hard as I do. This meeting is presided over by my Lady Boss who is generally wise and pleasant, but suffers from Lethologica (a condition where she frequently forgets words and names).

Anyway, I sit still throughout the meeting without cutting anyone, swallowing criticism that rises like a wave within me, and even smile on occasions. During the closing comments, I just add:

“Guys, all of us have our plates full, there are deadlines to meet and there are last minute requests. Let’s accept it - this is the nature of our job, and we must not complain. But what we can do better is look for our synergies…so we are more productive and happy as a team. For starters, I am around. In case anyone needs me for anything, you just needa shout.”

I will not dwell on the nature of the shocked silence in the room. I just notice that in their sockets, Lady Boss’ eyes become twice their size (which is quite a lot and can instill fear in the bravest of brave). Later, taking advantage of my speech, she gives me some last minute work that's not mine. But a lively ‘Sure Boss!’ is all she gets out of me. Around evening, Lady Boss calls me on my extension line.

“What's your name again?”

“Ananya”

“Oh ya. Yes then. Come into my room. We need to have a …what do you call it…?”

"Cup of tea?" I say helpfully.

"No no," she says irritably.

"Chat?" 

“Ya Ya…we need to have a chat. Come.”

'We need to have a chat' is usually uttered by the boss during performance appraisal or during instances of gross bad behavior on my part. I am filled with dread. As I enter her cabin, she says, 

“Close that thing after you.” I shut the door. And fearfully take the edge of the seat.

She clears her throat and says, “Look, I don’t say that all is well with our …mmmm...team. I am sure you would more than agree that there is a lot of scope for….what do you call it?

"Improvement?" I pitch in.

"Yes yes that’s what I mean.....See you have to understand none of us is perfect and …we all bend under. What do you call it yaa?"

"What?"

"That thing you cook in?"

"Frying Pan?"

"No No…arey that thing that whistles."

"Cooker?"

"Yes yes cooker. But why was I talking about cooker?"

"No idea boss."

"Think think."

"Ok.... Oh, you said we all bend under the cooker."

"No silly, pressure.”

The MIL was right. Looked like the handshake, whatever the colour, would follow. She wipes her brow and continues uncomfortably, 

“I have noticed that you have been under a lot of…you know what, righttt?? And maybe it has started taking a toll on.... you know...your being well. We often don’t realize the early ---- whatever. You know those things like ‘calm before the storm, like..like… coherence before insanity'. So all I am telling you is to take it easy. Take a couple days off, go someplace and you will become normal again.” 

I thank her for her concern and head to my seat in a haze. The day seemed like going downhill and night was fast approaching.

Night:

The husband stretched diagonally across the bed, watching the news and yelling:

“I am hungreeee. Does anyone in this house care?” (Ask your mother, you lout)

Me: "Yes sweetpea! Getting you din din" (creative expression for dinner)…

Husband: “Pass me the ketchup,…KETCHUPPP.” (Learn to say please, you pig.)

Me: "Why, sure! I should have got it earlier."

Husband: “Hand me a bottle of water?” (I keep the bottle on the table with a noticeable thud).

“This water is not cold. It’s 45 degrees outside for God’s sake. You want me to die of thirst or what.”  (Now that’s a possibility I hadn’t worked out!)

Post dinner:

Husband: “Hit me with a cigarette, will you?”  (I can hit you with many other things – boulders for instance)

Me: "Here's the ciggy, the ashtray and how about a nightcap that I can fix you?!

Later, Husband: “Come out of the bathroom…I need to use! Now NOW!” (Get your bladder fixed once and for all, you miser. I will get my daddy to sponsor it).

Me: "Won’t be a moment dear!"

Finally at bed, as I get ready to score by insisting I have no headache, the better half stares at the ceiling and says in a Eureka moment:

“Wait. I know!!! You are having an affair aren’t you?!! You CAN'T be so nice otherwise!”

I attempt to smother him with a pillow. I try for a good 5 minutes but the air supply just refuses to cut. 

Anyway, both husband and wife survive to see the next morning, by which time I have already resolved that it’s not worth deviating from your true nature. 

The Fallen Woman

I am a banana peel thrower’s delight. You know the kind that intentionally throws a banana peel in the middle of the road and hides behind a tree to watch? 'Be careful', I warn others. And then I forget, walk unsuspectingly, head in the clouds, slip and fall; face first. 

Apart from this type of general carelessness, I have two left feet. Acutely aware of this disability, in unknown places I walk gingerly like I am stepping on ice. However, since normal surfaces are not made of ice, my ice-walk doesn't work. I trip and fall disgracefully. On such occasions I casually smile and say 'I'm trippin', but my wit is usually lost on the better half who says I am an embarrassment to go out with. Then I analyze my problem on google. I troll through pages and I don’t know why, but I am given tips about walking on ice. It says I should try walking like a penguin, since they have mastered the walk. With this effort, I fall even more. 

In known places, I am more at ease. I don’t fall really but I keep banging into tables and bed corners, walk into doors or any other furniture lying in its destined place. You would think this loss of motor-control is because I’m an octogenarian or thereabouts; but actually I am a young, dashing, easily excitable woman, in my early thirties for many years now. 

With the above being the state of how I walk, you can imagine my plight when I have had to take jumps of any kind. Of course I don’t mean the – ‘Go, take a jump’ kind of thing that the husband tells me each time I ask him for anything. I mean the sudden jumps that one has to undertake in life, faced with an eventuality. So here is a wild jump, I remember having taken. 

When I was 15, I had to attend an extra class in school. Leading a typically sheltered life of a school-girl, I was used to traveling by the school bus. On the ill-fated day, the arch enemy of my childhood (my elder brother) offered to take me along on public transport. I should have known his intentions. Anyway, we got into a rusty Delhi Transport Corporation bus that contained a few thousand people. The moment, the sibling pushed me on to the bus, we were separated like in the movies by a sea of fat, sweaty people. I was overwhelmed. I had never seen anything like that in my tender years. Being pushed by all sides, I stood right in the middle, squeezed into half of my usual size (which is not very much). Sweaty armpits loomed large on my face. I fell against soft cushiony bums and a few people purposefully stood on my feet. 

As luck would have it, the place where we had to get off came unannounced and suddenly I glimpsed the elder sibling standing on the street gesticulating. As I pushed through the crowd with all my might, resembling a mini bulldozer, the bus started moving. By now, I could hear my mother's first born yelling frantically – 'Jump Jummmp JUUMMPPP.' 

In the cacophony, I froze for a few seconds staring at the stretch of moving tar in front me, glistening in the sun. No one had prepared me for this day. I didn’t even know whether to jump in the direction of the moving bus or the opposite. I chose the opposite, where the betrayer stood, wildly flailing his arms. My life of a few years flashed in front of my eyes. I would see my enemy for the last time, I thought satisfactorily. And then I took the leap into the unknown.

While this event of great significance was taking place, an hour or half prior to my tragedy, a childless couple had decided to appease the gods of reproduction by feeding a cow (Indian cows enjoy demi-God status, hence the expression 'Holy Cow!'). That morning, the couple scouting for a hungry cow couldn’t locate any, to their dismay. All they spotted was this healthy and disinterested cow meandering on the main road. They parked their car in front of it and began force-feeding the reluctant animal. 

'I will ruminate on it later’, said the mammal to itself and gulped halfheartedly whatever they were stuffing into its face. So while I was preparing for the great fall, this very cow decided to take a hearty dump, to lighten itself of this unusual breakfast. Having done its deed, it ambled away slowly. It was this fresh, bright yellow mound of shit that I landed on when the bus full of people ejected me. 

‘BULL SHIT’!  exclaimed the sibling in a volume that the city of over 14 million heard. He deserted me promptly and refused to recognize me in school later. 

Anyway, instinct saved my face from getting smeared. The left arm and school bag were not spared. They landed in the center of the manure. After endless minutes of pondering over my fate, I limped slowly to the school smelling like a Delhi municipal toilet at 6 in the morning, without water supply. 

While at school, I cleaned whatever could be cleaned. The teacher, a secret practitioner of Chinese torture didn't give me the day off despite the enormity of my tragedy. Smelly, abhorred, ostracized and shame faced, the day passed somehow. At home later the mother (another practitioner of the said torture) threw away the school bag. She was making up her mind to throw me away too when a pang or two of motherhood struck her and I was retained. 

Needless to say, I was variously referred to as 'shit-face', 'potty-face' and what not, for years to come. 

Waiting for Godot

Tigers, these days are a much respected and revered lot. They are under threat of extinction and justifiably so, trans-national and state machineries are working overtime to save them. From page-3 tiger parties to international conventions, the theme is singular – Save the Tiger. 

Fat donations are pouring in from the likes of actors Leonardo Di Caprio, Amitabh Bachchan and Russian Prime Minister Putin, who are puttin’ (note: pun) the money where the mouth is. And whenever the world’s interest in the cause starts to waver, they rope in Lindsay Lohan (in the desi context Sherlyn Chopra/ Poonam Pandey) for a nude Tiger series. With a loud growl the coffers start overflowing again.

Sandalwood Veerappan is dead. Naxalites (‘Gandhians with guns’ as activist Arundhati Roy fondly calls them) are passé. Tiger poachers are the new state enemy. These gangstas are out to rob us of our leftover feline beauties by selling their precious parts to international syndicates. However, just like the best laid plans of mice and men, their sophisticated poaching tactics go awry. Brave forest officials ambush them, a dramatic chase ensues, the bastards are nabbed by their collars, and we see their hankie covered faces alongside beaming officials on national television. But the twist in the tale (tail) is that the tigers are almost always killed.  

Which brings me to the Great Tiger Conspiracy by the Indian animal conservation parks. It seems that majority of the tigers in India are already dead due to poaching, apathy and neglect. But to save face and keep the money flowing in, the national parks and their cohorts are keeping the farce of the tiger, alive. Through smart PR, they plant stories of high-on-testosterone tigers making away with unsuspecting babies and pretty village belles, the way men from Haryana do. The resorts around the national parks advertise heavily, tour operators talk about tiger seasons and forest officials speak knowingly about tigers' preferred  brunch, who is spotted sleeping with whom, their favourite tree for the siesta and the times they get up to pee at night. 

Sample this latest visit to the Pench National Park in Madhya Pradesh touted to have at least 30 big cats at the last count:

The tiger-spotting trap got me conned the moment I said 'Tiger' to my travel agent who usually spoke in monosyllables and on special occasions through hand gestures. He nodded excitedly and before I could say T-A-A-E-E-E-G-E-R a second time, he whisked out the confirmed booking of an expensive resort, bunged in a safari for extra, threw in a few taxes, cess and duties. Dutifully emptying my wallet, I asked the crucial question: Will I spot a tiger? It was a special occasion that deserved gestures. He jerked his head in what I guess was his positive response and as I walked out, happily flashed a V for Victory with the wrong fingers. Then he sank back into his chair to rip off other gullible people eager to spot the non-existent tigers.  

The drive to Pench was uneventful and unpicturesque except for the large green signages with majestic tigers about to leap off on our car. At the resort, I was eagerly welcomed with a wet face towel that had a tiger on it. The staff alternating between Hindi, Marathi and experimental English insisted on calling me Sir (saaar) (semi urban folk in India are all for gender equality). I asked the thin, mousy receptionist if tigers were being spotted on those days. He dropped his voice a few notches and whispered mysteriously, 

"What are you saying saar? This IS the season! All tourists are spotting HIM in both morning and afternoon safaris." I wondered if there was a particular HIM that I would spot, but later realized that everyone spoke about the tiger with immense respect and in hushed tones.

After that everything else that followed were tiger related, except for the beast itself. There was tiger paraphernalia all around. Cups and saucers were printed with a striped tail, there were coffee table books on the mighty beast, a gigantic oil on canvas depicting the majestic stride hung on the wall…you get the drift. As I settled for the night I remembered the mousy manager’s warning for the early morning safari – 
"Better not be late than sorry saar." I pondered its meaning for a long time and fell asleep hugging the tiger-print pillow. 

A weak but persistent knock on my door early dawn woke me up. I opened up to a faintly smiling waiter standing in the morning mist saying: 

"Your Potty please. Will help when you go to see HIM."

In hindsight, the waiter was right, the pot-tea was needed as there would be no food or water for what seemed like the end of time, waiting for the big beast to show itself. So, at 5.30am I got into the jeep with fellow tourists who for some reason were dressed like hunters. 

We had to pay more money to get an authorized guide, who walked up to our gypsy and smiled benevolently. "Very good morning," he said. "Myself Waghmare" (a common Maharashtrian lastname that meant Tiger-killer). I said to him in a strict tone: 

"Waghmare, I hope we will spot a tiger." 

"Not to worry," he said with a confident grin, "You will see HIM at least a few times in today’s trip. Happy saar?"

On that positive note, the big search began. The gypsy rattled for 15 minutes through a narrow forest path and reached a water pool. 

Waghmare exclaimed, "HIS favourite hole saar!" 

Within a few minutes, more gypsy cars trooped in at HIS favourite hole. Eager faces and binoculars kept staring at a muddy waterhole for half an hour. Suddenly, the sound of steady breathing was broken by a cacophony of animal cries. The vehicles jerked wildly and raced to the direction the sound came from. Waghmare almost fell off our gypsy and then steadying himself spoke in a panic-struck voice:

“That’s the sound of the Sambar (Indian deer) signalling other animals saar! HE must have reached the other hole. This one is a man-made hole, the other one is natural. Maybe HE likes natural these days,” he said tremulously. 

Five vehicles crash-landed near waterhole no 2 in barely a few seconds. Whatever chance there was of spotting a tiger would have been eliminated by the ruckus of the vehicles. Anyway we resumed with our soundless waiting. This time the anxious silence was broken by a loud fart. The offender kept staring at the bushes determinedly. Potty had done its job, I noted. 

After a few more minutes of silence, a rustling sound came from the woods. A man straight out of Kile Ka Rahasya (the scary TV serial from childhood) walked out of the deep, waving a stick portentously. He was scraggy, oily looking with bloodshot eyes and stained teeth. He said in an ominous tone, 

"Go away. HE is gone. HE was here this morning. Gone. Gone." 

He briskly walked past and disappeared into thin air. Suddenly a guide from one of the other vehicles pointed at something on the ground. Everyone gathered to see what they were. Pug marks. To me they looked like any other animal’s. Like Jhumroo's, our domesticated stray dog back home. 

With the unanimous conclusion that HE had left waterhole no 2, Waghmare said he would take us to a faraway lake where HE can almost always be spotted, playing with cubs. He added that the long drive to the lake, cutting through the forest, will be very enjoyable as we will get to see a lot of wild animals. We were left with no choice. With sullen silence and long faces we embarked on our excursion. 

The next major distraction was when Waghmare squealed,

“Look saar! WHORES!” 

Eager eyes scanned the bushes for the variety indigenous to these parts. All we saw was a tired looking horse tottering on its hooves aimlessly. 'Herbiwhore' I muttered to myself.

Wild dogs were spotted next. Waghmare acquired his tremulous voice yet again, 

“You can spot HIM easily saars, but wild dogs? (longish pause for effect) NO way! They are ferocious, clever and hide well. Why! One rarely gets to see them!” 

As he completed speaking, a pack of not less than half a dozen dogs with fox like faces scampered away. Dogs done. What next now Waghmare? 

“Look, look! Wild Boars” was the next visceral reaction. I half expected him to say wild whores. 

“Pigs in a swamp are a common sight in any Indian city, Waghmare. These are just uglier,” said my neighbor dressed like a hunter.

Undaunted, Waghmare continued to show us other species with palpable excitement. He showed us owls that stared at us warily from the trees. He pointed at the white-haired, black-faced langoors sitting sorrowfully with their babies in their laps. We saw Nilgais standing in a group staring into the horizon. We saw the four-horned antelopes having a good time tickling each other in the waist area with their many horns. 

Finally, we reached our destination and parked ourselves exactly in the middle of an open expanse. There was a lake on one side, another forest in the front and a blue simmering sky over our heads. After a while of waiting under the harsh May morning sun and sweating like the boars we just saw, my neighbor  remarked, 



“Waghmare, by waiting in the center of this field are we spotting the tiger or is HE spotting us?” I felt an immediate bonding with the fellow hunter. 

Waghmare said calmly, 
“We are not allowed into that forest saar. So we have to wait here till HE comes out of the forest to go to the lake.” 

Of course, Godot never came. Simply because HE didn't exist. When we returned to our resort an hour later two shades darker and feeling like we had suffered a heat-stroke, I wanted to shake Waghmare by his collar and yell:

"WAGHMARE!!! You and your bloody ancestors are responsible for all the tigers vanishing." 

A Restless Life

In English, August Agastya Sen’s father tells him at some point - “Most of us live with a vague dissatisfaction if we are lucky. Living as we do, upon us is imposed a particular rhythm – birth, education, job, marriage, birth again. But we all have minds don’t we.”

I don’t know if I can call myself lucky, but I suffer from this wretched disease. Of persistent dissatisfaction. Of an inability to calm down, embrace peace and emotional stability. It may be a bearable affliction compared to many other illnesses, yet it plays havoc with the system. With age and maturing relationships, one needs to bring harmony in daily life, fit into the society (that we are condemned with) and settle down emotionally. Suppress restlessness. Tame the spirit. Buy peace (however expensive or damaging it may be). Angst looks good on you when you are a teenager. Or in your twenties. Anytime after that, it comes across as foolish, fatuous, faked.

But instead of taking inspiration, I look with trepidation at those dispassionate faces who have made their peace with life. Their restful looks and dull smiles of contentment throttle my spirit. Instead of the unbridled joy that turning calm is supposed to bring, it makes me terribly afraid. Afraid of a life akin to one in a mental facility. Sedated, calm, functioning like an assembly line. Your own life turned into a generic component.

Then I seek expert help. Best friend (woman) brushes it aside, .“Silly girl. Why can’t you like dailiness and peace? What else is there? Anyway you have never been the party-type” It’s a passion of the spirit, I argue, nothing to do with wanting to party. Best friend (male) says gravely, “I have always noticed that you have been very confused in life.” I get clarity in strife, I protest. Peace dulls my edges. The better half (male) says, “Of course you do it to harass me. Your sole aim in life.” I resign.

Following this periodic feedback, I try to settle into society’s rhythm yet again. I quiet down. I ease up. I turn down feisty. This mellowing down, being agreeable, settling into the rhythm of life dictated by the society kills my spirit. As I turn peaceful, demons possess me. In the nights my throat is always parched, my bladder is always full, my temples throb, and I toss and turn, head full of misery. The days go by in an envelope of  hopelessness. A dark clammy quiet grows and settles around the heart.

I feel wretched in mellow. I go silent in the soul. I lose the will to live. I start ageing rapidly. Grays on my head grow in geometric progression. Crow’s feet branch out of my eyes. Tired smile lines look back at me from the mirror. Not that I choose to stay in this state for long. I crave for my familiar discontent. I bring it back. I nourish it. Teach it to gnaw at my heart. I get ready to toss out the faux calm for the sake of my sanity.

Then one morning I wake up and say loudly - I am immensely unhappy. I am dissatisfied. I say to myself. I say to whoever cares to listen. I glow. Angst, passion, strife, discontent, restlessness return. They illuminate everything around. Fuel my mind. I burn the fires of discontent within me. I live again.

The Life and Times of Candy Bhatia

When Candy Bhatia was being born to a comfortable West Delhi family, frantic activity was taking place up above. Venus was canoodling with members of the opposite sex, Cupid was queuing up for an orgy and Kamadeva (the Indian god of lust) was riding a parrot to chase his consort Rati (a vision Candy’s admirers often saw). As the young doctor, a resident of West Delhi himself came to check on her after 48 hours, baby Candy checked him out instead. She winked at him charmingly from her basket and kept staring till he blushed. The flustered doctor gently warned the parents about future possibilities, who claimed much later that this creature of boundless lust must have been switched at birth.

Since then there was no looking back. No man, particularly from West and East Delhi felt safe. Mothers and wives warned their boys and men against the charms of this man-eater. From Shahdara to Raja Garden, from Preet Vihar to Vikaspuri, men of all ages found it difficult to hold on to their virtue with Candy around. In her sleeveless salwar-kameezes held at the bosom with flimsy buttons or lacy ribbons, she would be found in the neighbourhood chaat shops, seductively biting into aloo tikkis, gulping down pani puri, blowing sensuously at hot samosas, lust dripping from her.

Candy Bhatia’s unique charm lay in the fact that her predatory manner was offset by her feigned innocence. She fooled the men into thinking that their getting laid had to do primarily with their good-looks, intelligence, affluence etc. In reality, once Candy marked her target, there was little they could do to escape. Like the dog that doggedly pees to mark his territory, the very potent Candy Bhatia sultrily established her territorial superiority across West and East Delhi. As a result, by the time she turned 21, mothers of young Punjabi girls from the said area looking for virgin grooms started actively considering neighbouring states for chaste matches. 

Finally, in an effort to tame her free run of hormones, her family tried to get her married. She married a few times, promptly deserted the men and moved on in life with the sure footedness of a gazelle looking for her foliage to bite. 


At ABC Corporation where she worked, Candy Bhatia rose from a mere receptionist to the Admin In-Charge in a few years. She was a roaring success. She delighted the men by walking around sensuously in office, swaying her hips, flaunting colourful dupattas (that slid more than rested on her chest), gamboling about, as she organized Miss Lohri, Miss Diwali, Miss Holi competitions all of which she proceeded to win, hands down. As time passed and Candy gained a few pounds and grayed, her skill in the art of seduction peaked. Additionally, she became a great counselor too.

Client Relationship Manager, Mr. Sharma: “Arey Candy, I missed the train to my hometown.” 

Candy: “It is sign of sexual frustration. You constantly keep missing impotent things. It is happening in all marriage these days. I know some good divorce lawyer. Take number from me.”

Rekha, the young engineer: “Candyjee, look at me. How will I attend my friend’s marriage with these zits on my face? How will I show off?”

Candy, sympathetically: “My dear, I understand. Tits on your face. Not good. Your tits should be on another’s face na. And what use if you can’t show them around during someone else’s marriage. Here, let me give you card of Tansukh clinic...Hari Nagar, not far. I know the owner.” Winking and whispering conspiratorially “Go today only. Big thing happen in small money.”

Khannajee, the accounts in-charge: “Listen Candy. I couldn’t sleep last night.” 

Candy gives him a you-naughty-boy smile.

Khannajee: “No no. I dreamt of a hanging cobra in my sleep. What on earth could it mean?”

Candy, smiling knowingly, “Cobra is felic* symbol. You know felas*? One that fellow Freewd* invented? You need more action dear. Come to meeting room after lunch. I will give home remidy. After, no more cobra hanging in your sleep. Only beautiful ladis like me.”

*(Phallic, Phallas, Freud)

Finally, when the disciplinary committee gave her the golden handshake, a pall of gloom descended at ABC Corporation. A few men contemplated slitting their wrists as a mark of protest, some wrote her farewell letters in blood and others turned celibate. Overall productivity in the organization fell drastically. 

Because of her good graces, one of her admirers referred Candy for a job at the rival DEF Corporation. At the interview:

Boss: Candy Bhatia. What a unique name!

Candy: Sweet to taste sir. Like the candy.

Boss, clearing his voice: So Candy, your CV has everything else but doesn’t say where we can find you?

Candy, innocently: Why? The Badroom sir

Boss: No, I mean your CV doesn’t have your address, where do you live?

Candy (dupatta slipping from the chest): Ohh. Wast Delhi sir 

Boss blinking: When can you join?

Candy, fluttering eyelashes: I’m totally avlabel sir. When you want, I come…Always

Boss, gulping: See we have a very different work culture from ABC… 

Before he can complete, Candy: I’m totally flaxible sir. When you want, I show flaxible, when you want I show hard to get

Boss’ pencil drops in shock, Candy bends over to pick it up, a button on the chest of her sleevless kurta pops open:

Candy straightening up: You asking for more sir? 

Boss: What?!

Candy: Quschun sir? 

Boss, sweating: Oh yes, Are you a team player?

Candy: Full team will be too big to play at once no, sir. I can play 2-3 people one time 

Boss: No no, you misunderstand, are you friendly? Do you get along with people?

Candy, in all seriousness: Yes sir, vary frandly. Totall frandly. I’m a vary lonely woman. So frandship is always must.

As sweatbeads break out on the Boss' forehead, he is confronted with a vision of a thin, good looking God riding a bright green parrot with a luscious red beak, charging towards him full throttle.

Needless to say, Candy Bhatia landed the job. Today, rival DEF Corporation is scaling heights with its workforce of happy men. And the HR at ABC Corporation is spending obscene amounts of money in motivational initiatives to bring its male employees back to life.