Jabberwock posted some time ago about the longest Google search that led to his site.
"I just want to play a hindi song kal ho na ho in my piano and i am having 31 keys please show me the number keys to play"
'Cho chweet!' said Jabberwock.
'Tho fruthrating', the poor seeker must have said, because none of the 5 search pages that Google threw up - yes, I had to check - yielded any number keys for Kal ho na ho for pianos with 31 keys.
Google is God. Or at least that's what seekers out there believe, who beseech Google for a mind-boggling array of requests from 'tupperware' to 'accepting unfairness'. For some time now, I've been checking my Sitemeter account not so much for the hits (which have been curiously and boringly unvarying, week after week) but for the Google searches that lead to my blog. Any time I'm in need of entertainment, I only have to refer to the word document where I've stashed away some of the cute and quirky key words and phrases.
Not all are as riotous as Jabberwock's piano player, but there's a certain absurd thrill in finding out that someone's looking for
'tickled feet' or 'Prince Williams horoscope predictions' or 'inches bubblegum her she' (!).
Here's a sampling of some of the others:
The 'Most-Wanted' Type
Healthy tiffins in mumbai (there are some serious health fanatics out there!)
Brand Equity quiz questions (the event was over months ago, but the queries haven't stopped.)
Burmese Khau Suey (this is one popular dish)
The 'Ego-Massage' Type:
Absolute lee
Leela alvares blog
Leela Day (Splendid idea, I say)
Leela copywriter
The 'What-on-earth-did-you-want-that-for' Type
nose bubblegum
gum bubble bigger than her head (is there a kinky bubblegum fetish club?)
stuck in the washroom
The 'You naughty-thing-you' type
wearing tight underwear
my aunt aroused me
hacking the yahoo
sexy ads
free goodbye letters to office colleagues
sweaty woman
The 'Tell-me-why/what' type
why do eyes twitch
obituary writer what do
What is a paperless office
What happened to the idea of a paperless office? (My ex-office had a paperless loo if it helps)
Salaries of copywriters (inflated, just like their egos :)
Selling price of Souk Madinat Jumeirah (has got to be one of those rich Arabs. 'Ah very nice this 'otel. Must get me one of them.')
The 'Huh-what-was-that-again' type
absolute+uncut+dick
looked up azad
"starts with a ends with b"
michael slater india mentally weak
humor statistics bow low
fat guy singing mila he mila ho
The 'Careful-with-that' type
lip accidents with dental drills (owwwwch!)
open beer teeth
bone sticking out of my gum bone surgery why (I get nightmares about this one, especially after I've been through this!)
The 'Fans-are-dying-to-know' Type
how tall is aishwarya?
ayesha takia worst pictures (must be the ex!))
aditya chopra gay (is that a question or statement?)
The 'One-that-has-me-stumped' Type
preeti+leela+monkey (is that my brother you're referring to??)
To all those whom Google has (mis)led here, a warm welcome. And thanks for all the entertainment.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Egad!
Rediffblogs has finally gone about making the long-overdue changes in the template - especially in the Blog Editor. But things haven't been ironed and nailed down yet. My
latest post refused to show up on screen. And bloglines revealed a brutally mangled version. Will try posting it later with crossed fingers.
latest post refused to show up on screen. And bloglines revealed a brutally mangled version. Will try posting it later with crossed fingers.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Online/Offline
You’ve never met them but you almost know what they look like. You’ve never spoken to them but you know where they went for dinner last night. You don’t even know their name but you know some of their darkest secrets.
20 months of blogging later, I'm still enamored by the paradoxes inherent in blogging. And although I’ve met a dozen or so bloggers, I’m still a cocktail of elation, anticipation and nerves each time I meet a new one.
So you can imagine my state last week when I met three bloggers – two of them, for the first time. I met them individually, of course. For some reason, the idea of meeting a group of bloggers (group of anything, in fact) unsettles me. There tends to be a bunch of knots where my tongue usually is. And things go downhill from there.
Not so, when I met…
…Josephine Fernandes
Josephine’s been a frequent a visitor to my blog, and she emailed me in response to the posts about my sister. Her friends were surprised when she announced that she was attending the funeral of someone she’d never known. I knew I had to meet her. She seemed quite a fascinating lady – an export manager, an aerobics instructor, and best of all, a grandmother!
I was expecting to be surprised, and Josephine didn’t disappoint. Dressed in a Nike sweatshirt and trousers, she was the most ‘with-it’ grandmother I’d ever seen. But beneath the trendy exterior, I discovered an extraordinary woman. Jo, as her friends call her, has had a bumpy ride through life, but each time, she’s proved she’s tougher. I was impressed with her self-awareness and poise, and her disarmingly immodest views on aging gracefully. Jo is proof that it’s never too late to live out your dreams. In fact, one of Jo’s newest ambitions is to work in a fast food chain (I forget the name!) in the US. Why, I asked, astounded. Because I just like the idea of serving people breakfast, she replied. Oh Josephine!
Uma Mahadevan-Dasgupta
I’ve been following (or rather, doing my best to keep up with) her blog, for a few months now. I think it was Amit Varma who once described her as the blogger who ‘writes like an angel and updates like a demon’. (It strikes me that Uma and I have diametrically opposite blogging styles – 10 posts per day v/s 1 post in 10 days!) I enjoy her pithy comments on the articles she links to, sometimes, more than the article itself. Uma, apparently, reads like a demon as well. Quite fast, she said, modestly, when I asked half-enviously.
Like Jo, Uma, too, responded to the posts on my sister. And with an ailing mother, knew exactly what the ‘waiting-game’ was like. She’s been extremely supportive and I looked forward to meeting her. Like with Jo, there were no awkward pauses when we met at the Tea Centre in Churchgate. We whizzed from blogging to books, advertising to bloggers and traveling to, well, blogging. Apart from Indian Writing, she also pitches in at Animal Rights India, loves travelling, reviews books and movies, and somewhere in between it all, also has a full time job! Uma was rather generous in praising my humble blog, and insisted I give that ‘book’ a shot. Gee, Uma, that’s a scary prospect, but one of these days… :)
Kahini Roy
Kahini is an old new-blogger (just coined that one) and, in fact, one of my early ‘blog friends’. I used to be in awe of the seamless prose she hammered out day after day until she decided she’d had enough. Fortunately, she’s back to doing what she does best. Check out her ode to Toast and Porridge.
Kahini is back in the city she loves after a long (TOO long, she’ll say) hiatus. And we had a lot of catching up to do. A meeting with Kahini is always preceded with a flurry of text messages. ‘Hey, are we meeting today?’ ‘Then you know where. Grin’ ‘In case you’ve forgotten what I look like, I’m the intellectual with the book and cig.’ Actually, there’s no forgetting Kahini. At Toto’s, her favourite watering hole, neither the manager nor the waiters, nor even the cigarette vendor outside, has difficulty in recalling the girl with OODLES of attitude. The last time we met, we got free drinks in another pub where an ex-waiter from Toto’s recognized her! We chatted about books, bloggers, Bombay and other random topics, which didn’t necessarily begin with the letter B.
Jo, Uma, Kahini… it was a pleasure!
*****
Surprisingly, for a person who loves lists, I haven’t made up too many on this blog. So starting with:
Bloggers we’ve met:
Aekta– Angel on Fire
Amit L – Amit’s Musings
Carpe Diem - Good Times, Sad Times, Changing Times
Josephine - Happenings of the Heart
Joshua Newton - Reportage
Kahini – Here We Go Again
Manu George – Georgie’s Jungle
Smiley – Joie de Vivre
Spaceman – Residual Self Image
Uma – Indian Writing
Prashanth - Unratiosenatic
Unsui
Uptowngirl (ex-blogger)
Bloggers we’ve had lengthy conversations with and made promises to meet up ‘soon’
Rash – Good Days Bad Times
Alpha– Pieces of the Puzzle
Parmanu - Parmanu
Colours - Vibgyor
(and just for lists’ sake)
Faymbus Blogger we met at a job interview aeons ago (erm.. who did the interviewing)
Peter Griffin - Zigzackly
20 months of blogging later, I'm still enamored by the paradoxes inherent in blogging. And although I’ve met a dozen or so bloggers, I’m still a cocktail of elation, anticipation and nerves each time I meet a new one.
So you can imagine my state last week when I met three bloggers – two of them, for the first time. I met them individually, of course. For some reason, the idea of meeting a group of bloggers (group of anything, in fact) unsettles me. There tends to be a bunch of knots where my tongue usually is. And things go downhill from there.
Not so, when I met…
…Josephine Fernandes
Josephine’s been a frequent a visitor to my blog, and she emailed me in response to the posts about my sister. Her friends were surprised when she announced that she was attending the funeral of someone she’d never known. I knew I had to meet her. She seemed quite a fascinating lady – an export manager, an aerobics instructor, and best of all, a grandmother!
I was expecting to be surprised, and Josephine didn’t disappoint. Dressed in a Nike sweatshirt and trousers, she was the most ‘with-it’ grandmother I’d ever seen. But beneath the trendy exterior, I discovered an extraordinary woman. Jo, as her friends call her, has had a bumpy ride through life, but each time, she’s proved she’s tougher. I was impressed with her self-awareness and poise, and her disarmingly immodest views on aging gracefully. Jo is proof that it’s never too late to live out your dreams. In fact, one of Jo’s newest ambitions is to work in a fast food chain (I forget the name!) in the US. Why, I asked, astounded. Because I just like the idea of serving people breakfast, she replied. Oh Josephine!
Uma Mahadevan-Dasgupta
I’ve been following (or rather, doing my best to keep up with) her blog, for a few months now. I think it was Amit Varma who once described her as the blogger who ‘writes like an angel and updates like a demon’. (It strikes me that Uma and I have diametrically opposite blogging styles – 10 posts per day v/s 1 post in 10 days!) I enjoy her pithy comments on the articles she links to, sometimes, more than the article itself. Uma, apparently, reads like a demon as well. Quite fast, she said, modestly, when I asked half-enviously.
Like Jo, Uma, too, responded to the posts on my sister. And with an ailing mother, knew exactly what the ‘waiting-game’ was like. She’s been extremely supportive and I looked forward to meeting her. Like with Jo, there were no awkward pauses when we met at the Tea Centre in Churchgate. We whizzed from blogging to books, advertising to bloggers and traveling to, well, blogging. Apart from Indian Writing, she also pitches in at Animal Rights India, loves travelling, reviews books and movies, and somewhere in between it all, also has a full time job! Uma was rather generous in praising my humble blog, and insisted I give that ‘book’ a shot. Gee, Uma, that’s a scary prospect, but one of these days… :)
Kahini Roy
Kahini is an old new-blogger (just coined that one) and, in fact, one of my early ‘blog friends’. I used to be in awe of the seamless prose she hammered out day after day until she decided she’d had enough. Fortunately, she’s back to doing what she does best. Check out her ode to Toast and Porridge.
Kahini is back in the city she loves after a long (TOO long, she’ll say) hiatus. And we had a lot of catching up to do. A meeting with Kahini is always preceded with a flurry of text messages. ‘Hey, are we meeting today?’ ‘Then you know where. Grin’ ‘In case you’ve forgotten what I look like, I’m the intellectual with the book and cig.’ Actually, there’s no forgetting Kahini. At Toto’s, her favourite watering hole, neither the manager nor the waiters, nor even the cigarette vendor outside, has difficulty in recalling the girl with OODLES of attitude. The last time we met, we got free drinks in another pub where an ex-waiter from Toto’s recognized her! We chatted about books, bloggers, Bombay and other random topics, which didn’t necessarily begin with the letter B.
Jo, Uma, Kahini… it was a pleasure!
*****
Surprisingly, for a person who loves lists, I haven’t made up too many on this blog. So starting with:
Bloggers we’ve met:
Aekta– Angel on Fire
Amit L – Amit’s Musings
Carpe Diem - Good Times, Sad Times, Changing Times
Josephine - Happenings of the Heart
Joshua Newton - Reportage
Kahini – Here We Go Again
Manu George – Georgie’s Jungle
Smiley – Joie de Vivre
Spaceman – Residual Self Image
Uma – Indian Writing
Prashanth - Unratiosenatic
Unsui
Uptowngirl (ex-blogger)
Bloggers we’ve had lengthy conversations with and made promises to meet up ‘soon’
Rash – Good Days Bad Times
Alpha– Pieces of the Puzzle
Parmanu - Parmanu
Colours - Vibgyor
(and just for lists’ sake)
Faymbus Blogger we met at a job interview aeons ago (erm.. who did the interviewing)
Peter Griffin - Zigzackly
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Life after Preeti
There’s something remarkable about condolences. People come to share your pain, to commiserate, to listen to you. And invariably, sometimes without realising it, they start talking about their own brush with grief and loss. Suddenly, your own tragedy isn’t the biggest in the world. Pain, you realise, is omnipresent, tucked away behind smiles, soft sighs and the occasional bitter word. Sometimes, your own load almost seems a flyweight as compared to someone else’s. The galling unfairness becomes easier to accept; likewise, the grief. You observe the dignity and detachment with which they accept their crosses. And rather than wallow in sadness, you begin to take your first steps away from it. There's truly something remarkable about condolences.
***
A few months ago, I had posted about a fire at my workplace and the prospect of ‘losing everything’. At that time I wrote,
“The reality and inevitability of loss never hit me harder.”
I mentioned how a man’s acceptance of losing his entire family to the tsunami disturbed me more than the images of devastation.
At that time, I could not fathom his grief, nor how he and others would cope. Now I can. Anicca, (or impermanence) as I experienced it in Vipassana last year, has a much deeper meaning. As the old man said, the cycle of life trundles on.
****
P.S. Thank you all who've kept us in your thoughts and prayers. Thanks for your lovely messages and for being with us through this time. We truly appreciate it.
***
A few months ago, I had posted about a fire at my workplace and the prospect of ‘losing everything’. At that time I wrote,
“The reality and inevitability of loss never hit me harder.”
I mentioned how a man’s acceptance of losing his entire family to the tsunami disturbed me more than the images of devastation.
“Everything included three children and all seven grandchildren. He spoke in a sad yet calm voice… ‘The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. It is the cycle of life.’”
At that time, I could not fathom his grief, nor how he and others would cope. Now I can. Anicca, (or impermanence) as I experienced it in Vipassana last year, has a much deeper meaning. As the old man said, the cycle of life trundles on.
****
P.S. Thank you all who've kept us in your thoughts and prayers. Thanks for your lovely messages and for being with us through this time. We truly appreciate it.
Friday, May 27, 2005
Farewell, Preeti
Preeti’s struggle came to an end yesterday morning. With odds as great as the ones she faced, she still held her own for 57 days. We believed that she had turned the corner. We hoped that she would come through; we hoped that her struggle wouldn’t be in vain.
But hope is no match for fear and prejudice and the uncertainty of waiting.
A crisis doesn’t necessarily bring people together. And try as you might, you cannot make people see what they don’t want to see or what they’re afraid to see.
We did our best for Preeti, but doing your best doesn’t mean you will get the results you want. Our little consolation is that we never had to ‘make a decision’ for Preeti. She chose her own moment of passing on.
Someday we will accept the unfairness of it. Someday we’ll see the perfection in this.
Until then we will accept that this is what is best for Preeti.
Rest in peace, Preeti. We love you.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
The ties that bind… and choke
“We’re praying, there will be a miracle,” I’m told, each day, by relatives, friends, well wishers, even the lift operator in the hospital.
I smile at them gratefully, not wanting to contradict them. The truth is we’re witnessing miracles each moment, each day. We’ve lost count of the ‘magic moments’ we’ve experienced in the last 49 days.
* Countless people writing in to say they’re praying fervently - for a girl they’ve never even met.
* Family and friends rallying around with financial assistance.
* Superlative doctors, nurses and hospital staff, who’ve taken to Preeti like their own.
* Preeti’s awesome defiance of all predictions, diagnoses and statistics.
And in the middle of it all, there’s one more miracle which still has me blinking in disbelief – the ‘blog’ has entered my family vocabulary!
Circa 2003: sample conversation
“Leela!! Unplug yourself from that blessed computer!!!”
“Leela!! What ARE you writing? Block?? What’s a block??
May 2005: sample conversation
“Leela!! When are you going to update your blog?”
“Leave her alone, she’s writing her blog.”
At first I read out each comment on the Preeti posts to all at home. Now, I don’t need to. My blog is checked; each comment is read and marvelled at. “Such wonderful people, these bloggers!”
My blog has been shared with the extended family as well. And from there, it has found its way into yahoo groups, mailboxes and newsletters. I was pleasantly surprised to receive a mail from someone in Pakistan who said he and his family were praying for Preeti.
The spike in traffic has Spaceman Spiff working overtime to ensure that it doesn’t blow a hole through his precious programming.
I can’t help marvelling at the unlikely blog evangelism. My aunt, a school teacher has only recently acquired a computer and is still familiarising herself with MS Word. That hasn’t stopped her from reeling off the blog url to the Principal of her school. My mum cheerfully shares my blog with anyone who cares to listen and has recently discovered the thrill of commenting. Better still, of receiving replies to comments.
A couple of days ago, my mum called up an elderly pastor who runs a prayer group. In between the discussions about Preeti, my mum couldn’t help bringing up her favourite topic…
Mum: Did you know my other daughter has a blog?
Elderly pastor: A block?? Oh dear. Not to worry, we’ll pray for her too…
A special welcome to the family in Dubai, Toronto, Calgary, Mumbai and Delhi… this one’s for you
I smile at them gratefully, not wanting to contradict them. The truth is we’re witnessing miracles each moment, each day. We’ve lost count of the ‘magic moments’ we’ve experienced in the last 49 days.
* Countless people writing in to say they’re praying fervently - for a girl they’ve never even met.
* Family and friends rallying around with financial assistance.
* Superlative doctors, nurses and hospital staff, who’ve taken to Preeti like their own.
* Preeti’s awesome defiance of all predictions, diagnoses and statistics.
And in the middle of it all, there’s one more miracle which still has me blinking in disbelief – the ‘blog’ has entered my family vocabulary!
Circa 2003: sample conversation
“Leela!! Unplug yourself from that blessed computer!!!”
“Leela!! What ARE you writing? Block?? What’s a block??
May 2005: sample conversation
“Leela!! When are you going to update your blog?”
“Leave her alone, she’s writing her blog.”
At first I read out each comment on the Preeti posts to all at home. Now, I don’t need to. My blog is checked; each comment is read and marvelled at. “Such wonderful people, these bloggers!”
My blog has been shared with the extended family as well. And from there, it has found its way into yahoo groups, mailboxes and newsletters. I was pleasantly surprised to receive a mail from someone in Pakistan who said he and his family were praying for Preeti.
The spike in traffic has Spaceman Spiff working overtime to ensure that it doesn’t blow a hole through his precious programming.
I can’t help marvelling at the unlikely blog evangelism. My aunt, a school teacher has only recently acquired a computer and is still familiarising herself with MS Word. That hasn’t stopped her from reeling off the blog url to the Principal of her school. My mum cheerfully shares my blog with anyone who cares to listen and has recently discovered the thrill of commenting. Better still, of receiving replies to comments.
A couple of days ago, my mum called up an elderly pastor who runs a prayer group. In between the discussions about Preeti, my mum couldn’t help bringing up her favourite topic…
Mum: Did you know my other daughter has a blog?
Elderly pastor: A block?? Oh dear. Not to worry, we’ll pray for her too…
A special welcome to the family in Dubai, Toronto, Calgary, Mumbai and Delhi… this one’s for you
50 days later...
In my last update, I shared that Preeti was out of ICU. But even before we could start breathing easy, we had a ‘situation’. Preeti BP & heart rate shot up and she stopped breathing. She had to be rushed back to the ICU. The doctors sounded grim, “It could be a sign of further brain damage.”
Oblivious to these predictions, Preeti stabilised in the ICU. As if to prove the trip to the ICU was nothing more than a whim. Three days later, we were back in the room; better than before.
Now, her head moves slightly, she reacts sharply when we massage her still swollen ankles. And her toes twitch when we tickle her soles. (Pleomorphous, tickle stimuli works for adults as well…) But the most promising sign has been the eye contact. We hold up a picture of Alison and move it from one side of her visual field to the other. Her eyes follow every movement of the picture. “This is definitely not an involuntary movement,” says Dr. Thomas, amazed.
We eagerly look forward to more.
Oblivious to these predictions, Preeti stabilised in the ICU. As if to prove the trip to the ICU was nothing more than a whim. Three days later, we were back in the room; better than before.
Now, her head moves slightly, she reacts sharply when we massage her still swollen ankles. And her toes twitch when we tickle her soles. (Pleomorphous, tickle stimuli works for adults as well…) But the most promising sign has been the eye contact. We hold up a picture of Alison and move it from one side of her visual field to the other. Her eyes follow every movement of the picture. “This is definitely not an involuntary movement,” says Dr. Thomas, amazed.
We eagerly look forward to more.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Reality Checked
She sits hunched in the wheelchair at one end of the hospital corridor. The attendant stands in front of her, not looking at her, not even when she gets a coughing spasm. Her thin frame heaves uncontrollably and her hacking cough echoes down the corridor. The spasm subsides and she noisily draws up the thick phlegm to the back of her throat. The silent corridor magnifies every sound. Although her back is towards me, I can tell her mouth is full of phlegm and that she’s readying to spit it out. Where, I wonder, horrified and fascinated? She pulls out a metal tiffin from a plastic bag on her lap, opens it, and forcefully expels the contents of her mouth into it. I look away before my eyes fall on the contents of the tiffin. The tiffin clangs shut and is pushed back into the plastic bag. The attendant stares ahead fixedly. A few minutes later she’s wheeled past me, down the corridor, and I see her wan, lined face, with tired eyes. I smile tentatively. She regards me suspiciously as she’s wheeled away, her hands still clutching the tiffin box.
The sounds and images of that encounter in the hospital two days ago keep coming back to me. In the last five weeks, I’ve encountered a certain kind of reality relentlessly. I’ve come up close and personal with mortality. I’ve even lain awake some nights speculating what keeps me alive, when, at any given moment, so many things can go wrong. I cannot even think about the old woman with the tiffin and say, ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I,’ without wondering, with some trepidation, what’s in store for me.
Have I become a pessimist? Or am I finally accepting reality? I once told a friend that I had no fear of dying, just an ardent curiosity. I hadn’t factored in the process, I now realise. There’s a certain indignity about sickness; a vulnerability and abasement. Lying prone on a hospital bed, strung up with wires, tubes and needles, with strangers poking and prodding you, can prove helpful in divesting you of your ego; of your notions of invincibility.
As I do my turn outside the ICU, I scan the faces of those who’re brought in on wheelchairs and gurneys. How do they deal with the mortification wrought by illness? I recognise those who come in for their bi-weekly dialysis by their spindly legs and bloated abdomens. For some, it’s a well established routine; there’s a look of silent resignation and acceptance as they’re wheeled in to the Dialysis Room. Some bow low hand on their heart or touch their fingers to their forehead as they’re wheeled past the Prayer Room, adjacent to the Operation Theatre.
One elderly gentleman would regularly enquire about Preeti before entering the Dialysis Room. And then he’d say, ‘When they put those two big needles into my hand, I’ll offer it up for your sister.’ It struck me later that it was his way of transcending the indignity of suffering. By thinking of someone worse off than himself in his moment of agony, he’d cocked a snook at infirmity. And the more I looked, the more I began to see the quintessential human spirit triumphing over the human body.
One woman, also on ICU duty, was full of suggestions of what we could do for Preeti. She insisted I try Crystal Healing therapy, and offered to set up an appointment with a healer. She was adamant that we sue the the family doctor who had misdiagnosed Preeti. She also offered to read Preeti’s horoscope, although she admitted that she’d given up the practise. A little later I learned her daughter was in the ICU with renal failure; the third time in as many months. The girl’s hospitalisation had resulted in a broken engagement. She also told me that her husband had Parkinson’s disease and was in a nursing home. The irony of her healing and soothsaying suggestions was unmistakable, but her desire to reach out was palpable.
Another unforgettable image was that of an elderly couple who came to the Dialysis Room each week. The old man wheeled his wife in and waited outside on the uncomfortable chairs for four hours while she underwent dialysis. When she came out, her face contorted with pain and fatigue, and with the catheter sticking out of her neck, he unfolded her dupatta, drew it over her neck and shoulders, and bent down to tie her shoes. He then held her hand while the attendant wheeled her to the elevator.
The hospital isn’t quite the forbidding, depressing place I once thought it to be. It seems to bring out the best nature of so many people.
There are light-hearted moments as well. On one occasion, I was padding around barefoot in the ICU with the medicine tray, when the doctor glanced at me, and began making small talk. Suddenly, she asked, “Which standard are you in?” Now, I’ve been asked ‘Which college?’ before, but not in such incongruous surroundings. Besides, ‘standard’ reduced me to a schoolgirl, which isn’t quite as flattering. Worse still, the doctor looked like a teen herself, and had it not been for the stethoscope, I would have pegged her for an earnest accountant type. Still, indignation expressed, I tiptoed out of the ICU feeling more than a little chipper.
A couple of weeks ago doctors recommended that we talk aloud to Preeti, reassure her of our presence, play her music etc. in the hope that something might trigger off an awakening. We began telling her about how we believed in her, about the prayers and good wishes of all the people, about how her vital signs were improving. One visitor taking the cue from us began telling her, “Yes, Preeti, you are doing really well. Your vital statistics are improving…." I couldn’t keep a straight face for a long time.
Someday I hope Preeti will laugh at this too.
**********
As of today, Preeti’s condition has been deemed stable and she’s been moved out of the ICU to a private room, where she’s being monitored around the clock. She’s still in a coma, but there are minuscule responses. She opens her eyes intermittently but it’s a vacant, unfocussed stare. Her mouth moves occasionally and yesterday I caught her yawning. She responds to pain stimuli (which doctors and nurses demonstrate by pinching her with remarkable alacrity. We hope for more than one reason that she begins moving her limbs soon.)
I began writing about Preeti, three weeks ago, as a catharsis of sorts. I also hoped that a few prayers and good wishes would come her way. To say, I’m overwhelmed with your response, would be an understatement. A heartfelt THANK YOU to all of you who’ve left comments, shared your experience, written to offer support, and all of you who’ve spread the prayer request through your blogs:
Pallavi, Smiley, Uma Mahadevan-Dasgupta, Parmanu, Moonie, Swetlana Sweety, Skunkstink, Neelima, Poonam, Rhyncus Kahini, Rash, Down to Earth, Mad Club, Hirdu, Drum Bum, Twilight Fairy and Alpha
(I hope I haven’t left out anyone. Write to me - dotdotdot@gmail.com)
The sounds and images of that encounter in the hospital two days ago keep coming back to me. In the last five weeks, I’ve encountered a certain kind of reality relentlessly. I’ve come up close and personal with mortality. I’ve even lain awake some nights speculating what keeps me alive, when, at any given moment, so many things can go wrong. I cannot even think about the old woman with the tiffin and say, ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I,’ without wondering, with some trepidation, what’s in store for me.
Have I become a pessimist? Or am I finally accepting reality? I once told a friend that I had no fear of dying, just an ardent curiosity. I hadn’t factored in the process, I now realise. There’s a certain indignity about sickness; a vulnerability and abasement. Lying prone on a hospital bed, strung up with wires, tubes and needles, with strangers poking and prodding you, can prove helpful in divesting you of your ego; of your notions of invincibility.
As I do my turn outside the ICU, I scan the faces of those who’re brought in on wheelchairs and gurneys. How do they deal with the mortification wrought by illness? I recognise those who come in for their bi-weekly dialysis by their spindly legs and bloated abdomens. For some, it’s a well established routine; there’s a look of silent resignation and acceptance as they’re wheeled in to the Dialysis Room. Some bow low hand on their heart or touch their fingers to their forehead as they’re wheeled past the Prayer Room, adjacent to the Operation Theatre.
One elderly gentleman would regularly enquire about Preeti before entering the Dialysis Room. And then he’d say, ‘When they put those two big needles into my hand, I’ll offer it up for your sister.’ It struck me later that it was his way of transcending the indignity of suffering. By thinking of someone worse off than himself in his moment of agony, he’d cocked a snook at infirmity. And the more I looked, the more I began to see the quintessential human spirit triumphing over the human body.
One woman, also on ICU duty, was full of suggestions of what we could do for Preeti. She insisted I try Crystal Healing therapy, and offered to set up an appointment with a healer. She was adamant that we sue the the family doctor who had misdiagnosed Preeti. She also offered to read Preeti’s horoscope, although she admitted that she’d given up the practise. A little later I learned her daughter was in the ICU with renal failure; the third time in as many months. The girl’s hospitalisation had resulted in a broken engagement. She also told me that her husband had Parkinson’s disease and was in a nursing home. The irony of her healing and soothsaying suggestions was unmistakable, but her desire to reach out was palpable.
Another unforgettable image was that of an elderly couple who came to the Dialysis Room each week. The old man wheeled his wife in and waited outside on the uncomfortable chairs for four hours while she underwent dialysis. When she came out, her face contorted with pain and fatigue, and with the catheter sticking out of her neck, he unfolded her dupatta, drew it over her neck and shoulders, and bent down to tie her shoes. He then held her hand while the attendant wheeled her to the elevator.
The hospital isn’t quite the forbidding, depressing place I once thought it to be. It seems to bring out the best nature of so many people.
There are light-hearted moments as well. On one occasion, I was padding around barefoot in the ICU with the medicine tray, when the doctor glanced at me, and began making small talk. Suddenly, she asked, “Which standard are you in?” Now, I’ve been asked ‘Which college?’ before, but not in such incongruous surroundings. Besides, ‘standard’ reduced me to a schoolgirl, which isn’t quite as flattering. Worse still, the doctor looked like a teen herself, and had it not been for the stethoscope, I would have pegged her for an earnest accountant type. Still, indignation expressed, I tiptoed out of the ICU feeling more than a little chipper.
A couple of weeks ago doctors recommended that we talk aloud to Preeti, reassure her of our presence, play her music etc. in the hope that something might trigger off an awakening. We began telling her about how we believed in her, about the prayers and good wishes of all the people, about how her vital signs were improving. One visitor taking the cue from us began telling her, “Yes, Preeti, you are doing really well. Your vital statistics are improving…." I couldn’t keep a straight face for a long time.
Someday I hope Preeti will laugh at this too.
**********
As of today, Preeti’s condition has been deemed stable and she’s been moved out of the ICU to a private room, where she’s being monitored around the clock. She’s still in a coma, but there are minuscule responses. She opens her eyes intermittently but it’s a vacant, unfocussed stare. Her mouth moves occasionally and yesterday I caught her yawning. She responds to pain stimuli (which doctors and nurses demonstrate by pinching her with remarkable alacrity. We hope for more than one reason that she begins moving her limbs soon.)
I began writing about Preeti, three weeks ago, as a catharsis of sorts. I also hoped that a few prayers and good wishes would come her way. To say, I’m overwhelmed with your response, would be an understatement. A heartfelt THANK YOU to all of you who’ve left comments, shared your experience, written to offer support, and all of you who’ve spread the prayer request through your blogs:
Pallavi, Smiley, Uma Mahadevan-Dasgupta, Parmanu, Moonie, Swetlana Sweety, Skunkstink, Neelima, Poonam, Rhyncus Kahini, Rash, Down to Earth, Mad Club, Hirdu, Drum Bum, Twilight Fairy and Alpha
(I hope I haven’t left out anyone. Write to me - dotdotdot@gmail.com)
Monday, April 25, 2005
What is best for Preeti?
It’s a question we ask ourselves anew each day. Would Preeti have wanted to go through this or would she have chosen differently? Does the fact that she’s pulled through for 25 days after doctors told us, ‘No hope, call your relatives,’ mean that she wants to fight it out or is that what we want to believe? Do we surrender to whatever has to happen or do we lasso her back with fervent prayers and heartfelt desires?
The days go by but the questions don’t get any easier. We are people of hope and faith. We affirm that whatever happens will be best for Preeti. But several times, we find ourselves having to make a choice on Preeti’s behalf. And that’s when the questions terrorise…
Early last week, Preeti caught an infection, and all the fledgling signs of improvement backed up and vanished. Her temperature started climbing into the alarming 100s, the kidney output decreased and she was back on the ventilator. There was more bad news, this time from two consulting neurologists. Both echoed the gloomy diagnosis of the first neurologist. (One of them used a quaint expression when I asked for chances of improvement – ‘hugely small’. The other said even if she recovered, brain capacity would be ‘greatly reduced’. Are neurologists trained to speak in oxymorons, I wonder?)
Confronted with bad news and worse news, all the doubts – effectively suppressed by hope - came rushing back in. Would we have to make that decision now? Is that what Preeti wants?
‘Make a decision’ is the euphemism that medics use to suggest that a patient has poor chances of recovery. Doctors are understandably cagey when you ask them for their recommendation. What do YOU want to do, they ask? We’ve never had to deal with this before, we say.
Between euphemisms and oxymorons, we deduce the options. One is to stop dialysis or switch off the ventilator. But can we do it knowing fully well that part of her brain still functions, that she can still breathe a little and that some body functions are stable? Another option is to continue the treatment, hoping for some improvement in the brain functioning, which might or might not happen. Neither of these is painless. For Preeti or for us.
Ultimately, each of these options is linked to the monetary factor. As one doctor told us, "The deciding factor in such cases is how long you can sustain the treatment. The day you can’t afford to pay for the dialysis and the expensive injections, the option is clear.” Mercifully, we haven’t reached there yet.
In the midst of these hopeless, confused moments, we’re truly thankful for Dr. Thomas. Three days ago, he told us, “She’s young, her heart is strong. Give her a chance.” That’s all we needed to hear. That’s all we wanted to do, despite the moments of torment and confusion.
Two days ago, the kidneys began responding to treatment. The dour nephrologist actually had a smile when he told us that. The new batch of antibiotics worked away at the infection and yesterday even the ventilator came off.
This morning, the nephrologist said, “The kidney output is extremely good. I may not even need to see her again. My work is done.” Family members and visitors gaze reverentially, even admiringly, at the urine bag hanging over the side of the bed. (Pardon this mention of unmentionables. It is a matter of celebration.)
Now, it’s the turn of the brain. Dr. Thomas warns, “It’s not a rosy picture. Be prepared for a prolonged, sometimes frustrating journey.” The damaged areas might never recover, but perhaps, the brain can find a way around them. We continue to hope.
A big Thank You to each one of you who’s praying and continues to pray for Preeti. I appreciate all of your comments. I’m also grateful to all of you who’ve written in sharing your stories of hope, and for those of you who’ve linked the previous post. I’ve shared all your comments and mails with my family and it has given us a great deal of strength to know that Preeti has so many well wishers. Please continue to keep her in your prayers.
You can write to me - dotdotdot@gmail.com
The days go by but the questions don’t get any easier. We are people of hope and faith. We affirm that whatever happens will be best for Preeti. But several times, we find ourselves having to make a choice on Preeti’s behalf. And that’s when the questions terrorise…
Early last week, Preeti caught an infection, and all the fledgling signs of improvement backed up and vanished. Her temperature started climbing into the alarming 100s, the kidney output decreased and she was back on the ventilator. There was more bad news, this time from two consulting neurologists. Both echoed the gloomy diagnosis of the first neurologist. (One of them used a quaint expression when I asked for chances of improvement – ‘hugely small’. The other said even if she recovered, brain capacity would be ‘greatly reduced’. Are neurologists trained to speak in oxymorons, I wonder?)
Confronted with bad news and worse news, all the doubts – effectively suppressed by hope - came rushing back in. Would we have to make that decision now? Is that what Preeti wants?
‘Make a decision’ is the euphemism that medics use to suggest that a patient has poor chances of recovery. Doctors are understandably cagey when you ask them for their recommendation. What do YOU want to do, they ask? We’ve never had to deal with this before, we say.
Between euphemisms and oxymorons, we deduce the options. One is to stop dialysis or switch off the ventilator. But can we do it knowing fully well that part of her brain still functions, that she can still breathe a little and that some body functions are stable? Another option is to continue the treatment, hoping for some improvement in the brain functioning, which might or might not happen. Neither of these is painless. For Preeti or for us.
Ultimately, each of these options is linked to the monetary factor. As one doctor told us, "The deciding factor in such cases is how long you can sustain the treatment. The day you can’t afford to pay for the dialysis and the expensive injections, the option is clear.” Mercifully, we haven’t reached there yet.
In the midst of these hopeless, confused moments, we’re truly thankful for Dr. Thomas. Three days ago, he told us, “She’s young, her heart is strong. Give her a chance.” That’s all we needed to hear. That’s all we wanted to do, despite the moments of torment and confusion.
Two days ago, the kidneys began responding to treatment. The dour nephrologist actually had a smile when he told us that. The new batch of antibiotics worked away at the infection and yesterday even the ventilator came off.
This morning, the nephrologist said, “The kidney output is extremely good. I may not even need to see her again. My work is done.” Family members and visitors gaze reverentially, even admiringly, at the urine bag hanging over the side of the bed. (Pardon this mention of unmentionables. It is a matter of celebration.)
Now, it’s the turn of the brain. Dr. Thomas warns, “It’s not a rosy picture. Be prepared for a prolonged, sometimes frustrating journey.” The damaged areas might never recover, but perhaps, the brain can find a way around them. We continue to hope.
A big Thank You to each one of you who’s praying and continues to pray for Preeti. I appreciate all of your comments. I’m also grateful to all of you who’ve written in sharing your stories of hope, and for those of you who’ve linked the previous post. I’ve shared all your comments and mails with my family and it has given us a great deal of strength to know that Preeti has so many well wishers. Please continue to keep her in your prayers.
You can write to me - dotdotdot@gmail.com
Friday, April 15, 2005
Spare a prayer for Preeti
The blog break didn’t turn out as expected. But then, neither has life in the last two weeks. I’m driven to write here on account of the extraordinary circumstances in my life.
I’m back in Bombay. I’ve been here for exactly two weeks. When I boarded the flight from Dubai on April 1, I hoped against hope that the call from home had been an April Fool’s joke. How could my beloved sister, Preeti, be in the ICU? How could a simple case of Rheumatoid Arthritis result in the doctors pronouncing her as being at death’s door? For god’s sake, she’s just 32. Her little girl, my ‘best friend’, Alison, is not even five years old.
I had to bow and scrape with the medics to be allowed to see her on the 1st evening. “I will only look at her for 30 seconds,” I beseeched. I stood by her bed in shock, totally unprepared for what I was to see. She was gasping for breath; her eyes were turned upwards, half-closed, revealing cloudy white eyeballs. Even as I stood there, her eyes flew open and focussed on me. Her wide, beautiful eyes were unnaturally large and there was that characteristic, pearly smile, which even the tubes sticking out of her face did little to diminish.
“You’ve come?” she asked half-astonished, “You’ve come on holiday?”.
I told her I had.
“For how long?” she inquired. The tube in her throat made it difficult to talk.
“My boss said I could take a holiday for as long as I wanted,” I lied.
I told her that she must be strong and fight. She beamed and nodded.
“Don’t make her talk”, scolded the nurses, and I was just so thankful to them. I could not stand there for a moment longer without openly sobbing.
I was the last person she spoke to. Preeti was put on the ventilator that night. She slipped into a coma the next morning, and continues to be in a coma until this moment, almost 15 days later.
****
Preeti has had Rheumatoid Arthritis for the last 6 years. How a 26 year old could contract a sickness typically associated with old-age is another fateful story. She was walking on the road near our home when a monkey – part of a street entertainer’s troupe – bit her. She took the three prescribed anti-rabies injections. Exactly a day after the last injection she developed debilitating pains in her joints. The doctors diagnosed it as Rheumatoid Arthritis.
In the last six years, not a single remedy, therapy or exercise has been spared, not a single prayer remained unsaid. But never did Preeti ever complain or be less than cheery. Her joint stiffness became apparent in the way she walked, but she never talked about it even with friends. In fact, her replies used to be a standing joke at home.
“How are you Preeti?”…. “Better”
“Have the pains started again?”….. “Only a little”
With her limited mobility – sitting cross legged on the floor, a gesture we take for granted, is something she hasn’t attempted for many years – she continued to lead as normal a life as possible, going to work, bringing up Alison, even occasionally, and very cautiously, shaking a leg. At the small farewell party before I left for Dubai, it was she who insisted on the dance music.
A warning bell should have sounded when she took sick leave for the first time ever in mid-March. A little knee pain, she said. When one week of sick leave turned into two, and when the steroids prescribed by the family physician didn’t offer any relief, the alarm bells should have woken up the neighbourhood. But sadly, Preeti’s tendency to downplay her illness, along with neglect and mis-diagnosis led to unfortunate delays. In the two weeks that she’d been at home, the inflamed knees had developed an infection, leading to pus, which invaded her blood stream, throwing her kidneys off gear. Advanced septicaemia, they wrote, on admission. Doctors roared at my parents when they discovered that her blood pressure was only 40. “What were you’ll doing for so long?” they asked. A question we’re still coming to terms with.
*******
The last two weeks have been plagued by what-ifs. Each morning we steel ourselves to hear the worst.
“Her kidneys have failed”
“Her blood pressure isn’t stable”
“She’s in total coma”
“She’s slowly sinking”
“Now her blood sugar has shot up”
“Call your relatives…”
The MRI report six days ago, confirmed the doctors worst fears - extensive and possibly irreparable brain damage.
On Monday, 11 April, Preeti was entirely on life support – dialysis took care of the kidney functions, breathing was with the help of the ventilator and powerful drugs regulated the the blood pressure and heart rate. A decision was to be made. We waited for the doctor to tell us our options.
He came in half hour late. “I’ve disconnected Preeti from the ventilator for the last 15 minutes. She’s breathing on her own.”
It was the first sign that Preeti wasn’t ready to give up. Preeti breathed on her own for the first time in 11 days. She was put back on the ventilator an hour later so as not to tire her or to let the oxygen saturation drop. Since that day, she’s been breathing on her own intermittently. Her kidneys which had completely failed produced a small amount of urine yesterday, in what doctors admit is the very early sign of kidney recovery.
But these tiny rays of hope signs are clouded by an unbeatable knowledge – that her brain might never recover. What’s more, most of the doctors on the panel, save the chief doctor and the orthopaedic surgeon, have subtly or unequivocally told us to give up. And here’s where logic and faith, optimism and pragmatism, love and self-interest have locked horns.
Until Monday morning, we were ready to let Preeti pass on. All the signs pointed to the fact that she wanted to. She has suffered enough, we told ourselves. We whispered in her ear that we would take care of her unfinished business.
But her grasp on life has surprised us all. Each day there are tiny signs – her eyes twitch, she sometimes responds to pain stimuli, on occasion when people pray over her, teardrops roll down her eyes.
Straws, scoffs the neurologist. But he also admits that the dilemma is tricky. One the one we could be “killing off the patient”, while on the other hand we could rack up huge bills, face months or even years of uncertainty, medical complications and even with best efforts, a patient with diminished capacities (I absolutely DETEST the word ‘vegetable’. I will never use it to describe a human being, whatever the condition.)
It’s a testing time for all of us who love Preeti. There are no easy answers. Each day brings new challenges and demands fresh thinking. I have followed the Terri Schiavo case intermittently. Living it, I can tell you, is a wholly different experience. As a family, we’ve discussed it extensively. And we’ve decided to take things one step at a time. Where there is life, even the small, negligible sign of it, there is hope, we believe. We have no desire to hold on to her for our sake, but if she is hanging in there, so are we. There are voices which oppose out of interests that are perhaps misguided. But we believe they too are there for a purpose. Each day we discover new reserves of strength, courage to fight disappointment and forbearance to see the larger plan.
****
One of the most beautiful and unexpected outcomes of Preeti’s hospitalization has been the reaction of people – family, friends, colleagues, neighbours, acquaintances, even perfect strangers. An announcement was made at our church two weeks ago to pray for her. And the prayers haven’t stopped ever since. Scores of people, some of who barely know us, have offered prayers to their favourite saint or at the holy place they have utmost faith in. Prayer groups across the country, even the world, have been mobilized to intercede for Preeti. Emails have been flying furiously (now I know how the chain mails start) and each day we come across mails from distant family, friends of family, friends of friends of family…
The phone has been ringing off the hook at all times of day and night. The steady stream of visitors has only one refrain on their lips, ‘We’re praying for her’. A woman who came to the hospital last week said to us, ‘Can I please see her? I’ve been praying for her all week. I want to know who she is.’ I was extremely surprised to receive a call from a neighbour of ours who we knew was also very unwell. It turned out she was calling from Hinduja Hospital and was due for a bone-graft surgery the next day. “I’m praying for Preeti,” she said.
Early last week, Preeti required almost 22 units of blood. An email went around Preeti’s workplace, ICICI Bank. Three days later I got a frantic call from the blood bank. “Does Preeti need any more blood? If not, please stop the donors. We’ve got 17 bottles extra and there are five more people waiting to donate. We’re running out of storage space.”
We’ve been truly humbled by the deluge of prayers, hope, optimism and simple, unswerving faith. We, who see Preeti every day, who listen to the doctors, who hear all kinds of ‘expert’ advice, are far more pragmatic. But we also believe that all that positive energy has to produce SOME result. Medical science may have its limitation but the human spirit has none.
So here’s my entreaty to all my friends in blog world, even passers by. If you believe in prayer, please say a prayer for my sister, Preeti. Even if you don’t pray, please send positive thoughts her way. She needs it. We all need it.
(If you have heard of similar cases and have something to share, leave a comment or write to me - dotdotdot@gmail.com)
I’m back in Bombay. I’ve been here for exactly two weeks. When I boarded the flight from Dubai on April 1, I hoped against hope that the call from home had been an April Fool’s joke. How could my beloved sister, Preeti, be in the ICU? How could a simple case of Rheumatoid Arthritis result in the doctors pronouncing her as being at death’s door? For god’s sake, she’s just 32. Her little girl, my ‘best friend’, Alison, is not even five years old.
I had to bow and scrape with the medics to be allowed to see her on the 1st evening. “I will only look at her for 30 seconds,” I beseeched. I stood by her bed in shock, totally unprepared for what I was to see. She was gasping for breath; her eyes were turned upwards, half-closed, revealing cloudy white eyeballs. Even as I stood there, her eyes flew open and focussed on me. Her wide, beautiful eyes were unnaturally large and there was that characteristic, pearly smile, which even the tubes sticking out of her face did little to diminish.
“You’ve come?” she asked half-astonished, “You’ve come on holiday?”.
I told her I had.
“For how long?” she inquired. The tube in her throat made it difficult to talk.
“My boss said I could take a holiday for as long as I wanted,” I lied.
I told her that she must be strong and fight. She beamed and nodded.
“Don’t make her talk”, scolded the nurses, and I was just so thankful to them. I could not stand there for a moment longer without openly sobbing.
I was the last person she spoke to. Preeti was put on the ventilator that night. She slipped into a coma the next morning, and continues to be in a coma until this moment, almost 15 days later.
****
Preeti has had Rheumatoid Arthritis for the last 6 years. How a 26 year old could contract a sickness typically associated with old-age is another fateful story. She was walking on the road near our home when a monkey – part of a street entertainer’s troupe – bit her. She took the three prescribed anti-rabies injections. Exactly a day after the last injection she developed debilitating pains in her joints. The doctors diagnosed it as Rheumatoid Arthritis.
In the last six years, not a single remedy, therapy or exercise has been spared, not a single prayer remained unsaid. But never did Preeti ever complain or be less than cheery. Her joint stiffness became apparent in the way she walked, but she never talked about it even with friends. In fact, her replies used to be a standing joke at home.
“How are you Preeti?”…. “Better”
“Have the pains started again?”….. “Only a little”
With her limited mobility – sitting cross legged on the floor, a gesture we take for granted, is something she hasn’t attempted for many years – she continued to lead as normal a life as possible, going to work, bringing up Alison, even occasionally, and very cautiously, shaking a leg. At the small farewell party before I left for Dubai, it was she who insisted on the dance music.
A warning bell should have sounded when she took sick leave for the first time ever in mid-March. A little knee pain, she said. When one week of sick leave turned into two, and when the steroids prescribed by the family physician didn’t offer any relief, the alarm bells should have woken up the neighbourhood. But sadly, Preeti’s tendency to downplay her illness, along with neglect and mis-diagnosis led to unfortunate delays. In the two weeks that she’d been at home, the inflamed knees had developed an infection, leading to pus, which invaded her blood stream, throwing her kidneys off gear. Advanced septicaemia, they wrote, on admission. Doctors roared at my parents when they discovered that her blood pressure was only 40. “What were you’ll doing for so long?” they asked. A question we’re still coming to terms with.
*******
The last two weeks have been plagued by what-ifs. Each morning we steel ourselves to hear the worst.
“Her kidneys have failed”
“Her blood pressure isn’t stable”
“She’s in total coma”
“She’s slowly sinking”
“Now her blood sugar has shot up”
“Call your relatives…”
The MRI report six days ago, confirmed the doctors worst fears - extensive and possibly irreparable brain damage.
On Monday, 11 April, Preeti was entirely on life support – dialysis took care of the kidney functions, breathing was with the help of the ventilator and powerful drugs regulated the the blood pressure and heart rate. A decision was to be made. We waited for the doctor to tell us our options.
He came in half hour late. “I’ve disconnected Preeti from the ventilator for the last 15 minutes. She’s breathing on her own.”
It was the first sign that Preeti wasn’t ready to give up. Preeti breathed on her own for the first time in 11 days. She was put back on the ventilator an hour later so as not to tire her or to let the oxygen saturation drop. Since that day, she’s been breathing on her own intermittently. Her kidneys which had completely failed produced a small amount of urine yesterday, in what doctors admit is the very early sign of kidney recovery.
But these tiny rays of hope signs are clouded by an unbeatable knowledge – that her brain might never recover. What’s more, most of the doctors on the panel, save the chief doctor and the orthopaedic surgeon, have subtly or unequivocally told us to give up. And here’s where logic and faith, optimism and pragmatism, love and self-interest have locked horns.
Until Monday morning, we were ready to let Preeti pass on. All the signs pointed to the fact that she wanted to. She has suffered enough, we told ourselves. We whispered in her ear that we would take care of her unfinished business.
But her grasp on life has surprised us all. Each day there are tiny signs – her eyes twitch, she sometimes responds to pain stimuli, on occasion when people pray over her, teardrops roll down her eyes.
Straws, scoffs the neurologist. But he also admits that the dilemma is tricky. One the one we could be “killing off the patient”, while on the other hand we could rack up huge bills, face months or even years of uncertainty, medical complications and even with best efforts, a patient with diminished capacities (I absolutely DETEST the word ‘vegetable’. I will never use it to describe a human being, whatever the condition.)
It’s a testing time for all of us who love Preeti. There are no easy answers. Each day brings new challenges and demands fresh thinking. I have followed the Terri Schiavo case intermittently. Living it, I can tell you, is a wholly different experience. As a family, we’ve discussed it extensively. And we’ve decided to take things one step at a time. Where there is life, even the small, negligible sign of it, there is hope, we believe. We have no desire to hold on to her for our sake, but if she is hanging in there, so are we. There are voices which oppose out of interests that are perhaps misguided. But we believe they too are there for a purpose. Each day we discover new reserves of strength, courage to fight disappointment and forbearance to see the larger plan.
****
One of the most beautiful and unexpected outcomes of Preeti’s hospitalization has been the reaction of people – family, friends, colleagues, neighbours, acquaintances, even perfect strangers. An announcement was made at our church two weeks ago to pray for her. And the prayers haven’t stopped ever since. Scores of people, some of who barely know us, have offered prayers to their favourite saint or at the holy place they have utmost faith in. Prayer groups across the country, even the world, have been mobilized to intercede for Preeti. Emails have been flying furiously (now I know how the chain mails start) and each day we come across mails from distant family, friends of family, friends of friends of family…
The phone has been ringing off the hook at all times of day and night. The steady stream of visitors has only one refrain on their lips, ‘We’re praying for her’. A woman who came to the hospital last week said to us, ‘Can I please see her? I’ve been praying for her all week. I want to know who she is.’ I was extremely surprised to receive a call from a neighbour of ours who we knew was also very unwell. It turned out she was calling from Hinduja Hospital and was due for a bone-graft surgery the next day. “I’m praying for Preeti,” she said.
Early last week, Preeti required almost 22 units of blood. An email went around Preeti’s workplace, ICICI Bank. Three days later I got a frantic call from the blood bank. “Does Preeti need any more blood? If not, please stop the donors. We’ve got 17 bottles extra and there are five more people waiting to donate. We’re running out of storage space.”
We’ve been truly humbled by the deluge of prayers, hope, optimism and simple, unswerving faith. We, who see Preeti every day, who listen to the doctors, who hear all kinds of ‘expert’ advice, are far more pragmatic. But we also believe that all that positive energy has to produce SOME result. Medical science may have its limitation but the human spirit has none.
So here’s my entreaty to all my friends in blog world, even passers by. If you believe in prayer, please say a prayer for my sister, Preeti. Even if you don’t pray, please send positive thoughts her way. She needs it. We all need it.
(If you have heard of similar cases and have something to share, leave a comment or write to me - dotdotdot@gmail.com)
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Blog break coming up…
Too much happening in the offline world. I will be back in May. Hope to see you all then.
Monday, March 21, 2005
Another silver lining
One year ago, Monisha and I, went up on the stage, and with trembling hands, lifted the silver Abby. Our first Abby. I thought my tryst with the Abbies had come to an end. Until I received the sms on Saturday evening: “Lee, I got a silver Abby.”
That was my younger brother. I had once tried to dissuade him from joining Advertising because I didn’t think he could handle the pressure. In a typical big-sisterly voice, I told him, “You’re too laidback, too sensitive, not at all focused.”
I’ve never been more thrilled to be proved wrong. Very proud of you, bro.
That was my younger brother. I had once tried to dissuade him from joining Advertising because I didn’t think he could handle the pressure. In a typical big-sisterly voice, I told him, “You’re too laidback, too sensitive, not at all focused.”
I’ve never been more thrilled to be proved wrong. Very proud of you, bro.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Just another weekend…
All of last week, a raccoon stared back at me from the bathroom mirror. And I swore every single morning, as I dragged myself to work, that the moment the clock struck 4 on Thursday evening, I would switch off my phone, unplug my mind, fluff up my pillow and seal my eyes, unsealing them only on Saturday morning, 7 a.m.
I must have been so immersed in this delicious fantasy that it didn’t register when I accepted a dinner invitation on Thursday night, a lunch with friends on Friday afternoon and a blogger’s meet in the evening. My poor, neglected cousins also decided the weekend was the perfect time for the heart-to-heart chats we’d been planning since the time I got here.
There was going to be no rest for the wicked, on the weekend; no rest at all.
The dinner on Thursday was at a little Chinese restaurant in the expansive City Centre Mall in Deira. The parking lots were full, the restaurants were packed and shoppers and stragglers alike crowded the aisles. Everyone’s in a shopping frenzy on the weekend; even denizens of the surrounding Emirates throng the malls in Dubai. Since my friend and I were only in the mood to nibble, we ordered a salad and a starter. As it turned out, each was a meal in itself. And when the perky waitress came around with her note pad to take our ‘main course order’, we groaned audibly, scaring her off.
My plans of waking up late were shot to bits when my treacherous eyelids flew open at seven in the morning. (Why that never happens on a weekday I will never know.) S & K picked me up at 11 for a drive around town. The roads, minus the appalling rush-hour traffic (one long post on that coming up), were a speedster’s dream, and there we were, tearing down the arterial Sheikh Zayed Road at over 160 kmph.
Our first halt was the Dubai Marina, ostensibly, the world's largest manmade marina and planned waterfront development. (Superlatives abound in every sq. km of Dubai.) Every major construction group in Dubai has some colossal project underway and there are residential towers all around in varying degrees of completion. There’s also a charming promenade with outdoor cafes and the likes; Dubai’s answer to the French Riviera. You could spend a languid morning sitting on a bench (ergonomic benches, as K noted) overlooking the azure waters, and watching the boats bobbing in the marina.
But before we could give in to these lazy thoughts, S shepherded us back into the car. ‘To the Royal Mirage’, he announced. I got the feeling that the Royal Mirage Hotel, was trying a little too hard to conjure an aura of exclusivity when the signboards leading to it, read, ‘The One & Only Royal Mirage’. But I learned later, that it’s part of the One & Only chain of resorts. On stepping into the Royal Mirage, however, I decided that it deserved its exclusive tag. Such opulence, such grandeur! From the ornate chairs to the intricate domed ceiling, to the gilded, frozen tableau of a group of Bedouins in the main courtyard, everything was excruciatingly perfect.
What I liked most about the Royal Mirage, and the Madinat Jumeirah, our next halt, was the classic Arabian architecture. Too much of Dubai is a tawdry imitation of Western style architecture. Everywhere you turn, there’s glass and neon. There are few indigenous elements that I’ve come across. The Madinat Jumeirah is a welcome relief. Walking through the Souk Madinat (the shopping arcade) is a thrilling experience. Long walkways with wooden beam ceilings, rough-hewn flooring, brass studded doors – all attempt to recreate a bygone era, but only just. I even spotted a chemist with a sign that read, ‘Apothecary: Estd 1266’. It had a charming, albeit unconvincing, old-world look. In another part of the Souk are tiny caravans, which sell curios and handicrafts.
I’d been to the Souk Madinat earlier, so I could expertly show off to K, ‘The best part about the Madinat Jumeirah is the gondolas which ferry guests from the Souk to their rooms.’ We stood and watched the gondolas from the sunny terrace, marveling at the spectacle, and muttering silently like Obelix, ‘These Arabs must be crazy’!
Back on the Sheikh Zayed Road, we raced back to Deira all the way to Makhtoum Street, halting at the Intercontinental Hotel. Established in 1975, it’s one of the oldest luxury hotels in Dubai (30 years is a long time in Dubai terms, I’ve discovered.) It also has a reputation for the best food in all of its 13 restaurants. I can vouch for the China Club at least!
Since I had a little time before I caught up with the bloggers, I browsed through the BurJuman Mall. My eyebrows repeatedly threatened to fly off my forehead when I checked the price tags in the stores, so I gave up and waited for the bloggers. Of the 9 who were to show up, only 2 did - Amit and Joshua. And as it usually happens at a blog meet, perfect strangers will find many things to talk about. All through our chat, Amit’s slight smile had me convinced that I was being hugely entertaining. Little did I know about the strappy red top at the next table!
We continued our conversation all the way to the bookshop that Amit should never have taken me to. And the storekeeper even gave me a disount on the three books I bought, which she shouldn’t have. Because it only means I’ll be throwing away all my hard earned dirhams there. And I’ll never be able to afford all those eyebrow-vanishing items in BurJuman.
I got home only at 9 that evening, not as tired as I imagined. But the raccoon’s back in the mirror these mornings. And I drag myself to work each day, swearing that on Thursday at 4 o clock…
I must have been so immersed in this delicious fantasy that it didn’t register when I accepted a dinner invitation on Thursday night, a lunch with friends on Friday afternoon and a blogger’s meet in the evening. My poor, neglected cousins also decided the weekend was the perfect time for the heart-to-heart chats we’d been planning since the time I got here.
There was going to be no rest for the wicked, on the weekend; no rest at all.
The dinner on Thursday was at a little Chinese restaurant in the expansive City Centre Mall in Deira. The parking lots were full, the restaurants were packed and shoppers and stragglers alike crowded the aisles. Everyone’s in a shopping frenzy on the weekend; even denizens of the surrounding Emirates throng the malls in Dubai. Since my friend and I were only in the mood to nibble, we ordered a salad and a starter. As it turned out, each was a meal in itself. And when the perky waitress came around with her note pad to take our ‘main course order’, we groaned audibly, scaring her off.
My plans of waking up late were shot to bits when my treacherous eyelids flew open at seven in the morning. (Why that never happens on a weekday I will never know.) S & K picked me up at 11 for a drive around town. The roads, minus the appalling rush-hour traffic (one long post on that coming up), were a speedster’s dream, and there we were, tearing down the arterial Sheikh Zayed Road at over 160 kmph.
Our first halt was the Dubai Marina, ostensibly, the world's largest manmade marina and planned waterfront development. (Superlatives abound in every sq. km of Dubai.) Every major construction group in Dubai has some colossal project underway and there are residential towers all around in varying degrees of completion. There’s also a charming promenade with outdoor cafes and the likes; Dubai’s answer to the French Riviera. You could spend a languid morning sitting on a bench (ergonomic benches, as K noted) overlooking the azure waters, and watching the boats bobbing in the marina.
But before we could give in to these lazy thoughts, S shepherded us back into the car. ‘To the Royal Mirage’, he announced. I got the feeling that the Royal Mirage Hotel, was trying a little too hard to conjure an aura of exclusivity when the signboards leading to it, read, ‘The One & Only Royal Mirage’. But I learned later, that it’s part of the One & Only chain of resorts. On stepping into the Royal Mirage, however, I decided that it deserved its exclusive tag. Such opulence, such grandeur! From the ornate chairs to the intricate domed ceiling, to the gilded, frozen tableau of a group of Bedouins in the main courtyard, everything was excruciatingly perfect.
What I liked most about the Royal Mirage, and the Madinat Jumeirah, our next halt, was the classic Arabian architecture. Too much of Dubai is a tawdry imitation of Western style architecture. Everywhere you turn, there’s glass and neon. There are few indigenous elements that I’ve come across. The Madinat Jumeirah is a welcome relief. Walking through the Souk Madinat (the shopping arcade) is a thrilling experience. Long walkways with wooden beam ceilings, rough-hewn flooring, brass studded doors – all attempt to recreate a bygone era, but only just. I even spotted a chemist with a sign that read, ‘Apothecary: Estd 1266’. It had a charming, albeit unconvincing, old-world look. In another part of the Souk are tiny caravans, which sell curios and handicrafts.
I’d been to the Souk Madinat earlier, so I could expertly show off to K, ‘The best part about the Madinat Jumeirah is the gondolas which ferry guests from the Souk to their rooms.’ We stood and watched the gondolas from the sunny terrace, marveling at the spectacle, and muttering silently like Obelix, ‘These Arabs must be crazy’!
Back on the Sheikh Zayed Road, we raced back to Deira all the way to Makhtoum Street, halting at the Intercontinental Hotel. Established in 1975, it’s one of the oldest luxury hotels in Dubai (30 years is a long time in Dubai terms, I’ve discovered.) It also has a reputation for the best food in all of its 13 restaurants. I can vouch for the China Club at least!
Since I had a little time before I caught up with the bloggers, I browsed through the BurJuman Mall. My eyebrows repeatedly threatened to fly off my forehead when I checked the price tags in the stores, so I gave up and waited for the bloggers. Of the 9 who were to show up, only 2 did - Amit and Joshua. And as it usually happens at a blog meet, perfect strangers will find many things to talk about. All through our chat, Amit’s slight smile had me convinced that I was being hugely entertaining. Little did I know about the strappy red top at the next table!
We continued our conversation all the way to the bookshop that Amit should never have taken me to. And the storekeeper even gave me a disount on the three books I bought, which she shouldn’t have. Because it only means I’ll be throwing away all my hard earned dirhams there. And I’ll never be able to afford all those eyebrow-vanishing items in BurJuman.
I got home only at 9 that evening, not as tired as I imagined. But the raccoon’s back in the mirror these mornings. And I drag myself to work each day, swearing that on Thursday at 4 o clock…
Saturday, March 12, 2005
Back off, Big Media
Mediaah!, Pradyuman Maheshwari’s no-holds barred media blog is being forced to shut down. A Big Media Group (read, The Times of India) has slapped a legal notice on him, demanding that he pull off 19 posts, which critique the Times. Are the 19 posts defamatory? Read them and decide for yourselves. Would you like to voice your support for Mediaah and Pradyuman Maheshwari? Go ahead, sign the petition. Better still, write about it on your blog.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
Your time starts NOW!
What’s the last thing you’d expect on a Sunday night, in a Mexican pub frequented by Indians, with a Sri Lankan band belting out pop melodies?
20 points and a free Mexican fiesta platter if you guessed ‘a quiz show’.
If I hadn’t been at Beyond El Rancho’s at the Marco Polo Hotel in Deira, I would never have guessed, for sure. Dubai’s nightlife is famed for many reasons, but none of them are inherently cerebral.
So, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Dubai has a quizzing culture, and a flourishing one, at that. Most of the pubs in the city have a designated Quiz Nite and there are a couple of big quizzes each year – on the lines of the Brand Equity Quiz – conducted by the grand daddies of Indian quizzing, Siddhartha ‘Mastermind’ Basu and Derek ‘BQC’ O’brien. The prizes range from liquor company freebies to dinner vouchers at 5-star restaurants to gizmos and even, luxury cruises.
I got the lowdown on all of this courtesy two pals of mine - old timers on the Mumbai quizzing circuit, who even have a Brand Equity win to their credit. As it turns out, they’ve continued their winning spree on this side of the Arabian Sea as well, winning several of the pub quizzes and even an IT quiz. Now, with both of them in the same advertising agency here, and in between working on deadlines due ‘yesterday’, they came up with a plan to host an Indian quiz nite. (Apparently most pub quizzes are dominated by Brit quizzers and have a Brit trivia slant.)
The Marco Polo Hotel isn’t the most convenient location, especially on a weeknight (Sunday night, Muddle East… have I mentioned it before?) But there are a few regulars who drop by especially for the quiz. Some unwary stragglers are also coerced to participate with the assurance that it’s a ‘simple quiz, no dimaag ka dahi’.
The quiz follows a simple format: 40 questions, Bollywood-sports-trivia, a visual round, and a most generous sprinkling of ‘clues’. One of the questions last Sunday was, ‘Name the captain in the book Moby Dick?’ Faces turned into question marks. The clues all but spelt out the name. Sample: It’s an unusual name. Starts with A. Ends with B. One team piped up, “How many letters?”
The merits of flipping through the Bombay Times and other P3P-loving papers became apparent when I accurately guessed Ayesha Takia in the visual round. The need to stay updated on sports also became clear when I wrote Walter Matthau for Richard Hadlee. Actually, the poor lighting was to blame. That, and the watermelon breezer.
After two weeks of coming in a close third, my teammate and I claimed the top spot last Sunday. 33 out of 40. It was a thrilling moment. No Lexus, no 100 kilos gold, no 55” plasma TV, but it still felt good. Later, the Sri Lankan band, ‘Damage’, took over and apart, from a mutilated, non-recognisable ‘Imagine’, did a pretty good job on the other melodies. Not a bad way to spend an evening at all.
At the end of the evening, the only question that had us stumped was: How do you divide one XL Heineken t-shirt, three Jack Daniels beer glasses, one Dove sample kit and one Amstel light cushion between two teammates?
20 points and a free Mexican fiesta platter if you guessed ‘a quiz show’.
If I hadn’t been at Beyond El Rancho’s at the Marco Polo Hotel in Deira, I would never have guessed, for sure. Dubai’s nightlife is famed for many reasons, but none of them are inherently cerebral.
So, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Dubai has a quizzing culture, and a flourishing one, at that. Most of the pubs in the city have a designated Quiz Nite and there are a couple of big quizzes each year – on the lines of the Brand Equity Quiz – conducted by the grand daddies of Indian quizzing, Siddhartha ‘Mastermind’ Basu and Derek ‘BQC’ O’brien. The prizes range from liquor company freebies to dinner vouchers at 5-star restaurants to gizmos and even, luxury cruises.
I got the lowdown on all of this courtesy two pals of mine - old timers on the Mumbai quizzing circuit, who even have a Brand Equity win to their credit. As it turns out, they’ve continued their winning spree on this side of the Arabian Sea as well, winning several of the pub quizzes and even an IT quiz. Now, with both of them in the same advertising agency here, and in between working on deadlines due ‘yesterday’, they came up with a plan to host an Indian quiz nite. (Apparently most pub quizzes are dominated by Brit quizzers and have a Brit trivia slant.)
The Marco Polo Hotel isn’t the most convenient location, especially on a weeknight (Sunday night, Muddle East… have I mentioned it before?) But there are a few regulars who drop by especially for the quiz. Some unwary stragglers are also coerced to participate with the assurance that it’s a ‘simple quiz, no dimaag ka dahi’.
The quiz follows a simple format: 40 questions, Bollywood-sports-trivia, a visual round, and a most generous sprinkling of ‘clues’. One of the questions last Sunday was, ‘Name the captain in the book Moby Dick?’ Faces turned into question marks. The clues all but spelt out the name. Sample: It’s an unusual name. Starts with A. Ends with B. One team piped up, “How many letters?”
The merits of flipping through the Bombay Times and other P3P-loving papers became apparent when I accurately guessed Ayesha Takia in the visual round. The need to stay updated on sports also became clear when I wrote Walter Matthau for Richard Hadlee. Actually, the poor lighting was to blame. That, and the watermelon breezer.
After two weeks of coming in a close third, my teammate and I claimed the top spot last Sunday. 33 out of 40. It was a thrilling moment. No Lexus, no 100 kilos gold, no 55” plasma TV, but it still felt good. Later, the Sri Lankan band, ‘Damage’, took over and apart, from a mutilated, non-recognisable ‘Imagine’, did a pretty good job on the other melodies. Not a bad way to spend an evening at all.
At the end of the evening, the only question that had us stumped was: How do you divide one XL Heineken t-shirt, three Jack Daniels beer glasses, one Dove sample kit and one Amstel light cushion between two teammates?
Saturday, March 05, 2005
Sad but true
You know people have been spending way too much time in the office, when they look out of the window at dusk, spot the dull red orb in the sky and ask, “Hey, what’s that light?”
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Life in the Muddle East
Have I been to the malls? Have I availed of fabulous, stupendous, never-before discounts at the Dubai Shopping Festival? Have I called up any of the 65 ‘contacts’ given to me by friends and acquaintances at the mere mention of the words, ‘going to Dubai’?
Sadly, none of the above. Life, in the last few days, has revolved around unlearning well-entrenched habits and re-orienting myself to the Muddle East.
Crossing the road – not even an issue on the harum-scarum Bombay streets – now requires planning, prayer and insurance. There I am, standing on the kerb, heart thudding. I look right and put one tentative foot out, only to throw it over my shoulder in morbid terror in the next instant. The driver in the gleaming Pajero, racing in from the left slams the brakes and looks at me balefully. Heart thudding still, I look back belligerently. It’s his fault, first, for driving on the wrong side of the road, and, second, for not honking incessantly, mindlessly and deafeningly from at least a mile away. How is one supposed to cross the road when vehicles sneak up in silence?
Sitting at my desk at work is no less bewildering. The desk calendar has been tampered with. M T W T etc., is now S S M T... I’m not complaining about the weekend in the middle of the week, of course. It’s starting work on a Saturday, and working right through Sunday, when family and friends in the un-muddled parts of the world are doing weekend-ly things, that I find galling.
If all this wasn’t befuddling enough, my eyes are playing tricks on me. A few days ago, I logged on to google.ae and typed in a search word. Nothing happened. I hit a few more keys, and that’s when I saw the letters creeping in from the right. I shook my head, rubbed my eyes and tried again, all day and on the days that followed. It never happened again. But I could have sworn that it happened the first time. Or did it?
Guess settling down is unsettling right now. But two things are comfortingly familiar.
One, bloggers are some of the nicest people around. A big thank you to Manu and Amit who took me out on my first weekend-in-the-middle-of-the-week.
And two, advertising hasn’t changed one bit. Deadlines are still ‘yesterday’, clients continue to write copy and client servicing still stumble on the brief after the first round of creatives are presented.
Sadly, none of the above. Life, in the last few days, has revolved around unlearning well-entrenched habits and re-orienting myself to the Muddle East.
Crossing the road – not even an issue on the harum-scarum Bombay streets – now requires planning, prayer and insurance. There I am, standing on the kerb, heart thudding. I look right and put one tentative foot out, only to throw it over my shoulder in morbid terror in the next instant. The driver in the gleaming Pajero, racing in from the left slams the brakes and looks at me balefully. Heart thudding still, I look back belligerently. It’s his fault, first, for driving on the wrong side of the road, and, second, for not honking incessantly, mindlessly and deafeningly from at least a mile away. How is one supposed to cross the road when vehicles sneak up in silence?
Sitting at my desk at work is no less bewildering. The desk calendar has been tampered with. M T W T etc., is now S S M T... I’m not complaining about the weekend in the middle of the week, of course. It’s starting work on a Saturday, and working right through Sunday, when family and friends in the un-muddled parts of the world are doing weekend-ly things, that I find galling.
If all this wasn’t befuddling enough, my eyes are playing tricks on me. A few days ago, I logged on to google.ae and typed in a search word. Nothing happened. I hit a few more keys, and that’s when I saw the letters creeping in from the right. I shook my head, rubbed my eyes and tried again, all day and on the days that followed. It never happened again. But I could have sworn that it happened the first time. Or did it?
Guess settling down is unsettling right now. But two things are comfortingly familiar.
One, bloggers are some of the nicest people around. A big thank you to Manu and Amit who took me out on my first weekend-in-the-middle-of-the-week.
And two, advertising hasn’t changed one bit. Deadlines are still ‘yesterday’, clients continue to write copy and client servicing still stumble on the brief after the first round of creatives are presented.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Day 1 in Dubai
Puran poli for breakfast
Bhel puri in the evening
Amitabh Bachchan grinning from hoardings all across the city
Teen cousins singing along with the Hindi film songs on the radio
Traffic snarls at every intersection…
… maybe I’m not so far away from home.
Bhel puri in the evening
Amitabh Bachchan grinning from hoardings all across the city
Teen cousins singing along with the Hindi film songs on the radio
Traffic snarls at every intersection…
… maybe I’m not so far away from home.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Generation Zap!
A friend had this conversation with her 12-year old daughter recently.
Mom: You should start reading P.G. Wodehouse. You’ll like him.
Daughter: Is he the guy who started askjeeves.com?
Mom: You should start reading P.G. Wodehouse. You’ll like him.
Daughter: Is he the guy who started askjeeves.com?
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Paperless, and now, nameless as well!
The weekly Bharateeya Blog Mela is on. And in between dissertations on India and China’s economic policy, essays on Republic Day, an interesting explanation of ethical conceit and Patrix’s guest blogger’s highly questionable views on dating, is one little tirade against a tyrannical, toilet-paper depriving Admin machinery.
I’m pleased, no doubt, to feature in the Blog Mela, but, pray, why have you omitted my name, Ravikiran Rao?
In any case, do check out the interesting mix at the Mela.
I’m pleased, no doubt, to feature in the Blog Mela, but, pray, why have you omitted my name, Ravikiran Rao?
In any case, do check out the interesting mix at the Mela.
So long and thanks for all the pani puri
There was a commercial on TV in the early 80s for a brand which I can’t seem to recall now. (Was it Tango – the orange drink?) All I remember was a guy singing soulfully, with the resplendent Queen’s Necklace (Marine Drive for all you non-Bombayites) in the background. Sung to the tune of ‘Don’t Cry for Me Argentina’, the jingle went like this…
Don’t cry for me Bombay City
The truth is I don’t want to leave
All the excitement
The bhel puri…
I’ve been humming this tacky ditty – written no doubt by a COPYwriter – as I pack my somewhat meagre possessions into two suitcases, which by some miracle might end up weighing only 30 kilos.
It’s a moving time for me. For one, I’m moving back to mainstream advertising, after two years of revelling on the fringes. And two, I’m moving to Dubai. (Spare me, I beg you, all the sheikh, camel, mallu, harem, gold etc., jokes. In the last three weeks I’ve heard them all.)
The move is on account of a few reasons - some personal, some professional and some, just a tad irrational. Come Friday, and I’ll be opening another suitcase in another hall (well, since we’re ripping off Evita here…)
So, yes, I’m going to miss all the excitement, and not so much the bhel puri as the pani puri! Ever since the move became imminent, I’ve risked life, limb and entrails for pani puri at various places across the city. Two places, I’ve discovered, do immense justice to the humble pani puri – the not-so-little-anymore stall outside Elco Arcade, and the one outside Shopper’s Stop on Linking Road. The attendants with plastic gloves, smocks and chef hats made me feel a little less guilty about indulging.
Flippancy aside, there’s a lot more I’m going to miss. Having lived all my life in Bombay (Mumbai, if you insist) I can’t even begun to list all the things I’ve gotten attached to, used to or just plain inured to (Western Railway, are you listening?) Most of all I’m going to miss the people – family, friends and the incredibly spirited, crazy, generous, callous, friendly, confused, never-say-die, noisy, uncivil and ultimately, endearing denizens of Bombay. Fare well fair city (allow me some illusions), I’ll be back.
Absolute Lee will continue on the other side of the Arabian Sea.
P.S. Any co-relation between my departure and the absence of a certain paper as mentioned in the previous post is purely coincidental.
Don’t cry for me Bombay City
The truth is I don’t want to leave
All the excitement
The bhel puri…
I’ve been humming this tacky ditty – written no doubt by a COPYwriter – as I pack my somewhat meagre possessions into two suitcases, which by some miracle might end up weighing only 30 kilos.
It’s a moving time for me. For one, I’m moving back to mainstream advertising, after two years of revelling on the fringes. And two, I’m moving to Dubai. (Spare me, I beg you, all the sheikh, camel, mallu, harem, gold etc., jokes. In the last three weeks I’ve heard them all.)
The move is on account of a few reasons - some personal, some professional and some, just a tad irrational. Come Friday, and I’ll be opening another suitcase in another hall (well, since we’re ripping off Evita here…)
So, yes, I’m going to miss all the excitement, and not so much the bhel puri as the pani puri! Ever since the move became imminent, I’ve risked life, limb and entrails for pani puri at various places across the city. Two places, I’ve discovered, do immense justice to the humble pani puri – the not-so-little-anymore stall outside Elco Arcade, and the one outside Shopper’s Stop on Linking Road. The attendants with plastic gloves, smocks and chef hats made me feel a little less guilty about indulging.
Flippancy aside, there’s a lot more I’m going to miss. Having lived all my life in Bombay (Mumbai, if you insist) I can’t even begun to list all the things I’ve gotten attached to, used to or just plain inured to (Western Railway, are you listening?) Most of all I’m going to miss the people – family, friends and the incredibly spirited, crazy, generous, callous, friendly, confused, never-say-die, noisy, uncivil and ultimately, endearing denizens of Bombay. Fare well fair city (allow me some illusions), I’ll be back.
Absolute Lee will continue on the other side of the Arabian Sea.
P.S. Any co-relation between my departure and the absence of a certain paper as mentioned in the previous post is purely coincidental.
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Loo… and behold
Every once in a while, the Administration department at my workplace feels the need to do something dramatic to make its presence felt. The most recent act has been to ration toilet paper.
Now, this might sound facile, but it’s bloody infuriating. Consider the maths: roughly 60 women on the floor + powerful a/c’s + 3 toilets. And given my penchant for bad timing, a familiar sight greets me each time I step into the washroom – bins overflowing with toilet paper, but not a shred of it on the holder.
The fascist notice stuck on the washroom door reads, ‘It has been brought to our notice that people are wasting toilet paper to wipe hands and feet. Henceforth, toilet paper will be replaced every three hours only ie at 12.30, 3:30… etc.'
Considering the hand dryer doesn’t work and there are no paper napkins, it follows that people will use the only available paper to wipe hands, face, feet etc. But what irks me most (after the absence of toilet paper) is the seriousness with which Admin regards toilet paper. It’s toilet paper, for crying out aloud. Limited utility, non-recyclable, flimsy toilet paper. If you can’t trust employees with toilet paper, how do you entrust them with business worth crores? Talk about perspective!
While a trip to the washroom usually puts me in ill humour, there’s something that unexpectedly cheers me. It’s the view from the tiny window there. (It seems I also have a penchant for being in workplaces which have interesting views from the loo window. In a previous office, the washroom window offered a scintillating view of the setting sun, unobscured by concrete or foliage. ‘Going to watch the sunset’ became a favourite euphemism for the other business.)
The toilet-paperless washroom overlooks the primary section of a school, and affords an easy glimpse into a couple of classrooms. If I squint a bit, I can even read what’s on the blackboard. Sometimes, there’s a low drone, indicating a class in progress. At other times, there’s a high-pitched chant; sometimes a teacher’s voice thunders. Once I noticed most of the children out in the corridor. I assumed it was a free class. But then, the teacher walked into view. She stood out in the corridor chatting casually with some of the children. What intrigued me, was the way she spoke and listened to them, almost as if they were adults. An old woman, who looked like the school cleaner, came up and started shepherding the children into the class. The girls went in, but the boys continued to cavort outside. The teacher didn’t seem bothered by the ruckus.
I was thoroughly absorbed in this idyllic scene from my unusual vantage point, when I heard a discreet knock on the door. It was the washroom attendant waiting to replace the toilet paper.
Now, this might sound facile, but it’s bloody infuriating. Consider the maths: roughly 60 women on the floor + powerful a/c’s + 3 toilets. And given my penchant for bad timing, a familiar sight greets me each time I step into the washroom – bins overflowing with toilet paper, but not a shred of it on the holder.
The fascist notice stuck on the washroom door reads, ‘It has been brought to our notice that people are wasting toilet paper to wipe hands and feet. Henceforth, toilet paper will be replaced every three hours only ie at 12.30, 3:30… etc.'
Considering the hand dryer doesn’t work and there are no paper napkins, it follows that people will use the only available paper to wipe hands, face, feet etc. But what irks me most (after the absence of toilet paper) is the seriousness with which Admin regards toilet paper. It’s toilet paper, for crying out aloud. Limited utility, non-recyclable, flimsy toilet paper. If you can’t trust employees with toilet paper, how do you entrust them with business worth crores? Talk about perspective!
While a trip to the washroom usually puts me in ill humour, there’s something that unexpectedly cheers me. It’s the view from the tiny window there. (It seems I also have a penchant for being in workplaces which have interesting views from the loo window. In a previous office, the washroom window offered a scintillating view of the setting sun, unobscured by concrete or foliage. ‘Going to watch the sunset’ became a favourite euphemism for the other business.)
The toilet-paperless washroom overlooks the primary section of a school, and affords an easy glimpse into a couple of classrooms. If I squint a bit, I can even read what’s on the blackboard. Sometimes, there’s a low drone, indicating a class in progress. At other times, there’s a high-pitched chant; sometimes a teacher’s voice thunders. Once I noticed most of the children out in the corridor. I assumed it was a free class. But then, the teacher walked into view. She stood out in the corridor chatting casually with some of the children. What intrigued me, was the way she spoke and listened to them, almost as if they were adults. An old woman, who looked like the school cleaner, came up and started shepherding the children into the class. The girls went in, but the boys continued to cavort outside. The teacher didn’t seem bothered by the ruckus.
I was thoroughly absorbed in this idyllic scene from my unusual vantage point, when I heard a discreet knock on the door. It was the washroom attendant waiting to replace the toilet paper.
Friday, January 14, 2005
Run!
‘I’ve really been training for the marathon,’ said a colleague yesterday.
I looked up impressed, as did a few others.
He continued, smugly, ‘I’ve been taking the stairs for the last two days.’
I fell off the chair laughing. Our department is on the 2nd floor. And if climbing two storeys amounted to marathon training, walking up to the canteen on the 6th floor, would probably put him in line to climb Everest.
Smug colleague isn’t the only one training for what seems to be the biggest social event of 2005. Dabbawalas, senior citizens, celebrities, socialites and thousands of others are all gearing up for January 16. Imagine the clatter of 25,000 pairs of feet on Marine Drive!
Runner No. 21769 is not very excited, though…
As a result of a goof up, I’ve been signed on for the 7 km Dream Run. Having done the Half Marathon last year, where’s the motivation to do one third the distance, and that too while being elbowed, and possibly stamped over, by 20,000 people.
Oh well, that’s just a rationalisation. I’ve haven’t been training for the Half Marathon anyway. Last year, it took one month of concentrated physical and mental preparation, and an insane amount of co-ordination just to find a place where one could run without encumbrances. I tried Azad Maidan once and it was quite an experience. I got chased by dogs, stumbled over canoodling couples and lost my footing several times on the uneven, unlit ground. If I were training for the obstacle course, Azad Maidan would’ve been perfect.
Thankfully, Oval Maidan turned out to be a better alternative. It actually had a running track, lined with palm trees that swayed lazily in the evening breeze. The Rajabhai Clock Tower nearby kept perfect time. And running, while watching the city recede into the night, was as sublime an experience as any.
It strikes me that the city has such few open spaces where people can run without having to dodge traffic, other people and not to forget, animals. Running on a treadmill for anything over half an hour can be desperately boring. And while running on the beach sounds dreamy, the sanitation leaves a lot to be desired.
So, just maybe, Smug Colleague had the right idea. See, that’s another reason why I couldn’t train. I live on the ground floor…
I looked up impressed, as did a few others.
He continued, smugly, ‘I’ve been taking the stairs for the last two days.’
I fell off the chair laughing. Our department is on the 2nd floor. And if climbing two storeys amounted to marathon training, walking up to the canteen on the 6th floor, would probably put him in line to climb Everest.
Smug colleague isn’t the only one training for what seems to be the biggest social event of 2005. Dabbawalas, senior citizens, celebrities, socialites and thousands of others are all gearing up for January 16. Imagine the clatter of 25,000 pairs of feet on Marine Drive!
Runner No. 21769 is not very excited, though…
As a result of a goof up, I’ve been signed on for the 7 km Dream Run. Having done the Half Marathon last year, where’s the motivation to do one third the distance, and that too while being elbowed, and possibly stamped over, by 20,000 people.
Oh well, that’s just a rationalisation. I’ve haven’t been training for the Half Marathon anyway. Last year, it took one month of concentrated physical and mental preparation, and an insane amount of co-ordination just to find a place where one could run without encumbrances. I tried Azad Maidan once and it was quite an experience. I got chased by dogs, stumbled over canoodling couples and lost my footing several times on the uneven, unlit ground. If I were training for the obstacle course, Azad Maidan would’ve been perfect.
Thankfully, Oval Maidan turned out to be a better alternative. It actually had a running track, lined with palm trees that swayed lazily in the evening breeze. The Rajabhai Clock Tower nearby kept perfect time. And running, while watching the city recede into the night, was as sublime an experience as any.
It strikes me that the city has such few open spaces where people can run without having to dodge traffic, other people and not to forget, animals. Running on a treadmill for anything over half an hour can be desperately boring. And while running on the beach sounds dreamy, the sanitation leaves a lot to be desired.
So, just maybe, Smug Colleague had the right idea. See, that’s another reason why I couldn’t train. I live on the ground floor…
Monday, January 10, 2005
Thanks for the tip
Whatever happened to the unobtrusive salesperson? The kind who stay in the shadows and only spring to assistance when you call on them? These days department stores are swarming with irrepressibly cheerful and ingratiatingly over-helpful sorts, who simply take charge of your shopping.
“Ma’am, this colour really suits you. And you must take these matching shoes as well… No shoes? (shocked expression) Ok, what about this bag, then… No? Some perfume then...”
Then, there are the gratuitous advice givers. “Can’t make up your mind, ma’am? Take both. You can wear this one to work and this to a party.”
A couple of days ago, I had completed my shopping and was standing in the check-out queue, when I realised – quite happily – that I hadn’t been accosted by one know-it-all salesperson. I made a mental note to frequent this place more often. I scribbled my signature on the credit card slip, took my bags and headed for the exit, when the billing executive called out to me.
I turned to see him peering at the credit card slip. A slow thudding began in the region of my chest. Had I signed incorrectly? Was there an anomaly in my credit card account? Did I look like a forger? My mind tossed up every remote possibility.
He looked up and beckoned to me, even as others in the queue turned to stare. I felt like a fugitive.
“Madam, just a minute...” he called out loudly.
“Yes, what’s it?” I croaked nervously.
“Hope you won’t mind if I tell you this…”
I shook my head vigorously. I am innocent, my mind screamed silently.
“See, you’ve signed your name here and then you’ve drawn a line under it backwards. You know what that means?”
My unblinking, saucer-like gaze accurately conveyed that I didn’t.
“It means that you make progress in life but then you throw it all away; you go backwards in life. Hope you don’t mind me telling you this.”
I stared at him, my thoughts alternating between relief (that I wasn’t going to be arrested), embarrassment (at being pegged as a ‘backward’ person) and seething fury at his superfluous ‘advice’.
I swept out of the store with as much dignity as my red face could muster. I was outside before I noticed the unexpected object in my hand. It was a rather fine and expensive looking roller ball pen. Quite unlike the cheap plastic pens that stores usually offer you to sign credit card slips. I couldn’t help smiling. For someone whose life had purportedly been blighted by a ‘backward signature’, I had nimble fingers.
“Ma’am, this colour really suits you. And you must take these matching shoes as well… No shoes? (shocked expression) Ok, what about this bag, then… No? Some perfume then...”
Then, there are the gratuitous advice givers. “Can’t make up your mind, ma’am? Take both. You can wear this one to work and this to a party.”
A couple of days ago, I had completed my shopping and was standing in the check-out queue, when I realised – quite happily – that I hadn’t been accosted by one know-it-all salesperson. I made a mental note to frequent this place more often. I scribbled my signature on the credit card slip, took my bags and headed for the exit, when the billing executive called out to me.
I turned to see him peering at the credit card slip. A slow thudding began in the region of my chest. Had I signed incorrectly? Was there an anomaly in my credit card account? Did I look like a forger? My mind tossed up every remote possibility.
He looked up and beckoned to me, even as others in the queue turned to stare. I felt like a fugitive.
“Madam, just a minute...” he called out loudly.
“Yes, what’s it?” I croaked nervously.
“Hope you won’t mind if I tell you this…”
I shook my head vigorously. I am innocent, my mind screamed silently.
“See, you’ve signed your name here and then you’ve drawn a line under it backwards. You know what that means?”
My unblinking, saucer-like gaze accurately conveyed that I didn’t.
“It means that you make progress in life but then you throw it all away; you go backwards in life. Hope you don’t mind me telling you this.”
I stared at him, my thoughts alternating between relief (that I wasn’t going to be arrested), embarrassment (at being pegged as a ‘backward’ person) and seething fury at his superfluous ‘advice’.
I swept out of the store with as much dignity as my red face could muster. I was outside before I noticed the unexpected object in my hand. It was a rather fine and expensive looking roller ball pen. Quite unlike the cheap plastic pens that stores usually offer you to sign credit card slips. I couldn’t help smiling. For someone whose life had purportedly been blighted by a ‘backward signature’, I had nimble fingers.
Saturday, January 01, 2005
Happy new beginnings
The tragedy has crept eerily close. A very close friend lost five members of her extended family in Sri Lanka. Only a 9-year old nephew survived. Life has to go on, for his sake, says my friend. But life won’t be the same.
On another level, life surely hasn’t been the same in the last few days. Never before has there been such a collective outpouring of empathy and aid. From convicts in Tihar jail to rickshaw pullers in Chennai to innumerable ordinary citizens (bloggers included), everybody has been a part of the collective relief effort. Most remarkable is the fact that the disaster has shattered decade long standoffs between insurgents and their governments. If ever proof was needed that the world could work together as one, then this is it.
As Spaceman Spiff puts it, ‘Wish 2005 will be a year when nature doesn’t have to turn so militant in order to bring us humans together'.
Wish you all a happy and peace-filled New Year.
P. S. Just wanted to share a Japanese Folk Tale with you.
On another level, life surely hasn’t been the same in the last few days. Never before has there been such a collective outpouring of empathy and aid. From convicts in Tihar jail to rickshaw pullers in Chennai to innumerable ordinary citizens (bloggers included), everybody has been a part of the collective relief effort. Most remarkable is the fact that the disaster has shattered decade long standoffs between insurgents and their governments. If ever proof was needed that the world could work together as one, then this is it.
As Spaceman Spiff puts it, ‘Wish 2005 will be a year when nature doesn’t have to turn so militant in order to bring us humans together'.
Wish you all a happy and peace-filled New Year.
P. S. Just wanted to share a Japanese Folk Tale with you.
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
Losing everything
A month and a half ago, a minor fire broke out at my workplace. It was caused by a short circuit in my boss’s cabin. Fortunately, it occurred in the night when no one was around, and even more fortunately, it was spotted by security personnel who quickly contained it even before the fire brigade arrived. But the cabin was completely destroyed. One half was a black, charred mass of paper and wood; the other half was covered with soot and embers. The soft board, once a colourful collage of photographs and Post It’s, was scorched to bits, exposing the wooden frame behind it. The telephone was a mangled, fused heap. There even was a black spot on the 25-foot high ceiling.
My boss was in a mild shock that day. She lamented about losing her papers, photographs and other paraphernalia which she’d accumulated over the last 18 years. As I brushed away the embers from my desk, a sudden fear gripped me. What if the fire had spread to my cubicle which was adjacent to her cabin? My thoughts immediately went to the printouts of all my work neatly stacked in the drawers. I’d harangued the art director for almost a year to collect all those printouts. What if the fire…? I quickly made plans to transport all my work home.
It took a moment for the absurdity of that plan to sink in. If tragedy chose you, there was no escape. I was as vulnerable at home as at any place on earth. The reality and inevitability of loss never hit me harder. I did a quick mental inventory of all the things that were dearest to me. My heart lurched when I thought of my precious books. Anything, but them, I decided.
This half-forgotten incident and the accompanying thoughts came back to me as I watched the tsunami coverage on TV. There was that phrase repeated over and over again… ‘People who have lost everything...’ Amid all the heart-rending scenes of loss, there was one that disturbed me immensely. A Muslim man was offering prayers alone in a corner of a dargah. The reporter mentioned that ‘he’d lost everything’. Everything included three children and all seven grandchildren. He spoke in a sad yet calm voice while the translations appeared on screen. ‘The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. It is the cycle of life.’
Perhaps he was numb with shock, but his calm acceptance disturbed me more than all the grief stricken images I had seen. My mental inventory of a month-and-a-half ago never featured people. It was just too terrifying to do that. I cannot imagine what coping mechanisms he, and others who’ve lost ‘everything’, will use. I cannot imagine what the days ahead will be like when the numbness wears off. I can only pray, and help in a very small way.
P.S. Amazing efforts at Tsunami Help. A never-before reaction to a never-before calamity! Do visit and help.
My boss was in a mild shock that day. She lamented about losing her papers, photographs and other paraphernalia which she’d accumulated over the last 18 years. As I brushed away the embers from my desk, a sudden fear gripped me. What if the fire had spread to my cubicle which was adjacent to her cabin? My thoughts immediately went to the printouts of all my work neatly stacked in the drawers. I’d harangued the art director for almost a year to collect all those printouts. What if the fire…? I quickly made plans to transport all my work home.
It took a moment for the absurdity of that plan to sink in. If tragedy chose you, there was no escape. I was as vulnerable at home as at any place on earth. The reality and inevitability of loss never hit me harder. I did a quick mental inventory of all the things that were dearest to me. My heart lurched when I thought of my precious books. Anything, but them, I decided.
This half-forgotten incident and the accompanying thoughts came back to me as I watched the tsunami coverage on TV. There was that phrase repeated over and over again… ‘People who have lost everything...’ Amid all the heart-rending scenes of loss, there was one that disturbed me immensely. A Muslim man was offering prayers alone in a corner of a dargah. The reporter mentioned that ‘he’d lost everything’. Everything included three children and all seven grandchildren. He spoke in a sad yet calm voice while the translations appeared on screen. ‘The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. It is the cycle of life.’
Perhaps he was numb with shock, but his calm acceptance disturbed me more than all the grief stricken images I had seen. My mental inventory of a month-and-a-half ago never featured people. It was just too terrifying to do that. I cannot imagine what coping mechanisms he, and others who’ve lost ‘everything’, will use. I cannot imagine what the days ahead will be like when the numbness wears off. I can only pray, and help in a very small way.
P.S. Amazing efforts at Tsunami Help. A never-before reaction to a never-before calamity! Do visit and help.
Monday, December 20, 2004
SWADES: A review
It was a rare event for me – watching a Hindi film, and that too on the weekend of its release. But the unusual publicity stills of Swades and the buzz surrounding it, had peaked my curiosity. Luckily, J had extra tickets and I tagged along, despite the fact that it was a 10 p.m. show. My brain usually downs the shutters at midnight and everything after that is a blur.
But I had no problem staying awake, even though my neighbour on the left went into a mouth-agape slumber post interval. That’s one thing that can be said about Swades; it’s an engrossing film even though it proceeds at a bullock cart pace.
The theme of an NRI coming face to face with the real India has been explored before; in Hyderabad Blues, for instance. But where the protagonist of Hyderabad Blues feels disconnected and disillusioned, Mohan Bhargava of Swades gets into action right from the start. Whether it’s pulling down caste barriers, canvassing for education, bringing electricity to the village or charming the uptight school teacher, he does it all in fewer than 5 weeks. Hindi film heroes!
However, despite the crusading, Bhargava comes across as earnest and credible. He starts out as the unwitting do-gooder, but the turning point is when he goes on a journey and sees the poverty-stricken face of rural India. The scene which underlines his transition is poignant; the Bisleri-toting Bhargava buys a cup of water from a waif at a railway station, and tears roll down his eyes as he drinks it. The Non-Resident Indian finally becomes a part of the Indian reality.
But symbolic gestures are few, and the film does get rather preachy at times especially about Bharatiya parampara and sanskriti. But Bhargava echoes my sentiments when he tells the village elder who gloats about India having values and culture, ‘That’s what we always take refuge in.’ He even boldly goes on to say that India isn’t a great nation, but has the ability to become one. He lays bare all of India’s shortcomings, but most importantly, gets down to action. Like he says, everyone blames the system, but we are part of the system. So rather than passing the buck, he gets the villagers to be participate in generating their own electricity supply.
For once, it seems like reality has caught up Hindi cinema. No designer villages, no buxom gao ki goris doing ‘item numbers’, no photogenic mustard fields. The faces are real. The problems are real. The dust and grime is real, disconcertingly so. Only the frequent songs remind you that you’re watching a film.
It’s hard to imagine Shahrukh Khan minus the hammy, bumbling act. But his is an amazingly restrained performance in the film. As an NRI struggling to come to terms with an India stuck in a time warp, he is credible and endearing. I can’t say the same of the female lead though. Her manicured nails and dainty mannerisms stuck out in the ‘real’ picture. Call me picky, but Bhargava’s nanny, Kaveriamma, also struck a discordant note. A fine performance notwithstanding, I couldn’t help wondering what a south Indian was doing in a distinctly north Indian village. Or did I miss a national integration message here? Hmm… maybe I should leave logic at home next time.
Minor peeves aside, I liked the film. The director has bravely sidestepped many of the clichés one has come to associate with Hindi films. I liked the fact that Bhargava chose to leave the village despite being guilt-tripped about sanskriti and parampara. And that his decision to return isn’t impulsive but well thought through. The supporting cast is excellent, especially the postman and the dhaba owner. The humour isn’t forced, thankfully. Little gems stand out. For instance, the nanny asks Bhargava, ‘Tumhara nasha kaisa hai?’ and it turns out she’s asking about NASA!
Images from the film were still unspooling in my mind, when we trooped out of the theatre at 2 a.m. It was extraordinarily late, even for a late night show, but that’s because the 10 p.m. show had started at 10.45. The reason for the delay couldn’t have been more ironic - a power failure during the earlier show!
Yeh jo des hai mera…
But I had no problem staying awake, even though my neighbour on the left went into a mouth-agape slumber post interval. That’s one thing that can be said about Swades; it’s an engrossing film even though it proceeds at a bullock cart pace.
The theme of an NRI coming face to face with the real India has been explored before; in Hyderabad Blues, for instance. But where the protagonist of Hyderabad Blues feels disconnected and disillusioned, Mohan Bhargava of Swades gets into action right from the start. Whether it’s pulling down caste barriers, canvassing for education, bringing electricity to the village or charming the uptight school teacher, he does it all in fewer than 5 weeks. Hindi film heroes!
However, despite the crusading, Bhargava comes across as earnest and credible. He starts out as the unwitting do-gooder, but the turning point is when he goes on a journey and sees the poverty-stricken face of rural India. The scene which underlines his transition is poignant; the Bisleri-toting Bhargava buys a cup of water from a waif at a railway station, and tears roll down his eyes as he drinks it. The Non-Resident Indian finally becomes a part of the Indian reality.
But symbolic gestures are few, and the film does get rather preachy at times especially about Bharatiya parampara and sanskriti. But Bhargava echoes my sentiments when he tells the village elder who gloats about India having values and culture, ‘That’s what we always take refuge in.’ He even boldly goes on to say that India isn’t a great nation, but has the ability to become one. He lays bare all of India’s shortcomings, but most importantly, gets down to action. Like he says, everyone blames the system, but we are part of the system. So rather than passing the buck, he gets the villagers to be participate in generating their own electricity supply.
For once, it seems like reality has caught up Hindi cinema. No designer villages, no buxom gao ki goris doing ‘item numbers’, no photogenic mustard fields. The faces are real. The problems are real. The dust and grime is real, disconcertingly so. Only the frequent songs remind you that you’re watching a film.
It’s hard to imagine Shahrukh Khan minus the hammy, bumbling act. But his is an amazingly restrained performance in the film. As an NRI struggling to come to terms with an India stuck in a time warp, he is credible and endearing. I can’t say the same of the female lead though. Her manicured nails and dainty mannerisms stuck out in the ‘real’ picture. Call me picky, but Bhargava’s nanny, Kaveriamma, also struck a discordant note. A fine performance notwithstanding, I couldn’t help wondering what a south Indian was doing in a distinctly north Indian village. Or did I miss a national integration message here? Hmm… maybe I should leave logic at home next time.
Minor peeves aside, I liked the film. The director has bravely sidestepped many of the clichés one has come to associate with Hindi films. I liked the fact that Bhargava chose to leave the village despite being guilt-tripped about sanskriti and parampara. And that his decision to return isn’t impulsive but well thought through. The supporting cast is excellent, especially the postman and the dhaba owner. The humour isn’t forced, thankfully. Little gems stand out. For instance, the nanny asks Bhargava, ‘Tumhara nasha kaisa hai?’ and it turns out she’s asking about NASA!
Images from the film were still unspooling in my mind, when we trooped out of the theatre at 2 a.m. It was extraordinarily late, even for a late night show, but that’s because the 10 p.m. show had started at 10.45. The reason for the delay couldn’t have been more ironic - a power failure during the earlier show!
Yeh jo des hai mera…
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
Tuesday with Teresa
Continued from An Introduction to Spain
I had asked Teresa to meet me at the Regal Cinema in Colaba. As my cab reached the venue, I spotted her looking a trifle lost. She was wearing what appeared to be a cross between a kurta and a nightie. On closer inspection, I decided it was a nightie.
‘Can I hug you?,’ she asked, ‘It’s a custom in Spain and it’s been so long since I hugged someone.’
I was too bewildered to refuse. But I was struck by her candour. And her loneliness.
‘So what did you do in the last two days,’ I asked. We were standing on the steps of Regal Cinema. Except for a few stragglers, there was no one around.
Teresa began to reel off the tourist spots that she’d visited, occasionally consulting her Lonely Planet. I was impressed.
‘You went on your own?’ I asked.
‘No, the security guard in my hotel came along,’ she replied.
But she ended up seeing a lot more than the Lonely Planet recommended. Apparently the ‘Mumbai darshan’ had ended at Chowpatty. And as they sat on the beach eating bhel puri, the security guard decided he’d found the love of his life…
‘He tells me I love you and want to marry you,” she said, arms flailing again. ‘I say, it’s ok. You’ll meet someone else. But he starts hugging me. And kisses me on the cheek.’
Fortunately (or unfortunately) for Teresa someone saw this amorous exchange and alerted the police, who promptly took them both to the police station.
‘The police tell me such behaviour is not tolerated in our country. I tell them I didn’t do anything. But they say I shouldn’t go with such people,’ she said, all too rapidly.
The police interrogated her for a couple of hours. Later, one of them softened a bit.
‘He explains how I must not trust people, how I must be more careful. And he tells me, if you don’t have a friend in the city, I will be your friend.’
Uh-oh I thought. The sordid saga continues…
Thankfully that was the end. The police detained the security guard and allowed her to leave.
‘Did you complain about the guard to the hotel in-charge,’ I asked, knowing her reply fully well.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I didn’t want to get him into trouble. He’s very young boy and just very lonely.’
She brushed away all further objections and asked instead, ‘What you think of my dress?’
I made polite noises about the nightie while she raved about the colour and the print. She chattered happily. The ‘sight-seeing’ incident of the morning was now behind her.
We walked down Colaba causeway looking for ‘Indian clothes’.
We stepped into one of the export surplus stores, with clothes spilling out of boxes and racks, almost onto the pavement. I tugged at a pile of clothes, so did Teresa. One thing became clear; our tastes didn’t match. So I let her do the tugging.
She settled on three pieces, preening in front of the mirror. The owner refused to bargain, curtly pointing to the ‘fixed price only’ cardboard sign. Teresa paid up and we exited from the cramped, airless store.
‘Thank you, Layla’, she said, when we could breathe again, ‘now you must let me take you for a meal.’
Sure, I said, feeling no need to be coy and polite with Teresa. I suggested Kailas Parbat, a place well known for North Indian snacks.
‘Oh yesterday this lady invited me to her house for Indian food…’ she said casually, as we walked down Causeway.
I was immediately suspicious, quite expecting another unpleasant episode.
Over ‘bahut bahut kam teekha’ pani puri and dahi sev batata puri, she shared about her dinner experience. She had been sitting on a bench on the Apollo pier and had struck up a conversation with another woman there. After the usual pleasantries, the woman on the bench insisted on taking Teresa home for dinner.
Teresa went on, ‘I had dal, roti, something made of brinjal, and lots of water,’ she said waving a hand in front of her mouth, as if to put out an imaginary fire.
We laughed. Thankfully, the dinner didn’t have a dark side to it. But I told Teresa that she shouldn’t trust people so easily.
‘I know, but people are so nice too,’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘I trusted you and see…’
I didn’t know what to say. I felt a bit protective about her because she was alone. But she seemed to know what she was doing and was ready to accept all outcomes. I marvelled at her equanimity.
We exchanged email addresses. And she surprised me by signing her name in Hindi.
‘I can write a little, but I can’t speak much,’ she laughed.
‘Oh, you have a year to learn’, I told her, and instinctively hugged her.
I haven’t heard from her yet. But I’m sure she’ll pop up in my inbox one of these days, relating some adventure, some experience. I only hope they’re good stories.
I had asked Teresa to meet me at the Regal Cinema in Colaba. As my cab reached the venue, I spotted her looking a trifle lost. She was wearing what appeared to be a cross between a kurta and a nightie. On closer inspection, I decided it was a nightie.
‘Can I hug you?,’ she asked, ‘It’s a custom in Spain and it’s been so long since I hugged someone.’
I was too bewildered to refuse. But I was struck by her candour. And her loneliness.
‘So what did you do in the last two days,’ I asked. We were standing on the steps of Regal Cinema. Except for a few stragglers, there was no one around.
Teresa began to reel off the tourist spots that she’d visited, occasionally consulting her Lonely Planet. I was impressed.
‘You went on your own?’ I asked.
‘No, the security guard in my hotel came along,’ she replied.
But she ended up seeing a lot more than the Lonely Planet recommended. Apparently the ‘Mumbai darshan’ had ended at Chowpatty. And as they sat on the beach eating bhel puri, the security guard decided he’d found the love of his life…
‘He tells me I love you and want to marry you,” she said, arms flailing again. ‘I say, it’s ok. You’ll meet someone else. But he starts hugging me. And kisses me on the cheek.’
Fortunately (or unfortunately) for Teresa someone saw this amorous exchange and alerted the police, who promptly took them both to the police station.
‘The police tell me such behaviour is not tolerated in our country. I tell them I didn’t do anything. But they say I shouldn’t go with such people,’ she said, all too rapidly.
The police interrogated her for a couple of hours. Later, one of them softened a bit.
‘He explains how I must not trust people, how I must be more careful. And he tells me, if you don’t have a friend in the city, I will be your friend.’
Uh-oh I thought. The sordid saga continues…
Thankfully that was the end. The police detained the security guard and allowed her to leave.
‘Did you complain about the guard to the hotel in-charge,’ I asked, knowing her reply fully well.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I didn’t want to get him into trouble. He’s very young boy and just very lonely.’
She brushed away all further objections and asked instead, ‘What you think of my dress?’
I made polite noises about the nightie while she raved about the colour and the print. She chattered happily. The ‘sight-seeing’ incident of the morning was now behind her.
We walked down Colaba causeway looking for ‘Indian clothes’.
We stepped into one of the export surplus stores, with clothes spilling out of boxes and racks, almost onto the pavement. I tugged at a pile of clothes, so did Teresa. One thing became clear; our tastes didn’t match. So I let her do the tugging.
She settled on three pieces, preening in front of the mirror. The owner refused to bargain, curtly pointing to the ‘fixed price only’ cardboard sign. Teresa paid up and we exited from the cramped, airless store.
‘Thank you, Layla’, she said, when we could breathe again, ‘now you must let me take you for a meal.’
Sure, I said, feeling no need to be coy and polite with Teresa. I suggested Kailas Parbat, a place well known for North Indian snacks.
‘Oh yesterday this lady invited me to her house for Indian food…’ she said casually, as we walked down Causeway.
I was immediately suspicious, quite expecting another unpleasant episode.
Over ‘bahut bahut kam teekha’ pani puri and dahi sev batata puri, she shared about her dinner experience. She had been sitting on a bench on the Apollo pier and had struck up a conversation with another woman there. After the usual pleasantries, the woman on the bench insisted on taking Teresa home for dinner.
Teresa went on, ‘I had dal, roti, something made of brinjal, and lots of water,’ she said waving a hand in front of her mouth, as if to put out an imaginary fire.
We laughed. Thankfully, the dinner didn’t have a dark side to it. But I told Teresa that she shouldn’t trust people so easily.
‘I know, but people are so nice too,’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘I trusted you and see…’
I didn’t know what to say. I felt a bit protective about her because she was alone. But she seemed to know what she was doing and was ready to accept all outcomes. I marvelled at her equanimity.
We exchanged email addresses. And she surprised me by signing her name in Hindi.
‘I can write a little, but I can’t speak much,’ she laughed.
‘Oh, you have a year to learn’, I told her, and instinctively hugged her.
I haven’t heard from her yet. But I’m sure she’ll pop up in my inbox one of these days, relating some adventure, some experience. I only hope they’re good stories.
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
An introduction to Spain
I met Teresa at the 1-day Vipassana course at Gorai last Sunday. She was a plump Spanish girl, ostensibly in her late 20s and spoke English with a charming accent and with much flailing of hands. She wore a white kurta and beige cotton trousers, and said a respectful ‘Namaste’ to everyone who smiled at her.
One of the assistants asked if I could drop her off at the railway station. I agreed. Another middle aged woman in a bright yellow sari volunteered as well, presumably captivated by Teresa’s profuse Namaste’s. The three of us walked to the Esselworld pier to take the ferry to Gorai.
I didn’t want to seem intrusive, but I was curious about Teresa, about what drew her to Vipassana. She had no qualms sharing, thankfully. She said that she worked in a bookstore in Spain, and was introduced to Vipassana by a friend two years ago. But there were no introductory courses in Spain at that time, so she travelled to France. ‘I stayed at the centre for 3 ½ months,’ she said, ‘I did a 10 day course each month and assisted at the centre for the rest of the time.’
She laughed at my incredulous expression and offered by way of explanation, ‘After I did the first course, I felt I wasn’t ready to get back into the world, so I stayed there for a while.’
In the ferry, the yellow sari lady pulled out a single toffee from her bag and offered it to me. I made polite noises and declined. She offered it to Teresa who accepted it delightedly. The yellow sari lady looked very gratified and boldly pushed another toffee in my palm.
‘Your country is very nice,’ she said, ‘but not so nice for me to buy things here. If I go to buy Indian clothes, they charge me double.’
I sympathised with her, and impulsively offered, ‘Would you like me to take you to some places in town?’
She readily agreed, without any coyness. Her trusting nature amazed and worried me.
The auto drivers on the other side of the creek called out respectfully when they saw the three of us, ‘Yes medem, Boroli teshun?’ Respect turned into belligerence when I flatly told them I would only pay by the meter. Finally, one acquiesced and we headed back into the chaos of the city.
‘Obviously Vipassana made a big difference to you, since you decided to come here…’ I murmured, hoping it didn’t sound nosy.
She nodded and added, ‘But everyone in my family thinks I’m…’ She tapped the side of her head and pulled a comic face. ‘My friends say, we respect your decision, but they don’t understand it. I feel so lonely in my country.’
So that’s why she headed eastwards. She had a year’s visa, an open ticket and no plan. She was to go to Igatpuri, do a few courses, serve at the centre and then head out to the Vipassana centres in Bodh Gaya or Nepal.
‘I feel good being here. I feel happy,’ she said.
She was either supremely equanimous or supremely naïve, I decided. She’d just told me of the harrowing morning spent going round in circles and getting fleeced by cab drivers on the way to Gorai.
We were stuck in an almighty traffic jam for a while. Finally, the ‘source’ of the jam lumbered into view. An elephant!
Teresa clapped her hands and exclaimed, ‘Oooh, Ive never seen an elephant before.’ I started laughing and almost had a choking fit when she said, ‘Aaj main bahoot khush hoon.’ Even the hitherto unimpressed auto driver gawped at her in the rear view mirror.
The hordes at ‘Bolivari station’ (as Teresa called it) played the usual ‘avoid-subway-dodge-traffic’ game. I looked at Teresa to see if she was overwhelmed by it all. She seemed caught up in the adventure of it.
The yellow sari lady couldn’t keep up with the conversation in English, so I stopped every few moments to translate. Suddenly Teresa asked her, ‘Aap khush hai.’ The yellow sari lady blinked in surprise.
Teresa turned to me, ‘Is that an inappropriate question?’
I guessed the yellow sari lady had a problem understanding the accent and translated. She looked surprised again, like the question had never occurred to her, and said bemusedly, ‘Main khush hi to hoon. Khush na hone ki kya baat hai.’
She went away shaking her head. Meanwhile, Teresa was captivated by the food stalls at the station. ‘Do you want to have a juice?’ she asked. I looked warily at the nimbupani wondering if she had the stomach for it. She seemed keen, so I suggested a Frooti. She sipped it and smacked her lips, marvelling, ‘In my country the juices are so watery. This is so tasty and thick.’ I couldn’t help laughing, because I disliked Frooti for the same reason.
‘So we meet on Tuesday?’ she asked a little anxiously. ‘If it’s out of your way, I could come to Bolivari’.
When I assured her that it was no problem, she thanked me and then hugged me.
‘Um… hasta la vista,’ I murmured. She threw back her head and laughed.
Next: Tuesday with Teresa.
One of the assistants asked if I could drop her off at the railway station. I agreed. Another middle aged woman in a bright yellow sari volunteered as well, presumably captivated by Teresa’s profuse Namaste’s. The three of us walked to the Esselworld pier to take the ferry to Gorai.
I didn’t want to seem intrusive, but I was curious about Teresa, about what drew her to Vipassana. She had no qualms sharing, thankfully. She said that she worked in a bookstore in Spain, and was introduced to Vipassana by a friend two years ago. But there were no introductory courses in Spain at that time, so she travelled to France. ‘I stayed at the centre for 3 ½ months,’ she said, ‘I did a 10 day course each month and assisted at the centre for the rest of the time.’
She laughed at my incredulous expression and offered by way of explanation, ‘After I did the first course, I felt I wasn’t ready to get back into the world, so I stayed there for a while.’
In the ferry, the yellow sari lady pulled out a single toffee from her bag and offered it to me. I made polite noises and declined. She offered it to Teresa who accepted it delightedly. The yellow sari lady looked very gratified and boldly pushed another toffee in my palm.
‘Your country is very nice,’ she said, ‘but not so nice for me to buy things here. If I go to buy Indian clothes, they charge me double.’
I sympathised with her, and impulsively offered, ‘Would you like me to take you to some places in town?’
She readily agreed, without any coyness. Her trusting nature amazed and worried me.
The auto drivers on the other side of the creek called out respectfully when they saw the three of us, ‘Yes medem, Boroli teshun?’ Respect turned into belligerence when I flatly told them I would only pay by the meter. Finally, one acquiesced and we headed back into the chaos of the city.
‘Obviously Vipassana made a big difference to you, since you decided to come here…’ I murmured, hoping it didn’t sound nosy.
She nodded and added, ‘But everyone in my family thinks I’m…’ She tapped the side of her head and pulled a comic face. ‘My friends say, we respect your decision, but they don’t understand it. I feel so lonely in my country.’
So that’s why she headed eastwards. She had a year’s visa, an open ticket and no plan. She was to go to Igatpuri, do a few courses, serve at the centre and then head out to the Vipassana centres in Bodh Gaya or Nepal.
‘I feel good being here. I feel happy,’ she said.
She was either supremely equanimous or supremely naïve, I decided. She’d just told me of the harrowing morning spent going round in circles and getting fleeced by cab drivers on the way to Gorai.
We were stuck in an almighty traffic jam for a while. Finally, the ‘source’ of the jam lumbered into view. An elephant!
Teresa clapped her hands and exclaimed, ‘Oooh, Ive never seen an elephant before.’ I started laughing and almost had a choking fit when she said, ‘Aaj main bahoot khush hoon.’ Even the hitherto unimpressed auto driver gawped at her in the rear view mirror.
The hordes at ‘Bolivari station’ (as Teresa called it) played the usual ‘avoid-subway-dodge-traffic’ game. I looked at Teresa to see if she was overwhelmed by it all. She seemed caught up in the adventure of it.
The yellow sari lady couldn’t keep up with the conversation in English, so I stopped every few moments to translate. Suddenly Teresa asked her, ‘Aap khush hai.’ The yellow sari lady blinked in surprise.
Teresa turned to me, ‘Is that an inappropriate question?’
I guessed the yellow sari lady had a problem understanding the accent and translated. She looked surprised again, like the question had never occurred to her, and said bemusedly, ‘Main khush hi to hoon. Khush na hone ki kya baat hai.’
She went away shaking her head. Meanwhile, Teresa was captivated by the food stalls at the station. ‘Do you want to have a juice?’ she asked. I looked warily at the nimbupani wondering if she had the stomach for it. She seemed keen, so I suggested a Frooti. She sipped it and smacked her lips, marvelling, ‘In my country the juices are so watery. This is so tasty and thick.’ I couldn’t help laughing, because I disliked Frooti for the same reason.
‘So we meet on Tuesday?’ she asked a little anxiously. ‘If it’s out of your way, I could come to Bolivari’.
When I assured her that it was no problem, she thanked me and then hugged me.
‘Um… hasta la vista,’ I murmured. She threw back her head and laughed.
Next: Tuesday with Teresa.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
An evening with R
Everyone in college referred to him as ‘the mad Bawa’. And truth be told, R did act a little crazy. A permanent fixture on the last bench – when he did attend, that is – he’d compose songs with banal lyrics, and suddenly start singing them in class, startling professors and classmates alike. His antics had everyone in splits and many a boring lecture was livened by a teacher’s attempts to rebuke him. But R’s heart was in the right place, even if his head wasn’t. And he and I became unlikely but thick pals.
One day, after drifting for several years, R announced that he was going to appear for the IAS exams. Understandably, this pronouncement was received with rapidly lowered jaws, hoots of disbelief and even hysterical laughter. The guy who barely scraped through college was going to take on the toughest exams in the country. He really had to be crazy!
We met a couple of weeks later outside the public library where he spent a good part of his day, arriving with the first rays of the sun and leaving only when the staff forcibly ejected him. The gold-rimmed glasses gave further testimony of his newfound zeal.
“God, I stink,” were his first words to me. “Here see…” he thrust his armpit into my face. I turned my face away and laughed. Same old R, I thought.
But as the evening unfolded, I was forced to rearrange my views about him. His insights on racism, politics and Indian history astounded me.
“Jews have been persecuted by the Romans, Nazis and even Shakespeare,” he thundered. “Ever noticed how he constantly refers to ‘Shylock, the Jew’?” He didn’t just read 5 newspapers every day, from cover to cover, he even annotated them, adding his own insights. He dashed off fiery letters to editors for factual inconsistencies, using words like circumlocution and obloquy. Could this be the same R who struggled to pronounce ‘industrialisation’ during a college seminar, I wondered? Important dates, famous speeches – he was quoting them verbatim!
“You know I’ve always liked learning”, he said and when I snorted in disbelief, he hurriedly continued, “It’s just that I hated cramming. Now that I understand what I’m studying and can write stuff in my own words, it’s actually fun to study.”
“Fun, yeah!” I nodded stupidly.
In fact, I did a lot of nodding that evening. Firstly, because it took me a while to adjust to this new avatar. And secondly, because on seeing my incredulity turn to admiration, he just didn’t want to stop.
“One of my dreams now,” he admitted, “is to lecture at college.”“Maybe I could even counsel the kids, giving them my own example.” We both burst out laughing.
It was a crestfallen R who called me a few days later to tell me that he hadn’t cleared the preliminary exams. As I sympathised with him, he brightened up and said, “Now I’m more confident than ever of passing the next attempt.” And I believed he would. After all, I had seen miracles happen…
P.S I'd written this some time ago. Since then R had a change of heart and got into business, a very successful one. However it was that one evening which changed my perception of him as a class jester forever.
One day, after drifting for several years, R announced that he was going to appear for the IAS exams. Understandably, this pronouncement was received with rapidly lowered jaws, hoots of disbelief and even hysterical laughter. The guy who barely scraped through college was going to take on the toughest exams in the country. He really had to be crazy!
We met a couple of weeks later outside the public library where he spent a good part of his day, arriving with the first rays of the sun and leaving only when the staff forcibly ejected him. The gold-rimmed glasses gave further testimony of his newfound zeal.
“God, I stink,” were his first words to me. “Here see…” he thrust his armpit into my face. I turned my face away and laughed. Same old R, I thought.
But as the evening unfolded, I was forced to rearrange my views about him. His insights on racism, politics and Indian history astounded me.
“Jews have been persecuted by the Romans, Nazis and even Shakespeare,” he thundered. “Ever noticed how he constantly refers to ‘Shylock, the Jew’?” He didn’t just read 5 newspapers every day, from cover to cover, he even annotated them, adding his own insights. He dashed off fiery letters to editors for factual inconsistencies, using words like circumlocution and obloquy. Could this be the same R who struggled to pronounce ‘industrialisation’ during a college seminar, I wondered? Important dates, famous speeches – he was quoting them verbatim!
“You know I’ve always liked learning”, he said and when I snorted in disbelief, he hurriedly continued, “It’s just that I hated cramming. Now that I understand what I’m studying and can write stuff in my own words, it’s actually fun to study.”
“Fun, yeah!” I nodded stupidly.
In fact, I did a lot of nodding that evening. Firstly, because it took me a while to adjust to this new avatar. And secondly, because on seeing my incredulity turn to admiration, he just didn’t want to stop.
“One of my dreams now,” he admitted, “is to lecture at college.”“Maybe I could even counsel the kids, giving them my own example.” We both burst out laughing.
It was a crestfallen R who called me a few days later to tell me that he hadn’t cleared the preliminary exams. As I sympathised with him, he brightened up and said, “Now I’m more confident than ever of passing the next attempt.” And I believed he would. After all, I had seen miracles happen…
P.S I'd written this some time ago. Since then R had a change of heart and got into business, a very successful one. However it was that one evening which changed my perception of him as a class jester forever.
Monday, November 15, 2004
Proof that anti-ageing creams work…
I was using a moisturiser on my face when Alison came up and asked me sternly, 'Leela, what are you doing?’
The question ended in a high-pitched squeak. I wondered exactly what I was being chastised for.
She wagged her inch-long index finger at me and in a tone dripping with authority, said, ‘That cream is for big people, not for you and me.’
Being mistaken for a 4-year old feels ridiculously good!
The question ended in a high-pitched squeak. I wondered exactly what I was being chastised for.
She wagged her inch-long index finger at me and in a tone dripping with authority, said, ‘That cream is for big people, not for you and me.’
Being mistaken for a 4-year old feels ridiculously good!
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
Sunday, November 07, 2004
Snide and Prejudiced
I will always be indebted to the gentleman or lady who coined the word execrable. My deepest gratitude also goes out to the one who came up with egregious. Thanks to these thoughtful folks, I can now describe the movie Bride and Prejudice without resorting to such weak, ineffective words like bad, appalling, disgusting, awful, terrible.
I saw it early this week and it wreaked havoc with my digestion for two days. I did my best to obliterate it from memory, but yesterday I read an interview with director, Gurinder Chadha, in an old issue of Time Out and the bile rose again…
‘I never intended to make a Hindi movie, it’s not my sensibility’, she says. Truer words were never spoken. She goes on to say that hers is ‘a British movie that pays an affectionate tribute to Hindi cinema’. Perhaps in the same way that Judas’ kiss was affectionate.
Let’s overlook for a moment the effrontery to Jane Austen in the title. Let’s also excuse the absurd lyrics, dance epidemics and tepid dialogue. Out of the goodness of your heart, excuse Aishwarya’s incomprehensible indignation, Aishwarya’s credibility as a rustic Amritsar kudi, Aishwarya’s unidentifiable accent. While at it, condone the lack of chemistry, and surfeit of melodrama, which seeks to gleefully announce, ‘We are like this only.’
Now, that we’ve pardoned the whole balderdash, let’s come to the unforgivable part. How could a director who crafted the little gem called Bend it like Beckham go so wrong? How could someone who had discovered a warm, funny, inoffensive way of portraying Indian foibles, successfully cast the spotlight on the crudest, crassest, vilest behaviour of Indians? How can she claim to be ‘pissed off by films that parody Bollywood’ and then perversely misrepresent not just Bollywood, but India?
And who do we have to blame for this travesty of a movie? Believe it or not, Aditya Chopra! 'It was after seeing Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayengethat I decided to make my version of a Hindi film,' says Chadha and adds, 'I later told him that if Bride and Prejudice falls flat, I’d blame him.'
Aditya, I want my money back!
I saw it early this week and it wreaked havoc with my digestion for two days. I did my best to obliterate it from memory, but yesterday I read an interview with director, Gurinder Chadha, in an old issue of Time Out and the bile rose again…
‘I never intended to make a Hindi movie, it’s not my sensibility’, she says. Truer words were never spoken. She goes on to say that hers is ‘a British movie that pays an affectionate tribute to Hindi cinema’. Perhaps in the same way that Judas’ kiss was affectionate.
Let’s overlook for a moment the effrontery to Jane Austen in the title. Let’s also excuse the absurd lyrics, dance epidemics and tepid dialogue. Out of the goodness of your heart, excuse Aishwarya’s incomprehensible indignation, Aishwarya’s credibility as a rustic Amritsar kudi, Aishwarya’s unidentifiable accent. While at it, condone the lack of chemistry, and surfeit of melodrama, which seeks to gleefully announce, ‘We are like this only.’
Now, that we’ve pardoned the whole balderdash, let’s come to the unforgivable part. How could a director who crafted the little gem called Bend it like Beckham go so wrong? How could someone who had discovered a warm, funny, inoffensive way of portraying Indian foibles, successfully cast the spotlight on the crudest, crassest, vilest behaviour of Indians? How can she claim to be ‘pissed off by films that parody Bollywood’ and then perversely misrepresent not just Bollywood, but India?
And who do we have to blame for this travesty of a movie? Believe it or not, Aditya Chopra! 'It was after seeing Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayengethat I decided to make my version of a Hindi film,' says Chadha and adds, 'I later told him that if Bride and Prejudice falls flat, I’d blame him.'
Aditya, I want my money back!
Thursday, November 04, 2004
Cinderella at the Ball
I’m a bit of a disgrace to the media fraternity (and sorority). 7 years of working in high profile advertising agencies and a media behemoth, and yet I cannot claim first name familiarity with any ‘celebrity’. Some of the biggest pashas of print sit less than 20 feet away from my work desk. From time to time, friends in other news agencies update me on gossip about them. My customary excuse to pass up most late night schmoosing is that it conflicts with my bedtime.
As it happens, in media, all virtue is a vice. Proclaiming utter disinterest in the Who’s Who, Who’s with Who and Who did What Last Summer can be bad for business. If not for these tantalising details, what are people going to buy your newspaper for? The news? Uh-uh, it’s no good being high brow with high society.
Luckily for me, redemption came in the form of a wicked looking black envelope. Two passes to THE ultimate crash course for social ignoramuses – The Bombay Times 10th Anniversary Bash. Months of gaucherie could be purged in single night, I thought gleefully as I set off with a photographer friend.
I came away suitably enlightened. Presenting the 10 invaluable lessons gleaned from the Bombay Times 10th Anniversary Bash:
Lesson No. 1
High fashion is remarkably low cost. All you need are sequins worth Rs. 20 from Crawford Market. Tack them onto a lacy bedcover or curtain or laundry bag, and voila, you’re haute tamale!
Fashion for men: Anything tight and tacky. Allowing Calvin Klein to peer over the top of your trousers is vital. If you’re really cool, sport a thong and show it off prominently.
Lesson No. 2
Never ever question people’s fashion sense. If the high priestess of fashion, Rekha and the ultimate gay style icon, Imam, sashay in wearing tent like robes, well tent-like robes are in.
Lesson No. 3
Be careful, be very careful at the food courts. Ask detailed questions about each item even if it makes you look foolish. After all, it’s better to eat crow figuratively than to come away with a mouthful of raw oyster.
When it comes to cheese, follow a sniff and nibble routine. Do not pop a sizeable chunk like the woman next to you, especially if the cheese is ‘Gorgonzola’, unless of course you like the taste of rotting flesh. (Still gagging)
Lesson No. 4
It’s possible to have 5 margaritas, 2 tequila shots and one Vodka with tonic and still be unnaturally sober. It boils down to a simple technique: Lift long-stemmed, wide-mouthed margarita glass from counter, steer yourself across narrow corridor teeming with sozzled, flying limbs, reach your corner, spot one remaining sip of margarita, down it. After 20 minutes, repeat the process.
Lesson No. 5
When Abhishek Bachchan, up in the DJ console, suddenly points at you with a look of recognition, do not instinctively entertain hopes of being the Next Big Thing. He’s merely waving to your photographer friend. Make a mental note however to keep in touch with photographer friend more.
Lesson No. 6
Tall, dark and handsome is soooo out, so last decade. Old, bald and iconic is in.
If you are a male model, learn to deal with loneliness or hang out with other model buddies. And watch as guys blessed with a face that only a mother can love, dance with a bevy of bootylicious beauties.
Lesson No. 6
Hah, to all you atheists! There is a God and his name is Alyque Padamsee. Else explain how a 75-plus, concave-postured relic can part crowds on a packed dance floor with a statuesque teenager clutching onto him like he was a Baywatch lifeguard? Oh no, there is a God and I’m a believer.
Lesson No. 7
You can be Andre Nair, chairman and CEO of the most powerful media network in South East Asia and still cut a ludicrous figure on the dance floor, especially when you dance with actions to ‘Yeh Wada Raha’. Note to self: If you intend to stay in media it’s a good idea not to let him catch you laughing.
Lesson No. 8
You don’t need cricket records to tell you Michael Slater is a gifted player. He’s a natural when it comes to scoring.
Lesson No. 9
A family that parties together stays together. Take for instance, the Vengsarkar family. Perhaps the current day team picked up the famous ‘huddle’ from this foursome.
Lesson No. 10
There is a certain advantage in being a Who’s Not. Nobody notices that your blue handbag and black shoes don’t quite match…
As it happens, in media, all virtue is a vice. Proclaiming utter disinterest in the Who’s Who, Who’s with Who and Who did What Last Summer can be bad for business. If not for these tantalising details, what are people going to buy your newspaper for? The news? Uh-uh, it’s no good being high brow with high society.
Luckily for me, redemption came in the form of a wicked looking black envelope. Two passes to THE ultimate crash course for social ignoramuses – The Bombay Times 10th Anniversary Bash. Months of gaucherie could be purged in single night, I thought gleefully as I set off with a photographer friend.
I came away suitably enlightened. Presenting the 10 invaluable lessons gleaned from the Bombay Times 10th Anniversary Bash:
Lesson No. 1
High fashion is remarkably low cost. All you need are sequins worth Rs. 20 from Crawford Market. Tack them onto a lacy bedcover or curtain or laundry bag, and voila, you’re haute tamale!
Fashion for men: Anything tight and tacky. Allowing Calvin Klein to peer over the top of your trousers is vital. If you’re really cool, sport a thong and show it off prominently.
Lesson No. 2
Never ever question people’s fashion sense. If the high priestess of fashion, Rekha and the ultimate gay style icon, Imam, sashay in wearing tent like robes, well tent-like robes are in.
Lesson No. 3
Be careful, be very careful at the food courts. Ask detailed questions about each item even if it makes you look foolish. After all, it’s better to eat crow figuratively than to come away with a mouthful of raw oyster.
When it comes to cheese, follow a sniff and nibble routine. Do not pop a sizeable chunk like the woman next to you, especially if the cheese is ‘Gorgonzola’, unless of course you like the taste of rotting flesh. (Still gagging)
Lesson No. 4
It’s possible to have 5 margaritas, 2 tequila shots and one Vodka with tonic and still be unnaturally sober. It boils down to a simple technique: Lift long-stemmed, wide-mouthed margarita glass from counter, steer yourself across narrow corridor teeming with sozzled, flying limbs, reach your corner, spot one remaining sip of margarita, down it. After 20 minutes, repeat the process.
Lesson No. 5
When Abhishek Bachchan, up in the DJ console, suddenly points at you with a look of recognition, do not instinctively entertain hopes of being the Next Big Thing. He’s merely waving to your photographer friend. Make a mental note however to keep in touch with photographer friend more.
Lesson No. 6
Tall, dark and handsome is soooo out, so last decade. Old, bald and iconic is in.
If you are a male model, learn to deal with loneliness or hang out with other model buddies. And watch as guys blessed with a face that only a mother can love, dance with a bevy of bootylicious beauties.
Lesson No. 6
Hah, to all you atheists! There is a God and his name is Alyque Padamsee. Else explain how a 75-plus, concave-postured relic can part crowds on a packed dance floor with a statuesque teenager clutching onto him like he was a Baywatch lifeguard? Oh no, there is a God and I’m a believer.
Lesson No. 7
You can be Andre Nair, chairman and CEO of the most powerful media network in South East Asia and still cut a ludicrous figure on the dance floor, especially when you dance with actions to ‘Yeh Wada Raha’. Note to self: If you intend to stay in media it’s a good idea not to let him catch you laughing.
Lesson No. 8
You don’t need cricket records to tell you Michael Slater is a gifted player. He’s a natural when it comes to scoring.
Lesson No. 9
A family that parties together stays together. Take for instance, the Vengsarkar family. Perhaps the current day team picked up the famous ‘huddle’ from this foursome.
Lesson No. 10
There is a certain advantage in being a Who’s Not. Nobody notices that your blue handbag and black shoes don’t quite match…
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