Everyday Musings > Five Things

Dinnertime word quiz: My dad loved/loves words. Big words like 'quintessence' and small words like 'ennui'. Words I would never come across in a school text book. He would thumb the dictionary, rest his fingers on a page and say 'learn these ten by end of day' and tap my nose and my younger brother's bewildered head and smile away to work. We'd nod, glance at the page, mark it for later, and rush off to school, come back, play, come back, shower, dress and then panic. oh shit! it's dinnertime. Dad's word quiz. Dad had a rule. He'd want us to know the meaning of all ten words, but he'd also want us to use the words in our conversations all dinner, so we had to actually understand those words. Last minute prep training began there. And it's continued ever since. So if today, I know the meaning of 'Traipsed' or 'Obsequious', it's thanks to my dictionary dad.

Larkin: Rajiv first introduced me to him. First name Phillip. He looks like a banker. But sounds like no poet I've ever read before. Maybe it was the way Rajiv recited his words, with abandon. For the first time, I felt like I understood poetry. The first poem was "broadcast" - written for Maeve who sat at a concert hall while Larkin sat by the radio imagining her sitting in a concert hall. It was beautiful. "A snivelling of the violins: I think of your face among all those faces...Leaving me desperate to pick out, Your hands, tiny in all that air, applauding." I spent days at the British Library devouring his words, writing them down on little slips of paper I was recycling. "Where can we live but Days. Ah, solving that question brings the priest and the doctor in their long coats running over the fields." and "A serious house on serious earth it is, In whose blent air all our compulsions meet" from Churchgoing. Even today, when I meet someone who knows Larkin, our faces glow in the knowledge of a genuis. But the others are disadvantaged. None I've ever met has heard Larkin read out like I have.

Paper fetish: I am crazy about stationary. CRAZY. At one time, my cupboard, little boxes under the bed, under the bedding, every bit was filled with paper of all kinds. I used to leave cards and notes for everything. Missed you. Thank You. How are you. Hello. Goodbye. Long time, no see. Sorrrrry. There was a store called Chimanlals that I used to run to for letter writing and wrapping paper. And come back with a smile as big as the shopping bag. I would shiver every time I had to use them to write to my many pen friends (ahem, it was a huge rage then). Because you see it had to be written perfectly. I'd practice on my notebooks, then copy it. And wrapping paper, I collect them by the dozen. And use them to wrap the ugliest handed down gifts so that they looked like Tiffany jewels. Grin. I still get gifted stationary (now bags) from those who know me well. The nicest books and cards lie unwritten on. A fear that was forcibly ousted by a wicked friend who got a cartload of moleskines, and refused to give them to me, till I used up one entirely. Now I write on books more freely. Scribble, scrawl etc. But there's still a secret stash that I'm itching to write well on. Sigh. Oh, and I haven't even begun on the sharpeners and erases and coins and stamps and comic strips. I'm a beaver.

Ice Cream at India Gate: We were in Delhi from when I turned four till I was in my fifth standard, living in Old Rajinder Nagar. Dad had an ambassador, and sometimes, when the weather was nice, or the day had been too warm, after dinner, my brother and I would beg to be taken to India Gate for ice cream. Dad would drive us there. We'd be chattering, singing, and saluting severe looking police guards as we passed through the large gates of some place I don't remember. Once at India Gate, mom and dad would find a cool patch of grass and sit down. The ice cream seller would come walking to us, and we'd buy Chocobars, every time. Crisp Iceberg like coating of chocolate with goey cream inside. And we'd buy a balloon each, which the balloon seller would twist into shapes; sometimes dogs, sometimes monkeys, sometimes a cheesy heart. We'd skip and play and fight with our balloons and once the last bits of ice cream were licked off our fingers hastily, we were hustled into the car, to ride back home, as my brother and I stared at the disappearing India Gate from the backseat.

Samir Mondal: Long before 'Taare Zameen Par' made him a household name, I discovered Samir Mondal on my umpteen escapes from college to the Jehangir art gallery. His first painting I saw was Prince and the Pauper that was part of a group show. I was mesmerised, and went back every day to look at his work. I saw him at Prithvi once, standing beside his art that was on show. I greedily picked the pamphlets that had pics of his other watercolours, each more evocative than the other. Samir walked up and I gulped. He said 'I'm a big fan'. I blinked and blushed till I heard Govind Nihalani, who was standing by my side, telling Samir, 'thank you, so am I'.

Everyday Musings > I have a dream

For many years, I had a recurring dream. Of me standing at a bus-stop, by the beach, watching a giant tsunami rising to an enormous height. I just stand there, facing it, frozen, fascinated and terrified, unable to move, knowing that it would definitely sweep me away.

Dreams have meanings, I learnt much later. And went about trying to find what this meant. According to Carl Jung, a tsunami dream is very significant. It is one of those great “archetypal” dreams, meaning symbols which are universal across all cultures. A tsunami is supposed to be a symbol of some great spiritual change, the washing away of the old and the beginnings of new growth.

Jungian therapists recognize three levels of dreams. Level 1 dreams have no deep symbolic meaning, and are just remnants of the recent thoughts and feeling s of the conscious mind. Level 2 dreams use symbols to express material in the personal unconscious — material that relates primarily to our physical and sexual preoccupations, much like Freud. Level 3 dreams, or what Jung called “great dreams”, are qualitatively different. They contain emotionally-charged and powerful symbols that express the innate qualities and behavioural predispositions that make us human — what Jung called archetypes.

Why are dreams so important? Haven’t dreamers always been told it’s an unproductive exercise? Dreams are unique, and are drawn from our individual reality, our life. We spend two hours every night dreaming. And most of us don’t remember a thing when we wake up. Sigmund Freud believed that ‘dreams are expressions of unfulfilled wishes and desires’. A person's dreams can give a sense of direction in life.

Amazon has books on the healing power of dreams, how to improve and remember your dreams. Martin Luther King said ‘I have a dream’ and fought to make it real. Honda, in a world of serious cut-throat competition, stands for The Power of Dreams.

Akira Kurosawa once made a film called ‘Dreams’, on his dreams. The film is filled with strange events, that make no apparent sense to the viewer, yet everyone in the story lives it as real. One dream is about a former military commander who meets the ghosts of all the soldiers who died under his command and explains why they died. There’s one about a young boy that finds a group of living dolls in the fields. The dolls are furious that the boy's family have destroyed all the Peach trees in the Orchard. And another where there’s a nuclear meltdown. Panic spreads and a few survivors contemplate whether or not to end their lives.

What fascinates me about dreams is the elasticity of Time. I can be anywhere, in just a second, defy gravity, sing, dance on Mount Everest, kill myself and be reborn, touch a dead tree and make it come alive. I am not governed by the Earth rotating around the Sun or the laws of the world. Or the restrictions of my mind. A crystal ball into my head, it shows me possibilities of a future I can be. A messiah. A world leader. A peacemaker. A healer. I could be anything I dream, if only I could remember what I dreamt when I woke.

Everyday Musings > Googly

A friend, today, told me of an advertisement for a Church that he saw. It said "there are some questions that Google can't answer" I decided to test their claim.

But first what is that the Church believes Google cannot answer. God, faith, where do we come from, retribution, life, love, society. Let's see what Google has to say.

First up, God.

530,000,000 results that ranged from What or Who is God on Wikipedia to a website called doesgodexist.com to God TV to Why won't God heal amputees to God's yellow pages (meaning the Bible) to Egyptian Gods, Jewish Gods, Indian Gods ... the whole internet seems to be talking God. The church people should actually have a website of their own here. Do online advertising to combat Google. Maybe even launch their own personal God search engine, with answers.

That query exhausted, I moved onto Faith. 184,000,000 results. Where do we come from? 76,200,000. Amen. 28,200,000. And so on till every God question was a mass of results.

That got me thinking. Is there anything that Google will not throw up any result on? I tried. 'Aliens fall in love" 106 results, "Ouch" 19,000,000, "Hmm" 103,000,000 – this was hilarious. And profound.

Searches show up because they are people out there feeding it content, filling it up with things we can't even imagine. Got me wondering on the weirdest things that people would have ever searched for. Googled. There are plenty of lists online. One had a countdown of the 20 best. Here are the 20, reproduced, as is, rated A for use of language.

"Khmer women dark skin beautiful, crotch deep in mud (what?) , Become your girlfriend, Are tall girls pretty, Best sex tall guy short girl, Bukake, Attractive successful guy (sigh), Ashleigh brilliant if your careful enough nothing good or bad will ever happen to you, Anyone found the fat cure(ya right), Become success in days. Advertising a hose to stick up your bum to cleanse & refresh. Are g strings dangerous. Excuses on why I took your girlfriend. How to become a gigolo? dog fart protein, man-thing naked, penis tucking for cross dressers. How to give a gay head job, does acting gay to hang out with women work (what kind of a creep is this!) and finally what made it to number one - place to have gay sex with horses.(sheesh)"

That was some list. I can't believe people actually googled the things they did. I tried the query 'are g strings dangerous' and actually came up with facts supporting it, including a lady who's sued Victoria's Secret for selling her a malfunctioning one. How to become a gigolo actually shows up tutorials on it. And Anyone found the fat cure actually says yes. Amazing. The things I didn't know existed in here.

But I have questions to ask Google. Why throw up so many results? When was the last time someone checked page no 12,000,000. But Google would probably say 'God is in the details'. Is it so Father?

Everyday Musings > Thank you for not smoking

India has finally gone 'No Smoking'. On Gandhi Jayanti, smoking was banned in public places in India. Thanks to Mr Ramadoss, Union Minister for Health and Family Welfare.

I'm thankful, at a very selfish level, because now it means, I can sit in a meeting at work, without twitching my nose and go back home without cigarette smell in my hair. It's a big relief, being able to breathe in a pub, or enter any place and leave it, still being able to smell my perfume.

But declaring it, as far as the government is concerned, doesn't always mean it will happen. The Centre had brought an act on no smoking in public places two and a half years ago, but it only remained on paper. The same has been modified, and enforced from 2nd October, 2008.

As per the revised Rules, smoking is banned in shopping malls, auditoriums, health institutions, bus stops, cinema halls, public and private workplaces, hotels, banquet halls, discotheques, canteens, coffee houses, pubs, bars, airport lounges, railway stations. People can smoke on roads or in their homes since, Ramadoss added, the impact is more while smoking inside a closed environment than in roads or streets. Those caught violating will be fined Rs 200, which may increase to Rs 1,000.

Fair enough. But why will it work when it didn't two and half years ago? What makes it so foolproof this time?

I found the solution in the Hindu that day. Well, simply put, this time around, the law seems to be clearer about whose responsibility it is to enforce it. It defines the duties and responsibilities of the owner, manager, proprietor, supervisor and anyone in charge of a public place so that he or she can enforce these provisions. Public places have been asked to identify the individuals empowered to enforce the law, issue challans or collect fines. And the best part, Dr. Ramadoss said if the owner or authorised person failed to act on complaints, he would be fined equivalent to the number of individual offences. A ha.

The penny finally drops. For the past twenty days, there hasn't been any smoking in office, in the mall, in any pub that I've been to. The law is being respected to the fullest. There are many at work that grumble since they've to get 13 floors down to smoke in the open, but many are thankful for the forced cut down and say they feel healthier and would probably stop altogether now. And the cabins smell fresh all the time.

If assigning responsibility is what worked in favour of the law, I wonder if the same could be carried forward to other civic problems as well. No spitting, no urinating, no littering. no noise pollution, no crackers. It would be great if the health ministry could take this up next. Even if the smoke stops killing our billions, we have many more aces up our patriotic sleeve. The plague, malaria epidemics, typhoid, allergies; all thanks to lack of hygiene in public and private spaces. Mr. Ramadoss, help. Smoke this menace out too.

Everyday Musings > Arrested Day

My maid usually tells me the local news, even before I get to the papers. Her husband was a driver for a Congress leader in my area, and thus, he's in on all the news. She walked in today and said "Raj Thackeray ko police pakad ke le gayi, ab Mumbai bandh ho jayega." I sleepily muttered and shuffled my feet back into bed.

A lazy few hours later, I stepped out. It was quiet, few people on the streets, a little tense. I caught an auto to office. Not many had come to work. The LCD's were tuned to the news. Flashing the same footage over and over again. Raj is led out of a car, flanked by the police, walks up the stairs to the Bandra Court and disappears. If he had to really walk it up and down as many times as in the breaking news, Raj and the pot bellied policemen would be a few kilos lighter. The program breaks for ads. Back again. The title flashes 'Raj Thackeray haazir ho!' Back to car, walk, gone.

Another channel flashes 'End of GoondaRaj', grin, some pun they must have thought it'd be. The office is buzzing with conversation. Some debate on how what happened in Kalyan with the railway examination students was wrong, but Raj's arrest is wrong too. Some are too busy laughing at the media portrayal of it, switching to see who's got the cheesiest taglines. Some are glad for the holiday like mood it's created at work.

I watch the riots in Thane and Navi Mumbai, where shops are being trashed and windshields are being broken and wonder about the ones affected by that. The car owner who's probably paying off EMIs. The shopkeeper who was just doing what he does everyday. The rioters, mostly unemployed youth, who find a way to release pent up frustrations. Everyone is affected. The perpetrator and the victim.

The news channels are back in action. Raj's bail plea has been rejected. Aaj Tak says, 'Jail me diwali!' The drama continues, the venue changes. The mobs that rioted outside the Bandra court will now get a new place to throw stones at. The Dombivili police will get to wield their laathis on them, and the press will rush about trying to squeeze in more of a story to fit the 24 hr News format. Meanwhile, the normal junta, with and without political views, lives a restricted life, and initial excitement wearing off, wait for a normal tomorrow.

Raj Thackeray will probably come out of this stronger, and turn martyr after a week in prison; the Policemen would have got a conviction, even if short term; the shop keepers will be back in business; the car chap will probably fix an insurance; but the frustrated rioters, what do they really gain?

Martin Luther King Jr said 'Riots are the voices of the unheard". He added, " The limitation of riots, moral questions aside, is that they cannot win and their participants know it. Hence, rioting is not revolutionary but reactionary because it invites defeat. It involves an emotional catharsis, but it must be followed by a sense of futility." Yes, futile. Just the word for today.

Everyday Musings > Churchgate Fast

Goregaon Station. 1:30 pm. Was on my way to Mahalakshmi. Standing on the platform, swaying on my toes, waiting for the train. There were so many people, going somewhere, like me. Busy expressions on their faces, some troubled, some rushed. And then a rush of wheels. The expressions changed. To determined frowning of brows. Women tucked their sarees, held their bags close, their elbows held out to ensure no one came in the way. The train hushed to a stop, waiting, like a restless camel, to breathe a bit, and start again. Weighed down my more sometimes, and less sometimes, but always weighed down, except for odd hours when people decided to stay away. But oddly, of late, those odd hours are almost never.

Anyway, the train pause. The woman in front of me pushed her way in, the woman behind me pushed her way in. I didn't have a choice and was squeezed, bag, phone, sunglasses on head, into a sweaty mix of coconut oil and jasmine, in an orgy not of my design. And the train whizzed and chugged and pulled off. The ones who made it adjusted to the space. They always did. One can never really tell how many can fit into a train. Everyone can.

Once in, I slink to the corner, by the door, my back against metal. Breathing above the heads that tease my nose. I see the handiwork of many tailors, mochis and sareewalas. A snapshot of working class fashion. Lurid colours, bling hair clips, cheap perfume. Second class is a treat for the senses. As all Indians, I adjust to the smell, and start studying those around me. And wish I had a camera.

Some of the women had such beautiful expressions on their faces. One had a pained longing look as she stared into the passing nothing outside, some young college thing smiled as she messaged furiously, perhaps to a loved one, with earphones stuck in her ears, perhaps a love song. There were ladies, friends, because they met everyday, holding on to seats, for others, sharing snacks and stories. There were the squatters, who travelled ticket less and seat less. They hugged the entrance, with their feet spread out, their children crawling on the metal floor, munching on peanuts, or stringing flowers.

The train stops. Some leave. More enter. Hawkers add some flavour. Colourful clips. bindis, plastic ticket pouches, scarves. They hang their wares on the rungs and let it sway, waiting for it to catch the eye of the chattering women cutting vegetables on their way home. The young boys who sell these wave hankies for the older women. 'Only ten rupees didi' they say. The women haggle, say 'nahi nahi, I ll take two for ten'. The boys shake their heads, grudgingly accept the money and say 'aise dhanda kaise karega' and walk off grinning, to a bunch of college girls for whom they have a bunch of hair clips and a silly smile. Everyone's taste is profiled, valuable research, all in their dusty brown heads.

Trains are travelling libraries of people. Rich, full of data and experience, and life. Another train passes by. Stops. I stare at a young man standing in the bogie opposite me. We catch each other's eye. I turn away. He stares on. The onlooker becomes the study. And I feel violated. Ironic.