Never Sleepless in India

The old joke about adoption being the height of laziness does the rounds of my mind each time anyone talks about the modern-day panacea – the Viagra Pill. My meddling mind wanders to the Biblical injunction against the deadly sin. No, no, I am not referring here to the sin of Lust. What I am alluding to is another of the Seven Deadly Sins – that of Sloth. Or plain laziness, if you prefer a simpler term.

Unlike my illustrious grandfather (who industriously ran our family chemical industry and oversaw the working of our family farm till the day his 90-year-old body gave up the ghost), or his equally worthy son, my sire (who doubles up as our plumber-cum-carpenter-cum-electrician-cum-mechanic-cum-odd-jobman even at almost 65), I am an extremely lazy individual. Maybe it was just the caprice of Mother Nature, but by the time it was my turn, my ancestral legacy of industrious capacity had exhausted itself.

I sleep (my daily quota of ten hours) in the same jeans and tee shirt I wear to office, because it is too much of an effort to change into any shorts or pajamas at night. I prefer poached eggs for breakfast, because it is too much effort to make omelettes or to boil the eggs – you have to chop onions for the former, and remove the shells to eat the latter). In the old days before office lunches took care of the problem, I used to have Maggi for lunch and dinner. Not because I liked it (in fact I detested it), but because it is too much hard work cooking even the rudimentary khichdi. And as you must have guessed, anything that requires effort is an anathema to my sensitive soul.

Unlike me, Neel is no Accident of Nature. She is, as she claims, the culmination of centuries of effort (in avoiding any sort of effort) on the part of 17 generations of the honourable family. This pinnacle of sloth, the marvelous end product of impeccable evolution, has Rip Van Winkle as her revered idol. Neel claims that her four-hours-a-day afternoon siestas are not indicative of any deep-rooted idleness – they just reflect her fervent belief in the principle of conversation of energy. And why does she need to conserve her energy, you may well ask. With a gentle smile playing on her face, she will reply: so that she can prepare for her twelve-hour nightly sleep with great gusto!

Glass Bangles

Still silence
Black infinite
No moonbeams
Wet grass blades
Speak softly
Of Gardens Secret.
No rosebuds
No ornaments
Broken bangles
Pieces of glass
Small window
No sunrays.
Wake alone
Lingering smell
Sweet nightmares
Wailing songbirds
Cry Separation.

Copyright © 2008 Arnab

Dating Advice

Dating Advice number 1: Never admit your inexperience to a date.

Feb 14, 1993 – My first experience of this unique cultural phenomena. Till then, I used to think that Valentine’s Day is the birth or death anniversary of former Hollywood heartthrob Rudolph Valentino. My very first kiss too – and when the girl asked me how was it, I replied “Wet”. No need to tell you that was the last kiss she bestowed on me. Even though I was not eating onions or garlic that day. I tell you, girls are really funny. Needless to say, that was the only date I ever had with her.

Dating Advice number 2: Never take your date to a deathly place.

Feb 14, 1996 – My first real Valentine’s Day date. I had bought a second-hand scooter just a week before. I decided to take her on a long drive, which was fine enough. But I had decided that the stopovers would be at Raj Ghat and Humayun Tomb, which was not-so-fine. Apparently, tombs are not very romantic places. How would I know that, when the greatest monument to love is supposed to be Taj Mahal, a mausoleum? Net result – I did not receive any kisses – wet or dry (or dry-cleaned for that matter). And that was the only Valentine’s I ever had with her.

Dating Advice number 3: Never take your date to a public place.

Feb 14, 1999 – My first real “expensive” Valentine’s Day date. I had just started working, so I could afford a decent date. I took her to the Taj Palace disco “My Kind of Place”. Things were fine as long as they were playing fast numbers – I managed not to step on her toes too many times. And then they started playing slow numbers, and disaster struck. Afraid that I would seem a creep if I stayed holding her too close for too long, I wished to try a few variations on the steps. I twirled her – and her hands slipped from mine. The rest of her slipped too – and landed publicly on her bum! Obviously, that was the only time she went out with me again.

Dating Advice number 4: Never take your date to a private place.

Feb 14, 2002 – My first real candle-light Valentine’s Day date. I had planned minutely, ordering kebabs to have with the wine I had bought. The most romantic music ready on the player. And my best chicken recipe for the dinner which I wanted to cook for her with my own fair and lovely hands. After half an hour or so, I light the scented candles, and put on slow numbers. I remind myself not to twirl her around and not to think of tombs. And then we need to rush to the kitchen to see how the dream dish is turning out to be. We both smell something burning, and we look at the chicken. The chicken is fine, so what is burning? We go to the bed – no need to stop reading and blush. We just grab the burning sheets and rush outside to prevent the fire from spreading. We had knocked over the candles while dancing, it seems. There is no loss of life or property – only a terrible loss of image and passion. But needless to say, that was the only time she ever came to my room.

Dating Advice number 5: Never take your date to a romantic place.

Feb 14, 2005 – My first real international Valentine’s Day date. I had planned to ask her to marry me, and had booked a weekend rendezvous in Maldives as the venue for popping the question. After two days of swimming, snorkeling and lazing around in the closest thing to paradise I have ever been in, it is time for THE dinner date. We both order some seriously expensive wine. After dinner is over, we both sit down on two towels near the water with what is left of the wine. We talk for some time, and then sit in a companionable silence. I do not look her in the eye as I broach THE topic, and since she does not say “yes” immediately, I continue talking nervously, outlining why I think we would make the perfect couple. Even after 15 minutes of non-stop self-marketing, she does not say a single word. So I turn to her – and find her fast asleep. Or dead drunk, whatever it was. That was the moment our relationship started going downhill, because I had to drag her uphill. I left her in the room, and went for a long swim to think things over. I am still thinking as to why I am so bad at thinking.

Dating Advice number 6: Never take your love online.

Feb 14, 2008 – My first virtual Valentine’s Day date. I meet and fall in love with someone I never met in real life. After countless romantic mails and chats, I set up a first meeting with “RedLady24”. I turn up at dinner with a red rose, and offer it to ……………………

…………………………..to someone who is not a 24-year-old lady, but is wearing red for sure. A shocking red faux fur and wig abomination that cannot hide his chest hair and bald pate.

Taare Zameen Par

Actors: Darsheel Safary, Aamir Khan, Tisca Chopra, Tanay Cheda, Sachet Engineer, Vipin Sharma
Director and Producer: Aamir Khan
Writer: Amole Gupte
Music: Shankar Mahadevan, Ehsaan Noorani, Loy Mendonsa
Cinematography: Setu
Editor: Deepa Bhatia
Released: December 2007

Taare Zameen Par heralds the birth of a top-notch filmmaker. To choose a story that’s a far cry from the mundane stuff requires courage and conviction, and to execute it with panache requires talent. Aamir Khan shows that he possesses all three in abundance. Ostensibly a film about children with special needs and their problems in fitting in, Taare Zameen Par becomes the story of any and every child who is being robbed of his childhood by insensitive parents and teachers who believe in the rat race.

Little Ishaan (Darsheel Safary) is all at sea when it comes to his books, but has a superb imagination. His dad wants Ishaan to be like his older brother Yohaan, who is a winner. When things come to a head, Ishaan is packed off to a boarding school. Far away from home and family, the otherwise lively Ishaan withdraws into a shell and refuses to participate in anything whatsoever. And it is up to his art teacher Ram Shankar Nikumbh (Aamir) to bring the boy out of his shell.

Aamir Khan deserves all the kudos for extracting an exemplary performance from the kid and for handling the plot with supreme sensitivity. Aamir takes the courageous decision to place the story on Ishaan’s shoulders right from the start, making his acting entry just before the interval. And not once do you feel that the kid doesn’t have the acting prowess to keep your attention arrested. His interaction with his stern father, doting mother and lovable brother is straight out of life.

What lifts Taare Zameen Par above the ordinary is its very simplicity and sensitivity. Amole Gupte’s story is beautiful and sensitive. Setu’s cinematography is mesmerising. Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy’s music and Prasoon Joshi’s lyrics are superb – Maa and the title track are just perfect. Deepa Bhatia’s editing is first rate. The animation and visual effects are fantastic.

But ultimately the film belongs to young Darsheel Safary. He comes up with a performance that’s impeccable, flawless and astounding. And fully deserves that fact that he gets top billing above the superstar himself. Aamir and Tisca Chopra (as the mother) are both outstanding. Tanay Cheda (as Ishaan’s friend Rajan) and Sachet Engineer (as the elder brother) are both excellent. Vipin Sharma (Ishaan’s father) has the thankless role of playing the closest thing the movie has to a villain, and he hams it up.

The only tiny flaw in the movie is that after being against the concept of competition all through, it ends with the child winning a competition himself. But what other way would you have it – the story screams out for a happy end. Ultimately, you owe it to yourself to watch this film, and shed a tear or two in the darkness of the theatre.

House Maids in Leather Pants

At lunch today, I overheard a few women colleagues discussing their maids animatedly. One of them suddenly piped up in a sarcastic tone: “These maids have turned so modern nowadays! I saw my maid on her off day shopping in the local market, wearing jeans, lipstick, and high heels!” As the others on the table went “ooh” and “aah” at the apparently scandalous behaviour, I started thinking.

Yeah, yeah, I know what you are saying: “Arnie and thinking? Is that not a contradiction in terms?” Well, all I have say to that is that just because it is office, that does not mean that I sleep all the time. I do have to wake up sometimes, especially when I am eating. Otherwise there is a tendency to push food into my nose, and that is not really an elegant sight. And when I am awake, and the food is in front of me, I have to think of things other than food. So maid servants are as good or as bad a topic to think of as any other.

Which brings us back to what was I actually thinking about maid servants. No, you filthy minds, I do have not that kind of perverse thoughts about maid servants. Even if those maid servants are cleaner than normal and stylish enough to wear jeans and high heels.

What I was actually thinking is why do people have this tendency to fit everyone else into comfortable stereotypes? What is so wrong in a maid wearing jeans? Or, for that matter, in the maid wearing leather pants and tank tops, if it pleases her? Not only will it be a pleasant change from the coconut hair oiled middle aged sour-mooded specimens that are the norm in Delhi, it is also a striking a blow for equality of the sexes. After all, the guy who comes to wash my car in the mornings and the guy who delivers the newspapers both wear jeans, and no body seems to find that shocking in the least.

So what’s so wrong in a maid wearing jeans? Isn’t she a human being with her own likings, her own aspirations, and her own young heart which wants to follow the latest that the so-called social superiors claim as their birthright? Especially when the social inferior is in better shape than the scandalized social superior, who, charitably put, resembles a giant pumpkin as she is 5 foot tall and 4 foot broad?