Posted on by nikita

Rains, ruins, and remedies

Premature birth results from internal complications within a mother’s body; premature rains, the consequence of human-induced external disruptions. For instance, deforestation and urbanization. Unchecked human activities have a ruinous effect on the environment. 

One such corroboration is the recent unseasonal rains in May, affecting the mango crop yield in Gujarat. Not to mention the strong winds that knocked down baby mangoes from their mother tree. Prematurely. 

These are known facts. But I wonder if this untimely rain carried some subtle message for the city’s municipal corporation. 

Hey, when an apathetic civic authority finds it difficult to understand the obvious grievances of its citizens, how will it decipher hints from a voiceless rain? 

So, here I am — the voice of the rain, communicating its pitter-patter as a forewarning, something I attempted to decode.

  1. Make sure your city roads are sturdy enough to defend themselves from the mighty showers. Designer roads with different-sized patchwork don’t last long. Patchwork is aesthetically pleasing only on clothes, not on city roads. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell what’s weaker—the roads or the human conscience. 
  2. Make sure that the recently repaired roads across the city—which you’ve dug up again, this time for installing water pipelines—are timely and evenly smoothed out. On my last visit to Earth, hillocks of soil and gravel were visible on every other road.
  3. Make sure I don’t get mixed with the sewage waters in case I come down as torrential rains. Presumably, the city’s sewer system and drainage infrastructure are in place. I don’t want your citizens to blame me for any waterborne diseases. After all, ‘jal hi jeevan hai’. 
  4. Make sure there’s no waterlogging in the city. I don’t enjoy staying stagnant in one place. And that too, bearing the angry brunt of the commuters. I despise people giving me disdainful looks even when the fault isn’t mine. Let me reiterate—your city’s drainage infrastructure must be well-maintained.
  5. Make sure that after a week of my coming down, you install sign boards at every meter or two on the roads, especially cautioning the commuters on motorcycles about the menacing craters since these vehicles have little cushioning. For example, place sign boards indicating the width of a pothole – 3-4 feet, 4.5-5 feet, and so on. Possibly, also mention the depth of these potholes, warning the commuters to maintain their speed accordingly. Water-filled potholes camouflage their actual depth. These depressions not only reduce the vehicular life but also shorten the life of the riders because of accidents. 
  6. Make sure to also place sign boards indicating ‘KEEP RIGHT’ and ‘KEEP LEFT’  to guide the commuters through their dreadful journey on two-lane roads, helping them to dodge as many potholes as possible. That many of these two-lane roads have shrunk into a single-lane road because of the Metro project is a different story, though. On these roads, the commuters can only shift their bums right or left.  
  7. Make sure that the traffic police are effectively managing traffic jams, especially when the traffic signals are dysfunctional. More often than not, the traffic personnel are on their phones managing calls and messages, which leads to chaos at the crossroads. 

That’s all for now.

See you soon.  

*****

Mr Sharif: Mr Modi, can India give us lessons in effective rainwater harvesting?
Mr Modi: Talks only on terror and POK.



Posted on by nikita

Jane Kaha Gaye Woh Din …

Summer days bring to my lethargic mind,
My childhood days — one-of-a-kind.
Carefree days, filled with frolic and fun,
Till the moon pleaded to the sun for her turn.

Mixed-gender cricket was played before the two meals of the day,
Unheeding of the indiscriminate suntan to the bodily clay. 

Despite losing sight of the flying shuttlecock with the approaching night,
Badminton was still played under the supervision of a dim street light. 

While the school gave us lessons only in verbal communication,
The game of cards innocently taught us the art of non-verbal manipulation.

Boys played carrom in pursuit of the only ‘queen’,
Girls unabashedly took turns to pocket the ‘carrom men’, meandering in between.

The Bird’s Eye Spies turned into desi Dabba, I Spy (Dabba, Ice-pice?),
When the ‘seeker’ identified the players by the beast in their cry.

Life skills were learned while playing sakli,
Chasing and tagging players, holding each other’s hands firmly.

Pockets sagged, and the tin cans reverberated with the sound of marbles,
Which were triumphantly knocked out of the established circles.

Seven Stones was played only occasionally,
Because failing to dodge the red rubber ball would hurt severely.

Stereotypes made hopscotch quite unpopular among boys,
Just as they refrained from playing pretend play with miniature kitchen toys. 

Of course, summer vacations were all about plenty of games,
But this narrative will be incomplete if I leave out three significant names —
Collegian, Chapta Chana, and Pankh.

Relishing these delicacies felt like euphoria,
And that too, just at the cost of 25 paisa!

Spending a rupee or two was considered lavish,
‘Sharing is caring’, in that moment, sounded gibberish.

Jane kaha gaye woh din…
Jane kaha gaye woh kith and kin…

*****

Collegian is what we know as Collegian Bhel today. But back then, unlike today, it was just a mixture of blanched peanuts, spicy chutney, and drops of lemon juice. 
A man with a thin moustache, curly hair, and a white-toothed grin — Mangabhai — was our collegian guy.

Pankh is what everybody knows as baraf gola. I don’t know why we called it so, because neither was shaved ice moulded in the form of a pankh nor any pankhs were attached to the stick of the gola.
Mohammadbhai — our pankh guy — would announce his arrival with the sound of a bell hanging under his cart. Kala khatta was the preferred flavour for most of us.

Chapta Chana, famously called Chana Chor Garam, with green chutney, garam masala and drops of lemon juice.
Our Chapta Chanawala kaka (sadly, we never cared to ask his name) was more than six feet tall, with a shaven head and choti tied in a knot. A wooden peti (box), fastened with a sturdy black leather belt, hung around his strong neck. I don’t remember the exact words of his loud calls in our mohalla, but his voice still echoes in my ears.  

*****

Note: The title is inspired by a song from the Hindi movie ‘Mera Naam Joker’. 

Source of the image: https://shorturl.at/YZJgX

Posted on by nikita

Spic and span, here’s my hand

She pricked the vegetable uttapam with the fork in her left hand, moved the knife back and forth over it with her right hand, like a saw on wood, and cut a bite-sized piece of uttapam. Then, she elegantly dipped it in chutney and gently put it in her mouth.   

By this time, I had already mindfully chewed a couple of pieces, letting them glide down my fibromuscular esophagus into my hangry stomach, making at least one aspect of my life easy — eating with my hands. 

Generally, I avoid eating food that requires a fork and knife. And if it’s too tempting, I let others lead, and I follow suit. But when I see them struggling to cut a piece, I pounce on it with my hands and simply devour it. To hell with table etiquettes.

I don’t remember at what age I learned the art of eating with my own hands, just as I don’t remember the sudden appearance of forks and knives in my home — how they stealthily entered our kitchen territory!  

Forks still find their way out of the kitchen drawers on some days in many households — these days, many people even eat fruits with a fork (at home)! But knives remain reticent most of the time. Unless you are someone who eats pancakes, known as pudla or puda in desi language, with a fork and knife even at home. 

Doesn’t this cutlery look like armaments?

In a restaurant, when I see a systematically arranged fork and knife on either side of a plate, they conjure up an image of a military arsenal. Once the delicious food is lovingly placed on the table by the swiftly moving waiters, you pick up your fork and knife as if preparing for some kind of ambush — an attack on the unarmed food in front of your greedy eyes. For instance, using a knife and fork to eat hara bhara kabab, masala dosa, stuffed samosas, and a few other food items. 

Who needs a fork and a knife when you have five tines on each hand? And how can you chuck the joy of slurping a mango seed in an Indian summer till a couple of stubborn fibres get stuck between your teeth? (A tribute to summer)

I distinctly remember one aunt from my childhood who would run behind her small daughter, a fussy eater, trying to feed her with her loving hands. The daughter would scamper from one house to another in the neighbourhood. As soon as the aunt caught hold of her, she would forcefully stuff a big triangular piece of roti, concealing some sabji in the center, into her small mouth.

Imagine her chasing her child, fork and knife in one hand like weapons, threatening her child to eat — like a miniature, AI version of Rani Laxmi Bai. 

Of course, good table manners are needed,  whether you’re dining at home or in a formal setup. And frankly speaking, many Indian food items don’t even require cutlery except a simple, solitary spoon. But fascination with foreign culture has gradually overshadowed even our eating habits along with the choice of food. Often, people suppress the natural urge to eat with their hands, either because of the setting or social expectations. And as the adage goes, ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do. ’ 

Instead, I would say, Rome or home, let your senses lead the way. 

*****

Mother: Today we have daal bhaat for lunch.
Daughter: Where’re my chopsticks?

Posted on by nikita

The Art of Balancing — Is it for real?

“NJ, you are an inspiration for the other team members regarding work-life balance”.

These were the words of one of my colleagues during my farewell. While I was at my job, many co-workers admired and respected my inclination for work-life balance.

But the recent statements by Infosys co-founder Mr. Narayana Murthy and the chairman of L&T Mr. Subhramanyan have not only shocked me but also compelled me to rethink my work habits and even question my capabilities. 70 hours a week? 90 hours a week? Was it possible for my brain to work sanely beyond an 8-hour job?

And to add to this melancholy, I don’t even have a spouse to stare at me. At least, it would have taken away a bit more of my remaining 16-hour day, in addition to cooking and cleaning.

Of course, Mr. Murthy’s and Mr. Subhramanyan’s approach to work is their corporate way of enjoying life, which is different from mine. To each their own — just like families, friends, and relatives at a marriage, each with their own expectations.

One of the most common scenarios in Indian weddings is the helplessness of the bride and groom in maintaining a balance between their in-laws’ excitement during photography. It’s like a tug-of-war — which family will click photographs first with the newlywed? It’s amusing to watch both parties in constant tussle trying to prove who has the upper hand. Who is superior? Because it doesn’t stop with a single family photo; they gather a crowd of relatives and friends on their sides, each waiting for their turn to be clicked with the couple —  proof of their attendance at the wedding.

Hardly anyone cares about the comfort of the couple in question. No one notices their efforts in balancing the weight on their heads — the groom with a heavy headgear in the form of safa (turban) and the bride with the stiffly and densely pinned pallu to her hair-do.

The newlyweds aren’t the unusual Kumbh Mela babas who seem to have mastered the art of balancing: like the one with a 45 kg tower of rudraksha beads on his head, and another with a pigeon perched on his head. (I thought only Sooraj Barjatya was fond of pigeons who could get his lyricist to compose a hit song on a pigeon in the 1990s.) Such an ability to balance can be achieved only after years of practice and penance, which the newlyweds lack.

This brings me to an understanding that balance isn’t everyone’s forte — whether it’s physical, social, or mental. Whether on the head or in the head. Take YouTuber, Ranveer Allahbadia, for instance, who is all over the media for his inappropriate comments. His apology seems to convey that there was some chemical locha in his mind during a reality show appearance.

Did the chemicals in his Beer hit him so hard that he lost the ability to distinguish between ‘pure humour’ and ‘putrid humour’?

Apparently, at this point, even his Biceps can’t help him fight the backlash he’s facing. And that too for copying the content from an Australian reality show, Alan Vs Sam.

We don’t know why he said what he said.

Whatever the reason, the art of balancing isn’t as easy as giving advice — whether in work, personal life, or maintaining a public image.

*****

An afterthought: What about environmental balance?

*****

Husband: You should have been vigilant about the stuff our child watches.
Wife: I have a WFH (Work FOR home) job. Just like you.

Posted on by nikita

A visit to a hospital – Putting things in perspective 

When we were young, we used to get essay topics such as – ‘A visit to a zoo’, ‘A visit to a hospital’, ‘A visit to a museum’, and so on. As these were places I had never been to, extending my imagination beyond a certain limit wasn’t easy. 

But if I were to write an essay today on a visit to a hospital, it would be very different, of course. It would be more philosophical than sheer imagination. 

*****

When friends and relatives visit a hospital, they come with the ‘WH’ questions for the family members sitting there in the waiting area. Questions like — ‘What happened?’ ‘When did this happen?’ ‘How did this happen?’ ‘How and when did you come to know about this illness?’ ‘What did the doc say?’ ‘How long will it take to cure this disease?’ and so on.

And the family member(s) is left with no alternative but to tell his/her story. The patient’s father, mother, sister, brother, wife, husband, son, or daughter is expected to narrate the ordeal like a film script. The family member is made to relive the entire painful experience. It starts with the time, the day, and the date when a particular illness invades a body of the loved one. The irony is that the more they want to forget about distress and suffering, the more they are made to experience it by replaying the same account for every new visitor. It’s exhausting.

Sometimes, the visitor already knows the story, yet he/she will still ask questions seeking confirmation of the known details. It could also be a sincere attempt to connect to the family’s emotional burden.

Also you may come across some family members who seem to find comfort in verbalizing distressful episodes. Generally, they are well-versed with voice modulation. They know which words and phrases require emphasis, and when to pause. They seem to enjoy being the center of attraction, even if it’s momentarily or for the unfortunate circumstances. And with every new visitor, the narration slightly differs since one can’t remember the exact words and phrases. 

And when there are too many visitors at the same time, which generally happens in a big family, the same experience finds various narrators. Even the visitors become storytellers for the just-arrived visitor. They also seem to enjoy sharing their part of the story, with some improvization in the script. They like playing the cameo role of a comforter in the family’s tragedy because, after all, sharing is caring.

An observer and listener, sitting in a corner wonders — Aren’t people tired or bored relaying a story repeatedly? Do they find solace in retelling a tale of affliction? Are their actions out of love and care? Or is it to gain attention, acknowledgement, and sympathy? Or an attempt to make emotional connections?Are they waiting for some validation of their feelings and emotions? Or is it a cathartic moment for them? 

*****

I was waiting for my turn to meet the patient. This hospital was like any other hospital. For me, hospitals look somewhat like railway stations. The only difference is that at the station, we see people with baggage in a literal sense; in the hospital, they carry mental and emotional baggage. 

The hospital I visited also had hurried faces walking briskly towards the medicine counters, lifts, emergency wards, inquiry desks, or doctors on the move to have a quick word with them. The burdened faces of the relatives of patients sometimes appear oblivious to the world around them, like the people at the railway station. 

While waiting for the visitor pass so that I could cross the threshold guarded by security personnel, an unpleasant conversation hit my attentive ears. The man, who seemed to have lost a family member to death, got infuriated when he was asked to show his visitor pass. The fact that the security man hadn’t recognized him even after regular hospital visits seemed surprising to him. With intense displeasure and ire, he blurted, ‘There’s a death in the family and you wanna see my pass! Where will you end up after death!’ 

Once the angry middle-aged man left the scene, the agitated security guard vented his anger in front of his supervisor wearing a black safari uniform. His face and his uniform were uniformly creased. 

This incident made me wonder — Was the security guard at fault for following hospital protocols? Did he even know that there was death in that man’s family? Was the behaviour of the relative of the deceased acceptable? Would it have been difficult for him to follow a simple protocol despite whatever happened in his personal life?

I stood there thinking until the visitor pass was passed on to me and I went to meet the patient.

*****

Teacher: Raga, what’s your essay topic?
Raga: A visit to America.