I was idly leafing through a magazine when I came across this ad “Get your hair done in English”. Sounds funny doesn’t it? Had I read it couple of years ago, I wouldn’t have laughed. I would have cried…tears of relief!!
I need to get my hair trimmed. Its shoulder length now…the longest it has been in 6 years. I am just postponing it out of sheer laziness. Honest. Nothing else. Now I can manage my trip to the coiffeur’s quite well thank you. Once every three months, I get a trim. I go there and tell them I want my hair cut. They ask me to wait and then shampoo, then they ask how do I want it…très court (very short). They cut it, blow dry it, I pay, tip and leave. Five sentences in all, a nice hair cut. That’s it.
The coiffeuse are friendly enough but somehow I can't converse with them or should I try, my French comes out all wrong!! I remember the happy times I spent chattering with Mario, the English speaking Italian with a Japanese wife, my first coiffeur here. He would chatter away while trimming my hair. The first thing he said to me was that the red stuff in my hair (my sindoor...afterall I was newly wedded then) had been shampooed away. I told him not to worry about it, I had loads more. He wanted to know why it was red. Why didn’t I apply various colours? And he finished and said if you don’t like it at home, then send your head back with your husband (A’s office was right next door) and I do something different with it!! Ah Mario. Unfortunately, I had to let Mario go because he made me look just like Amitabh Bacchan!
Once I joined Alliance Française, I summoned enough courage to try out the chic salon next doors, run by E, the slim terribly pale man always in black. I asked him for “quelquechose nouveau” (something new). A had a fright when he saw me. He couldn’t believe I had just paid 225F + tips for a “widow’s hack”. Luckily for me, the hack settled down to a très chic cut in couple of days. I was so pleased with it that I took R there when she came visiting shortly afterwards. Now R who has a head full of thick luxurious tresses was taken with the idea of getting a Parisian hair do. Mr E was very nice with her and tried to speak to her in English and I was served wonderful coffee and ginger biscuits while I waited for her! Half an hour later, she was done. But it didn’t look anything different. She could have got her hair done anywhere. Kolkata, Delhi, Mumbai, Paris or Jhumritalaiya!! But Mr E and his assistants were so nice to us. We smiled and pretended that it was the best thing that could happen to R! And then the nice Mr E asked me if I wanted to try some “maquillage”(make up). I didnt and so he turned toR and she couldn’t manage to say no and agreed to it. It consisted of this pretty young thing applying lipstick on R for 25F. That too didn’t look anything different and she could have done that herself. The two of us managed to keep a straight face while we settled the bill and added the compulsory hefty tip. Once outside, we collapsed and laughed till we had tears running down our cheeks.
"Get your hair done, in English” is not bad grammar but a perfectly reasonable suggestion!
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Monday, March 15, 2004
Poll Time
Our town goes to the polls soon for the regionals; with half of France voting on the 21st and the rest on the 28th. I have watched with interest the build up to the elections. Alas, I can’t vote not being a French citizen. Neither can I participate in the forthcoming Indian polls, them being limited to Government of India employees who can cast their vote at their nearest Indian embassies. That effectively rules A and me out.
For weeks now, party workers have been handing out flyers to the public, mainly at the Gare (station) and at the marchés (local markets). The well funded ones employing people to do their distribution while the poorer ones doing their own distribution. The flyers too differ in the quality. Glossy, multicoloured many pages flyers with prominent photos for the rich parties contrasting with the cheap Black and white A4 xeroxes of the poor ones. Most parties also carry photos and words of ‘soutien’ or support of their party bigwigs in favour of the local candidates. For example, the UMP-UDF candidate of our town has the support of Jean François Copé who is the porte-parole (spokesperson) of UMP (Chirac’s party). These differences apart, most carry their agenda, their concrete goals with respect to chief concerns like unemployment, housing, education, security, transport, taxes etc.
The real worry here is not enough people voting. (No fear of that in India, is there? Never a vote wasted!). There have been several TV campaigns asking people to cast their vote and refrain from abstaining. Debates range on how to get people to vote. A popular satire had this innovative and possibly successful idea if ever it could be carried out: A gorgeous lady intones in a husky voice ‘I like a man who votes’!! The ladies have their enticement in the form of a hunk rasping out ‘I love a woman who votes’ and in a theatrical aside ‘I also love a woman who cooks and cleans’!!!
Bernard Kouchner founder of 'Medecins sans Frontieres' suggested making the vote obligatory as in Belgium and a few other countries. Others differ. Despite voting made obligatory, there is as much as 10% abstention in these countries with people preferring to pay fines up to 100E rather than make the trip to the booth.
Yesterday in a panel discussion on TV, a panelist said its not as if the French and especially the youth are not uninterested in politics. Everytime he entered a bar or a café, he heard political conversations. It is rather, the parties themselves who are to blame. They have failed to address the demands of the public and who have therefore decided to keep away.
A few orderly boards have been put up to display posters of the various parties and candidates. There have been a few meetings but not in open spaces (obviously given the population, a hall should suffice), no loudspeakers blaring, no huge cut outs of leaders, no traffic jamming processions and above all, no Rath Yatras!
For weeks now, party workers have been handing out flyers to the public, mainly at the Gare (station) and at the marchés (local markets). The well funded ones employing people to do their distribution while the poorer ones doing their own distribution. The flyers too differ in the quality. Glossy, multicoloured many pages flyers with prominent photos for the rich parties contrasting with the cheap Black and white A4 xeroxes of the poor ones. Most parties also carry photos and words of ‘soutien’ or support of their party bigwigs in favour of the local candidates. For example, the UMP-UDF candidate of our town has the support of Jean François Copé who is the porte-parole (spokesperson) of UMP (Chirac’s party). These differences apart, most carry their agenda, their concrete goals with respect to chief concerns like unemployment, housing, education, security, transport, taxes etc.
The real worry here is not enough people voting. (No fear of that in India, is there? Never a vote wasted!). There have been several TV campaigns asking people to cast their vote and refrain from abstaining. Debates range on how to get people to vote. A popular satire had this innovative and possibly successful idea if ever it could be carried out: A gorgeous lady intones in a husky voice ‘I like a man who votes’!! The ladies have their enticement in the form of a hunk rasping out ‘I love a woman who votes’ and in a theatrical aside ‘I also love a woman who cooks and cleans’!!!
Bernard Kouchner founder of 'Medecins sans Frontieres' suggested making the vote obligatory as in Belgium and a few other countries. Others differ. Despite voting made obligatory, there is as much as 10% abstention in these countries with people preferring to pay fines up to 100E rather than make the trip to the booth.
Yesterday in a panel discussion on TV, a panelist said its not as if the French and especially the youth are not uninterested in politics. Everytime he entered a bar or a café, he heard political conversations. It is rather, the parties themselves who are to blame. They have failed to address the demands of the public and who have therefore decided to keep away.
A few orderly boards have been put up to display posters of the various parties and candidates. There have been a few meetings but not in open spaces (obviously given the population, a hall should suffice), no loudspeakers blaring, no huge cut outs of leaders, no traffic jamming processions and above all, no Rath Yatras!
Saturday, March 13, 2004
India vs Pakistan ODI or A vs Me
It is saturday and so we got up late . Dommage. By then Indian innings was 3/4's over and Pakistan had nicely settled in and was hammering Kartik properly by the time we returned from the Saturday marché. 'Chatu baniye diyeche' (beaten to a paste) according to A.
Personally, I prefer matches like this...fiercely fought and which could go either way right down to last ball, to tame matches where the outcome is a foregone conclusion half way through.
We could have seen the match live in one of English or Aussie pubs in Paris but it was a bit too late. Ofcourse these pubs would show India vs Pakistan match provided it did not clash with one of their cricket or rugby matches.
Once, we very nearly did, but changed our minds at the last moment. Thankgod. It was an India-Australia final. Australia hammered us silly. We two would surely have been the only Indians around. So much for patriotism!
Now, we follow the score on the net, more often than not, on rediff.com. We take turns to sit in front of our PC and hit the refresh button. R ofcourse, keeps sending emails with highlights (which player did what and who said what and her analysis) and side lights(our driver wants a day off).
It was my turn to sit first, while A gobbled up his lunch...grilled chicken from the marché while firing questions and comments at me:
- Whats the required run rate?
-'Kichu bojho naa’ (You don’t understand a thing). ETC, ETC
- Cricket kheleycho konodin? (Ever played cricket?)
‘YES I DID. ONCE. When I was 8, the only girl in an all boy team. Only, the boys wouldnt let me lift the bat to score a run. I had to drag it along the ground. And ofcourse they didn’t bowl slowly and so I didn’t score and left in a huff’.
‘OK OK, my 'goonda' rani’.
Then it was his turn. And his responses to mykoto holo? (whats the score) were cryptic one liners like:-
- Khub pittachey (really scoring runs)
- Onek holo (a lot)
- Arey kichu hoi ni etc. (nothings happened) ETC, ETC, ETC.
This was my turn to let him know what I thought of his cricketing talents if he couldn’t even read the score.
India is winning / no it isn’t / Pakistan will make it, Remember Miandad’s 6 off the last ball of the last over? /we lack the will / our bowlers are pathetic ETC. The atmosphere was as tense out here, as was in the Indian dressing room, I bet. And so on….till the last ball of the last over, when Pakistan lost by just 5 runs. I even felt a bit sorry for them. Am happy that India has won but not that gloating kind of happiness usually associated with India – Pakistan matches.
And now peace reigns in our little household. India won, all our tensions eased, A is taking his siesta…further analysis on hold till the next ODI.
Glossary French Words
Dommage - Pity
Personally, I prefer matches like this...fiercely fought and which could go either way right down to last ball, to tame matches where the outcome is a foregone conclusion half way through.
We could have seen the match live in one of English or Aussie pubs in Paris but it was a bit too late. Ofcourse these pubs would show India vs Pakistan match provided it did not clash with one of their cricket or rugby matches.
Once, we very nearly did, but changed our minds at the last moment. Thankgod. It was an India-Australia final. Australia hammered us silly. We two would surely have been the only Indians around. So much for patriotism!
Now, we follow the score on the net, more often than not, on rediff.com. We take turns to sit in front of our PC and hit the refresh button. R ofcourse, keeps sending emails with highlights (which player did what and who said what and her analysis) and side lights(our driver wants a day off).
It was my turn to sit first, while A gobbled up his lunch...grilled chicken from the marché while firing questions and comments at me:
- Whats the required run rate?
-'Kichu bojho naa’ (You don’t understand a thing). ETC, ETC
- Cricket kheleycho konodin? (Ever played cricket?)
‘YES I DID. ONCE. When I was 8, the only girl in an all boy team. Only, the boys wouldnt let me lift the bat to score a run. I had to drag it along the ground. And ofcourse they didn’t bowl slowly and so I didn’t score and left in a huff’.
‘OK OK, my 'goonda' rani’.
Then it was his turn. And his responses to mykoto holo? (whats the score) were cryptic one liners like:-
- Khub pittachey (really scoring runs)
- Onek holo (a lot)
- Arey kichu hoi ni etc. (nothings happened) ETC, ETC, ETC.
This was my turn to let him know what I thought of his cricketing talents if he couldn’t even read the score.
India is winning / no it isn’t / Pakistan will make it, Remember Miandad’s 6 off the last ball of the last over? /we lack the will / our bowlers are pathetic ETC. The atmosphere was as tense out here, as was in the Indian dressing room, I bet. And so on….till the last ball of the last over, when Pakistan lost by just 5 runs. I even felt a bit sorry for them. Am happy that India has won but not that gloating kind of happiness usually associated with India – Pakistan matches.
And now peace reigns in our little household. India won, all our tensions eased, A is taking his siesta…further analysis on hold till the next ODI.
Glossary French Words
Dommage - Pity
Sunday, March 07, 2004
Holi Hai
Another Holi has come and gone. For me it was just another Samedi here. Except for a few holi greetings and R’s email, it would have, for me, passed away unnoticed. Instead, I spent the afternoon, thinking about the holis past.
The last time I played with colours, was when we had first moved into our apartment in a newly constructed building. We were young, full of energy and enthusiasm, with a building full of new friends.
The holi would be announced by kids in the next building, dropping the inevitable water balloons on unsuspecting passers-by, five flights below. Our building was enclosed within our parking space and therefore did not have access to the main road itself robbing us of this pleasure. Notices in big prints would appear all over the house ‘No colours beyond this point’. It was ignored ofcourse. On the day itself, the main gates would be shut with only the solitary guard at his post, the drivers all absent, it being a holiday. The youngest would be the first to start. They hid behind bushes and sprayed each other with their pitchkaris and more often than not, the guard, when they tired of each other. There was no one else around. We’d come down later, around 10.30 or 11ish and within a few minutes to turn into absolute frights…black or dark green being our favoured colours!! And finally we’d dunk each other with buckets of water and then drag our weary limbs upstairs and finish off with the most important ritual of scrubbing out the colours. We’d be very proud of those last obstinate tinges which would refuse to budge and go to our schools or offices the next day proudly displaying these as proof of how much fun we’ve had!
In the last few years, many of our friends moved away for higher studies or with new jobs. New people had moved in. We could no longer summon up enthusiasm for the half hours of playing and 2 hours of scrubbing the paint off. The last couple of years before I came to France, I did not play holi. It was like any other holiday for me
Thinking over the years of different holis in different places, with different sets of friends, one memory resurfaced from deep down, crystal clear, every detail replaying itself as if I was there and it was happening now.
I was four and in Assam. We were living happily in a small bungalow. My nanny was very occupied with R who was just a baby. Her eldest daughter Manjudidi was my enlisted to make sure I kept out of trouble. She was in her late teens and although I was quite unaware of it then, she must have been quite an attractive girl. Passers by would stare at her, pass comments and once a cyclist swerved right onto us and tried to grab her. She picked up a stone from the roadside and flung it at him and he pedalled away furiously.
During those years, R and I didn’t play holi. Ma and baba did. They would be back by noon, take a bath and scrub off their colours, have lunch and since it would be a holiday, retire for a siesta. The same thing happened that day too. I was as usual, left to my own devices. Suddenly the drowsy silence was broken by a loud commotion from the courtyard. There was a small gate in the wall behind our bungalow from the covered courtyard. 4 men had entered quietly and grabbed Manjudidi and was dragging her toward the door. She put up a tremendous fight, screaming shouting, flailing her limbs. Her shrieks brought all of us outside. Our cook ran out with a heavy ladle in his hands followed by his helper. My nanny and ma too joined in and only when baba came out and shouted did the men leave her and make a hasty exit through the gate. By that time, Manjudidi had managed to bite and scratch them properly. The door was firmly bolted and everyone retired indoors for hushed conversations. R slept peacefully through it all. I was ignored by all. It must have been over in a couple of minutes at the most but to me it seemed like an eternity. No one explained to me about what happened. But the sight of those men pulling her remained imprinted on my brain for days afterwards.
Soon afterwards, we moved into a larger bungalow, just across the road. I had loads to keep me occupied. I was going to a new big schools and had many friends. Our new house was a veritable orchards with a much bigger garden. I spent a lot of time among the mango, grape fruit, jackfruit, litchi, tamarind trees, among the beds of pineapples, vegetable gardens behind, flower beds or simply on the green lawns.
Manjudidi herself was no longer with us, having gone to Delhi with a family to look after their baby.
Next holi, I heard our cook and my nanny whispering and pointing outside. Those men were back, restlessly prowling around our old bungalow across the road. They looked puzzled to find a new family there. They sat on a fallen log and stared at the house for a long time. Late in the evening, they gave up and went away.
A year later, we left Assam. And bit by bit, the terror went away. We have had many holis since then, some fun, some tiresome but once in a while, a twinge, a sudden unexplained feeling of unease would flash across me. Perhaps, it was this memory of my first holi, a horrible one, forgotten for the moment, but never gone.
This year, sitting so far away with not a single thing to show that half way across the world, an entire sub-continent is awash with colours and screams of ‘holi hai’ in the air….I wonder where you are my dear Manju didi. Are you playing holi this year with your family and kids? Or are you thinking about that horrible holi so long ago. I hope you have forgotten all about it, and are enjoying yourself.
Glossary Indian words
Holi - Indian festival of colour
pitchkaris - A sort of water pistol to spray coloured water during holi
didi - elder sister
The last time I played with colours, was when we had first moved into our apartment in a newly constructed building. We were young, full of energy and enthusiasm, with a building full of new friends.
The holi would be announced by kids in the next building, dropping the inevitable water balloons on unsuspecting passers-by, five flights below. Our building was enclosed within our parking space and therefore did not have access to the main road itself robbing us of this pleasure. Notices in big prints would appear all over the house ‘No colours beyond this point’. It was ignored ofcourse. On the day itself, the main gates would be shut with only the solitary guard at his post, the drivers all absent, it being a holiday. The youngest would be the first to start. They hid behind bushes and sprayed each other with their pitchkaris and more often than not, the guard, when they tired of each other. There was no one else around. We’d come down later, around 10.30 or 11ish and within a few minutes to turn into absolute frights…black or dark green being our favoured colours!! And finally we’d dunk each other with buckets of water and then drag our weary limbs upstairs and finish off with the most important ritual of scrubbing out the colours. We’d be very proud of those last obstinate tinges which would refuse to budge and go to our schools or offices the next day proudly displaying these as proof of how much fun we’ve had!
In the last few years, many of our friends moved away for higher studies or with new jobs. New people had moved in. We could no longer summon up enthusiasm for the half hours of playing and 2 hours of scrubbing the paint off. The last couple of years before I came to France, I did not play holi. It was like any other holiday for me
Thinking over the years of different holis in different places, with different sets of friends, one memory resurfaced from deep down, crystal clear, every detail replaying itself as if I was there and it was happening now.
I was four and in Assam. We were living happily in a small bungalow. My nanny was very occupied with R who was just a baby. Her eldest daughter Manjudidi was my enlisted to make sure I kept out of trouble. She was in her late teens and although I was quite unaware of it then, she must have been quite an attractive girl. Passers by would stare at her, pass comments and once a cyclist swerved right onto us and tried to grab her. She picked up a stone from the roadside and flung it at him and he pedalled away furiously.
During those years, R and I didn’t play holi. Ma and baba did. They would be back by noon, take a bath and scrub off their colours, have lunch and since it would be a holiday, retire for a siesta. The same thing happened that day too. I was as usual, left to my own devices. Suddenly the drowsy silence was broken by a loud commotion from the courtyard. There was a small gate in the wall behind our bungalow from the covered courtyard. 4 men had entered quietly and grabbed Manjudidi and was dragging her toward the door. She put up a tremendous fight, screaming shouting, flailing her limbs. Her shrieks brought all of us outside. Our cook ran out with a heavy ladle in his hands followed by his helper. My nanny and ma too joined in and only when baba came out and shouted did the men leave her and make a hasty exit through the gate. By that time, Manjudidi had managed to bite and scratch them properly. The door was firmly bolted and everyone retired indoors for hushed conversations. R slept peacefully through it all. I was ignored by all. It must have been over in a couple of minutes at the most but to me it seemed like an eternity. No one explained to me about what happened. But the sight of those men pulling her remained imprinted on my brain for days afterwards.
Soon afterwards, we moved into a larger bungalow, just across the road. I had loads to keep me occupied. I was going to a new big schools and had many friends. Our new house was a veritable orchards with a much bigger garden. I spent a lot of time among the mango, grape fruit, jackfruit, litchi, tamarind trees, among the beds of pineapples, vegetable gardens behind, flower beds or simply on the green lawns.
Manjudidi herself was no longer with us, having gone to Delhi with a family to look after their baby.
Next holi, I heard our cook and my nanny whispering and pointing outside. Those men were back, restlessly prowling around our old bungalow across the road. They looked puzzled to find a new family there. They sat on a fallen log and stared at the house for a long time. Late in the evening, they gave up and went away.
A year later, we left Assam. And bit by bit, the terror went away. We have had many holis since then, some fun, some tiresome but once in a while, a twinge, a sudden unexplained feeling of unease would flash across me. Perhaps, it was this memory of my first holi, a horrible one, forgotten for the moment, but never gone.
This year, sitting so far away with not a single thing to show that half way across the world, an entire sub-continent is awash with colours and screams of ‘holi hai’ in the air….I wonder where you are my dear Manju didi. Are you playing holi this year with your family and kids? Or are you thinking about that horrible holi so long ago. I hope you have forgotten all about it, and are enjoying yourself.
Glossary Indian words
Holi - Indian festival of colour
pitchkaris - A sort of water pistol to spray coloured water during holi
didi - elder sister
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