Saturday, October 22, 2005
Untitled
The building was very ugly to begin with. And Solid. And yet, some one decided it needed a face-lift. Scaffolding all around. Huge lengths of green thick cloth, hung haphazardly. Sheets of corrugated tins placed all around the building to create a safe area – apparently to ensure that no visitor would be injured by falling shards of cement and debris. But this made it impossible to walk down the narrow path in front of the building. Visitors now have to hop onto the green (mostly mud) stretch to make it to the entrance which hey presto, has vanished. A sign, on a piece of card board, no doubt torn from a carton, the writing faded in the hot sun gives direction to the new entrance…the best treasure hunter would be at a loss to decipher. The construction goes on and on. No sign of any change even after weeks. The busy throng of people pours in and out of the building. Workers are up and down the scaffolding. In dusty clothes and yellow hard hats, (very incongruous with their clothes - no overalls) perched uneasily on their heads… The green canvas, the yellow hard hat, the corrugated sheets…all appear to be there, not for safety but to ensure the fulfilling of some international safety standards.
I look up and find, a young woman. Up on the scaffolding. Maybe on the 5th floor. In a saree. Yellow hardhat on head. (I am wearing a saree as well). She looks down at me and her eyes follow me as I pass below. I am shocked to see her up there (no stereotyping this…but u would be, had you seen her). God knows what goes through her mind when she sees me. Perhaps angry at why am I down there and she above? Why is she in her dusty saree, me in my fine one? Why does she have a hard hat and me cradling my smart file of papers? Why is she up on the scaffolding and I am on terra ferma?
Or perhaps she is just curious.
I find the new entrance to the building. Amid debris, little dunes of sand and cement, the betel-juice-stained walls. The ugly metal detector, the lazy guard. And as I gingerly step on the wobbly concrete flooring, I see a little kid seated on the bare earth. Can’t be more than two, powdered by dust, all alone, looking up at the world as it passes by. Welcome to the Ministry of Health and Family Welfare, Government of India.
....Perhaps, the woman up there was just curious. I'd like to think that. But the truth would be, she was too busy trying to do what she had to, look forward to the next break, when she could come and pick up the little tot floors below, waiting for her, patiently (already aware that he had no other choice, no luxury of temper tantrums that other fortunate tots can afford to throw). Both aware of their roles, unawares that right inside, the enormous and complicated machinery inside the ministry toiled amid files and meetings and projects and plans working for health and welfare of families of more than a billion people.
Friday, October 21, 2005
Bitter Moon?!
Last week at a salon I was wallowing in the luxury of a 'deluxe' pedicure, when the pedicurist whispered that they had a Karva Chauth special.
[I get very irritated by this hard selling of their packages. Go for a head massage and they will say "Ma'am you feet NEEDs a pedicure. Go for a haircut, they will say ma'am you are going bald and need an ultra-ozone-olive oil-steam-hair-scalp treatment. So on and so forth].
I snapped (a trifle harshly), "I am a BONG. We donot have karva chauth. We never fast and never have to. Thank God. They poor pedicurist crumbled into hurt silence (but thankfully continued with the pedicure with as much care as before).
On my way to office yesterday, I saw makeshift mehendi stalls dotting the roadside. And office WAS different yesterday. It WAS full of beautifully dressed women. In sarees, mehendi on their hands, all a-tinkle with bangles and earrings. All joyously observing Karva Chauth. Which in effect meant they were fasting for the long life of their husbands, and dressed in their best. And so happy about it. Not even a drop of water. Till moon rise. When they will (here there is a variation. Some do and some don't), look at the moon through a sieve and then at their husband. And break their fast.
I remember, from way back, when I was in school, one morning, the ferocious Mrs. G, our hindi teacher, swished into class in a dark violet silk saree with silver zari border, large earrings, 2 pinks spots of rouge on her cheeks. Zapped, we burst into "happy birthday to you..." and sang it with great gusto, if not tune. She beamed at us through it all and then said it wasn't her birthday. Oh. Happy Anniversary. No, not even that. Then?????
She coyly (very coyly) announced it was for Karva Chauth! The first I had ever heard (well maybe I had heard it before) but came to know that it meant something special. But then being a bong, it was not in the Bengali scheme of things where any thing special meant food, food and more food.
I had always found KC rituals a bit strange. What is this fasting for husbands,who were hale and hearty anyhow? And then what is this looking at the moon through a sieve etc. This probably stemmed from the numerous hindi movies where there was (and continues to be), along with the mandatory Cut to Switzerland for a song, a karva chauth scene.
Quite unintentionally, I was well dressed yesterday with (I sometimes get that right), matching accessory. I was asked quite a few times if I was fasting. I repeated the entire thing about being a Bengali and not having to fast except on one's wedding day, when the groom and the bride and the person giving the bride away fast till the wedding is over.
But that changed on seeing my colleagues obvious pleasure at it all. Some even said that their husbands too were fasting (to give moral support to their wives)! Couple of years back, on another KC, back in Calcutta, I was standing on the landing in the evening when Mrs K and her short, podgy Mr. K came down the stairs from the terrace (after the sieve and moon thingie), Mrs K smiling coyly and Mr. K looking sheepish when I smiled at them. They were so sweet - that podgy pair!!
No, it doesn't inspire me to keep a KC. But generally, not be dismissive of it. I didn't think it correct to mention that not only was I not fasting, I had infact, the previous night, cooked 2 kilos of meat ahead of a small gathering of friends, on the following day.
[I get very irritated by this hard selling of their packages. Go for a head massage and they will say "Ma'am you feet NEEDs a pedicure. Go for a haircut, they will say ma'am you are going bald and need an ultra-ozone-olive oil-steam-hair-scalp treatment. So on and so forth].
I snapped (a trifle harshly), "I am a BONG. We donot have karva chauth. We never fast and never have to. Thank God. They poor pedicurist crumbled into hurt silence (but thankfully continued with the pedicure with as much care as before).
On my way to office yesterday, I saw makeshift mehendi stalls dotting the roadside. And office WAS different yesterday. It WAS full of beautifully dressed women. In sarees, mehendi on their hands, all a-tinkle with bangles and earrings. All joyously observing Karva Chauth. Which in effect meant they were fasting for the long life of their husbands, and dressed in their best. And so happy about it. Not even a drop of water. Till moon rise. When they will (here there is a variation. Some do and some don't), look at the moon through a sieve and then at their husband. And break their fast.
I remember, from way back, when I was in school, one morning, the ferocious Mrs. G, our hindi teacher, swished into class in a dark violet silk saree with silver zari border, large earrings, 2 pinks spots of rouge on her cheeks. Zapped, we burst into "happy birthday to you..." and sang it with great gusto, if not tune. She beamed at us through it all and then said it wasn't her birthday. Oh. Happy Anniversary. No, not even that. Then?????
She coyly (very coyly) announced it was for Karva Chauth! The first I had ever heard (well maybe I had heard it before) but came to know that it meant something special. But then being a bong, it was not in the Bengali scheme of things where any thing special meant food, food and more food.
I had always found KC rituals a bit strange. What is this fasting for husbands,who were hale and hearty anyhow? And then what is this looking at the moon through a sieve etc. This probably stemmed from the numerous hindi movies where there was (and continues to be), along with the mandatory Cut to Switzerland for a song, a karva chauth scene.
Quite unintentionally, I was well dressed yesterday with (I sometimes get that right), matching accessory. I was asked quite a few times if I was fasting. I repeated the entire thing about being a Bengali and not having to fast except on one's wedding day, when the groom and the bride and the person giving the bride away fast till the wedding is over.
But that changed on seeing my colleagues obvious pleasure at it all. Some even said that their husbands too were fasting (to give moral support to their wives)! Couple of years back, on another KC, back in Calcutta, I was standing on the landing in the evening when Mrs K and her short, podgy Mr. K came down the stairs from the terrace (after the sieve and moon thingie), Mrs K smiling coyly and Mr. K looking sheepish when I smiled at them. They were so sweet - that podgy pair!!
No, it doesn't inspire me to keep a KC. But generally, not be dismissive of it. I didn't think it correct to mention that not only was I not fasting, I had infact, the previous night, cooked 2 kilos of meat ahead of a small gathering of friends, on the following day.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
6.8 on the Richter Scale
It was a particularly harrowing week. A massive presentation to a Client – 3 campaigns, 14 scripts in Hindi with translation in English (for our Canadian client), reviews and re-reviews, copiers failing at the last minute, frayed tempers, another attack of low blood pressure etc.
Was really looking forward to the weekend to vegetate. And not only because Durga Puja was just around the corner. My first pujas in Delhi.
A and I were just getting into the proper mood Saturday morning. Newspapers strewn all around, morning tea, TV blaring out full volume…none of the frenetic weekend-get-house-in-shape plans.
Suddenly, I felt the floor beneath me sway alarmingly. God, I must be blacking out, I thought. I looked up at A and before I could say a word, he said, yes the floor, infact the apartment was swaying. Earthquake?? I ran barefoot to the door and opened it. Through the banging covers of the meter boxes, I saw our neighbour run out with his three-month baby in his arms, his wife behind him.
RUN, I shouted to A. We joined other residents streaming onto the alarmingly swaying staircase. God will these stairs never end? (We are on the 11th floor). Low Blood pressure and weakness forgotten, I ran for my life and picked up so much speed that I left A atleast three flights behind me. Normally he being much bigger than me outpaces me easily even at his most relaxed pace.
Finally, thank dear god, we reached the ground floor and found a huge crowd from all the 8 buildings out in the open. Along with the sheer relief of having made it, I found that I was dressed in a faded, worn out horrible nightie, which last night I had worn inside out. Everyone seemed to be dressed for a Sunday brunch. I hid behind a pillar (all fear of the pillar descending on my head forgotten) and hissed at A, “Give me your T-shirt. NOW”. I hastily put on his T-shirt, A poor thing was left bare chested in his boxer short which he wore with great aplomb. I lurked behind parked cars till everyone felt it was safe to get back.
Back we found the papers flapping in the fan, the cups of tea where we left them, cold and the TV blaring surrealistically some Hindi-remix with gyrating nymphets. As if to confirm what we had just felt, we switched on the news to find it was 7.5 on the Richter scale.
The panic just wouldn’t go away. What about the aftershocks? Was it just my low BP or panic or both which made me think that everything was shaking?
Why did we take an apartment so high up? Why? I asked A.
Put on some descent clothes and give me back my T-shirt, was A’s curt response.
We left after couple of hours to my in-laws’. Their bungalow seemed infinitely safer.
Now, I can sit back and think (not without a sense of rising panic), about Saturday morning. And how in those crucial moments, all I thought of was me, me, me. I was impatient with other slow runners on the stairs and horrors, I raced ahead of A. And even after making it safely, what I wore seemed more important. Some one (I don’t know who) said that it’s the hour which reveals the man / or woman. Revealed quite a bit about me - selfish, self centred and idiotic and terribly relieved that till next time (Gurgaon is a seismologically active area), despite that half an hour of terror, it was just an interesting tale to tell and re-tell; The embarrassment of being seen in horrible nightclothes, the mission-impossible feel of racing down the stairs.
Just a few weeks ago, my boss was talking about impossible choices. If one was faced with a situation where one had to save one’s spouse or child, what would one do and then live with it? We had a heated conversation, with the women all saying, the child, obviously. It was easy to say such things when our future seemed secure. Faced with ones mortality, I found that the over-riding thought was me, me and me. As reports keep coming in, of children buried under the debris of their schools, villages wiped out, homeless and helpless people waiting for relief, days after the quake, in freezing temperatures, I realize how lucky we’ve been. Gurgaon is one of the three seismologically dangerous spots in India. It could have easily been us. Dear God.
Was really looking forward to the weekend to vegetate. And not only because Durga Puja was just around the corner. My first pujas in Delhi.
A and I were just getting into the proper mood Saturday morning. Newspapers strewn all around, morning tea, TV blaring out full volume…none of the frenetic weekend-get-house-in-shape plans.
Suddenly, I felt the floor beneath me sway alarmingly. God, I must be blacking out, I thought. I looked up at A and before I could say a word, he said, yes the floor, infact the apartment was swaying. Earthquake?? I ran barefoot to the door and opened it. Through the banging covers of the meter boxes, I saw our neighbour run out with his three-month baby in his arms, his wife behind him.
RUN, I shouted to A. We joined other residents streaming onto the alarmingly swaying staircase. God will these stairs never end? (We are on the 11th floor). Low Blood pressure and weakness forgotten, I ran for my life and picked up so much speed that I left A atleast three flights behind me. Normally he being much bigger than me outpaces me easily even at his most relaxed pace.
Finally, thank dear god, we reached the ground floor and found a huge crowd from all the 8 buildings out in the open. Along with the sheer relief of having made it, I found that I was dressed in a faded, worn out horrible nightie, which last night I had worn inside out. Everyone seemed to be dressed for a Sunday brunch. I hid behind a pillar (all fear of the pillar descending on my head forgotten) and hissed at A, “Give me your T-shirt. NOW”. I hastily put on his T-shirt, A poor thing was left bare chested in his boxer short which he wore with great aplomb. I lurked behind parked cars till everyone felt it was safe to get back.
Back we found the papers flapping in the fan, the cups of tea where we left them, cold and the TV blaring surrealistically some Hindi-remix with gyrating nymphets. As if to confirm what we had just felt, we switched on the news to find it was 7.5 on the Richter scale.
The panic just wouldn’t go away. What about the aftershocks? Was it just my low BP or panic or both which made me think that everything was shaking?
Why did we take an apartment so high up? Why? I asked A.
Put on some descent clothes and give me back my T-shirt, was A’s curt response.
We left after couple of hours to my in-laws’. Their bungalow seemed infinitely safer.
Now, I can sit back and think (not without a sense of rising panic), about Saturday morning. And how in those crucial moments, all I thought of was me, me, me. I was impatient with other slow runners on the stairs and horrors, I raced ahead of A. And even after making it safely, what I wore seemed more important. Some one (I don’t know who) said that it’s the hour which reveals the man / or woman. Revealed quite a bit about me - selfish, self centred and idiotic and terribly relieved that till next time (Gurgaon is a seismologically active area), despite that half an hour of terror, it was just an interesting tale to tell and re-tell; The embarrassment of being seen in horrible nightclothes, the mission-impossible feel of racing down the stairs.
Just a few weeks ago, my boss was talking about impossible choices. If one was faced with a situation where one had to save one’s spouse or child, what would one do and then live with it? We had a heated conversation, with the women all saying, the child, obviously. It was easy to say such things when our future seemed secure. Faced with ones mortality, I found that the over-riding thought was me, me and me. As reports keep coming in, of children buried under the debris of their schools, villages wiped out, homeless and helpless people waiting for relief, days after the quake, in freezing temperatures, I realize how lucky we’ve been. Gurgaon is one of the three seismologically dangerous spots in India. It could have easily been us. Dear God.
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