See How they Run

"See how they run",a line from 'Lady Madonna' by the Beatles,reminds me of one of our domestic maids who came,worked and fled.When we moved to North Bangalore,like the average urban Indian family,we needed a domestic maid.This 'amma' (a term of endearment assigned to a lot of domestic maids) was recommended by nearly all of our neighbours. She worked in several other houses and had a reputation for being honest,pious and meticulous.

One could see amma cleaning the premises of the local temple,during the wee hours of the morning for absolutely no charge.She would then clean our house as all of us left early in the morning.She had a striking young daughter who was an excellent cook.The duo worked in our house during the evenings as well.Although generally reliable,she was also known for going on sudden pilgrimages and trips to her 'native town'.She also suffered from stress related health problems owing to the domestic work at ten different houses.

Her personal life was unimaginably complicated. She had a truant husband who happened to be an unemployed parasite in the bargain.He cheated on her and married his mistress.Amma paid for the wedding and she also funded his life with his second wife(bigamy among Hindus is illegal but not uncommon).The daughter was married to a man who epitomized the proverbial 'bum'. She had a school going son and had a kind of 'on and off' relationship with her husband. Every time the daughter separated from her husband she came to live with amma.

As a family they lived beyond their means.They had a refrigerator and a plasma TV.They splurged heavily on ornaments and religious functions and were always short of funds when it came to paying the school fees of the little boy.In due course of time the daughter went back to her husband and they kept five purebred dogs as pets. As amma's health was taking a turn for the worse,she decided to quit domestic work.She opened a convenience store in the heart of the slum and ran it with the help of her daughter.

Setting up a convenience store and living beyond one's means almost never go together.They needed an initial investment and a loan.Most domestic workers are unaware of facilities provided by cooperative banks and hence don't have bank accounts.Banks usually don't grant loans to 'slum dwellers' over issues related to getting a surety.Entrepreneurs like amma end up relying on wily creditors and dubious chit fund schemes to fund their ventures.When business doesn't go well and the chit fund fails to pay,they default on their loans.

Amma and family were no exception.Their creditors were after them.Things went on till the day they just disappeared.No one ever saw them or heard from them again.

Bengali Names and Colonial Hangovers

What lies in a name? A hidden agenda or a colonial hangover? It is my luck to have a surname that differs from that of my parents even though both surnames are effectively the same.

Bengal bore the brunt of British,French,Portugese and Dutch colonists.It is also one of the last states to rise,sleepy eyed,from an extended colonial hangover.The signs of this are very obvious.There is the restaurant in Kolkata named 'Moulin Rouge',the Victoria Memorial-the house of colonial relics;then there are sprawling colonial mansions lining the banks of the Hoogly river on Kolkata's outskirts and of course shortened surnames.

My surname is Banerjee,short for Bandyopadhyay.I am quite accustomed to arched eyebrows and eyes brimming with questions every time I submit a form. My surname reads Banerjee and my father's reads Bandyopadhyay.Individuals with a tendency to be curious ask,sometimes politely and at other times pointedly,about the apparent discrepancy.My answer,that the British shortened Bandopadhyay and made it Banerjee because the latter was difficult to pronounce,is met with guffaws and sighs of relief.

Interestingly,my grandfather's surname was also Banerjee and at one point of time so was my father's.The education board in it's zeal to make a patriotic statement changed his surname to Bandyopadhyay when he was awarded his high school certificate.He lived with the name for the rest of his life and my mother acquired it by virtue of marriage.My parents decided to spare me the agony of having a last name that non-Bengalis find difficult to pronounce(that hasn't spared me the agony of having Bengali first name which is pronounced differently in all other languages).

When my friends ask me why I don't consider using the original Bengali name as my surname I have only one thing to say.Bureaucracy,a part of the colonial hangover.

Tales from the Crypt

My mother often narrates these stories about two women in her extended family.One who dared to live on the edge and the other who was shunned into complete obscurity.Although they make great case studies with respect to the general paradigm shift in the perception of women;to me they serve as a grim reminder of what my life could have been like in their time.

The first,a distant relative of my maternal grandmother,chose to become an actress. She starred in the Bengali version of 'Sahib Biwi Aur Ghulam'(titled 'Sahib Bibi Golam' in Bengali) alongside Uttam Kumar,the then superstar of Bengali cinema.I did a little research on the internet;starting with Uttam Kumar's IMDB page and moving on to bits and pieces about the plot of the movie to conclude that this is she . Regrettably,very little is known about her. There are no photographs as the family had nothing to do with her,owing to her 'exploits' in the film industry.Bengal,in the days preceding India's independence,was superficially the capital of the 'forward thinking'.As I mentioned,'forward thinking' was a superficial tag.Acting was typically considered to be the forte of individuals with 'loose and questionable morals'.For a woman,a profession in the performing arts was akin to one in prostitution.It breaks my heart to think that she had to live the way she did;bearing all the burden of societal censure,being ostracized by her loved ones,and hopping from one man to another(as was believed about every other actress no matter how chaste she may have actually been).

The second,a relative of my great grandfather,languished because her horoscope was as horrendous as she was beautiful.It was decreed that she would be married to an alcoholic who would drink himself to death.Her father ensured that such would be her fate.He got her married to a man who was drunk nearly all the time and hired a bodyguard so that her husband wouldn't come near her.Thus she lived;till her husband died,leaving her widowed and destitute.Indian families rarely acknowledged widows and her family was no different.I sometimes try to picture her;moving around like a creature of no significance with her tonsured head bowed in shame,never daring to look another man in the eye.It is said that she died alone,her body remaining unclaimed till one of her nephews became aware of her plight and gave her a decent funeral.

I often recount these stories in my mind and I am thankful that I live in a different time.I am fortunate to live in a city where it is occasionally possible for a woman to shed the inhibitions imposed by gender, and think like a human being.

Illness

I lie still
Woe begotten,grief stricken.
The dust on the window sill
Stays unmoved,almost forgotten.
My eyes flicker;
Trying to grasp the intangible.
I start to bicker;
Attempting to list the interminable.
In all this time
I have danced,lingering on numb toes.
In all this time
I have wilted,confiding in bitter foes.
I conjure rhymes;
My senses flung upon some distant shelf.
My mind mimes
The trappings of my former self.
I wait for the day
When my life will again be trite.
For I cannot stand to sway;
Singular in diminishing might.

P.S. The after effects of the seasonal flu.When one desires to be healthy, it is more comforting to walk with both feet on the ground than with one's head in the sky.

It Helps to Miss the Bus

It literally helps to miss the bus.Especially if the nature of your search for an idea for a blog entry verges on the desperate.I spend three hours a day commuting to and from work and cover a distance of nearly thirty kilometers one way.People living in parts of the world, where long distance travel is trivial and the infrastructure makes one's burden a tad lighter,might scoff at the number.It takes a seasoned Bangalorean to understand that thirty kilometers nearly amounts to the first hurdle of a dreary pilgrimage.My employer is kind enough to provide transport,thus saving me the ordeal of inching through snail-pace traffic.The only catch here is that I need to be present at the bus stop at 6:50 am;something that my occasional tardiness doesn't permit.

When I miss the bus,I rely solely on the benevolence of Bangalore's ubiquitous transport provider the B.M.T.C. The Bangalore Metropolitan Transport Corporation has buses coming in various colors,differing in the provision of air conditioning,comfortable seating and vehicle suspension.The B.M.T.C. has a set of air conditioned buses popularly called 'Volvo buses'(there are other buses manufactured by Volvo which have no air conditioning but only the air conditioned ones come with the 'Volvo' moniker).For the remainder of this article I will use the terms 'regular' and 'Volvo' to refer to the different types of buses.

Travel in a 'Volvo' comes at a higher price.While 'regular' buses are packed with a diverse mix of individuals,'Volvos' go nearly empty and house either 'IT professionals' or ignoramuses who have no idea that the tickets are priced higher than usual.One can't help but feel piteous towards these oblivious travelers who pay the price for ignorance with a quiet grimace.'IT Professionals' belong to a different creed altogether.In 'regular' buses it is common to see school children without shoes,construction workers with shovels,bangle sellers with stacks of their wares,poultry sellers carrying hysterical chickens,eunuchs looking enviously graceful in saris and I once saw a turban clad man carrying a primitive musical instrument.Going in a 'Volvo' is like moving through a delusional alternative world where everyone,barring the average ignoramus, is affluent.This is the world of IPods,Blackberrys,noise reduction headphones,designer clothes and accessories and accents that are a hodgepodge of the American and the local.

As one approaches the IT hub,the commuters turn unnecessarily 'hip' and the bus conductors,politely multilingual.Passengers are guaranteed the pleasure of being addressed as 'sir' or 'madam' as opposed to 'regular' buses where the average commuter is treated to a derogatory 'aye'.One can no longer see demure college girls struggling to keep their balance as the bus swings precariously.People flinch self consciously even to ask each other the time.

It helps,occasionally,to miss the bus and witness,with wonder,the great divide.An extra hour of travel with four bus changes is far more gratifying than staying put in the company shuttle that gets you to work in a jiffy.

Living to Write

It takes a little more than being well read to be a convincing writer.Feigning experience sometimes impedes the thrill of a riotous imagination.Writing that lacks the richness and the tangibility of reality starts off as something promising and turns frigid and limp towards the end.If all that is meant to be written has already been written,then new writers need to encircle a little more than what lies 'outside the box'.

Here are some of the things I intend to try before I write

Faith:If being an agnostic implies spending quality time on the fence then it is only fair that I give equal weight to the existence of a personal God as I do to the nonexistence of one.

Standardized tests for admission to business school: Writing one of these tests is very tempting;the cycle of preparation,rejection and acceptance appears nearly as lucrative for a book premise as the cycle of death,birth and reincarnation.

Appearing on the cover of 'Good Housekeeping': How else can I come up with something like 'Mrs. Dalloway'? One might assume that I intend to work as a traveling salesman in order to envision something of the magnitude of 'The Metamorphosis'.Fortunately,Kafka wrote about what was within and not without.

A visit to Calcutta:I must ensure that I travel either on foot or rely entirely on public transport.The suffocating humidity and immeasurable wealth of the city makes enough fodder for a thesis.

A visit to Paris:I need to convince myself that one needn't live in Paris in order to experience a personal renaissance.

Regular trips to government offices in India:I need to understand bureaucracy in order to capture the sheer joy of a life without it.

Going for a month without internet access:I believe that such a measure will bring forth a personal renaissance.

I urge my readers to suggest other things I can try before I write.

A Little Quietude

Death makes us silent.The bewilderment of survivor's guilt and the sheer futility of repeated cross questioning leaves us tired,ambivalent and in a rut.Death leaves a glaring void;a finicky desire to remain rooted and not move on.I wanted to avoid posting this on my blog but I feel the need to purge in order to progress.

When I watched my father succumb to a long illness,I held a presumption about my ability to accept things without vulnerability and irrationality.I was wrong.Grief came in the most unlikely form and left me choking and overwhelmed with the myriad list of possibilities.Like that of never having a father to give me away on my wedding,or that of my unborn children never getting to know their grandfather and the cruel reminder that my widowed mother has to seek comfort in the faded memories of a marriage that lasted thirty four years.

I also lost my dog,a constant companion of twelve years,last week.Ironically,four months after my father's passing,in a way that was excruciatingly similar.My mind is filled with images that are brutally beautiful and poignant.I want to shun any trace of remembrance and start over as though nothing had happened in the first place;something of an impossibility when there are former belongings and photographs lying strewn all over the place.

I realize that this entry is a tad personal and pitiful.I wanted to share this as I know I am not alone in my tryst.

The Unexpected Delight of 'Twilight'

The appeal of 'young adult' fiction lies in the nostalgic empathy it evokes in the 'mature' reader.'Twilight' was presented to me on the occasion of my birthday(I'm old enough to have a quarter-life crisis and wish that I was 15 again);I started reading it more out of curiosity than from the desire to fit in.'Twilight' makes me want to be 15 again. If only Stephanie Meyer had written it when I was 15.

Ms. Meyer's writing is akin to what a low-profile teenager with a growing flair for writing might pen in her journal.The over-descriptive text peppered with gushing accounts of every look,every touch,every accidental brush of the skin and the slow frustration of young love, ever reminiscent of that first high school crush;forms the substance that holds the reader,irrevocably glued, to the manuscript.'Twilight' sits comfortably,filling the void left by overused cliches in the romance and horror genres.

'Twilight' is surprisingly gripping and a lot less hilarious than I had anticipated it to be.It may be the substance for good satire,but even the unparodied original has its own share of charm.Stephanie Meyer is far from being a new age Jane Austen but she has certainly found herself a niche.'Twilight' may never qualify as one of the most loved books of all time but it is definitely one to be remembered.

It Happens Only in India: High Tea in Disposable Cups

I miss reading books by English authors that had elaborate accounts of the ritual of 'high tea';perhaps a less cultured and studied version of its Japanese counterpart but nevertheless,treated as an integral part of the 'English' way of life.I attended a 'tech talk' at 'The Leela Palace';where the attendees were treated to a scrumptious assortment of goodies, good enough to keep the naive epicure satisfied.They called it 'high tea'.I was pleased to note that they had kept their word,unlike some other event organizers who skimp on their promises.

Educational institutions organize similar events quite frequently.It is understandable that universities must skimp in order to avoid budgetary and logistical nightmares.It is also an accepted fact that most people(disinterested students in particular) attend technical lectures at universities with the hope of getting the much coveted 'high tea'.The lengths to which people go to get free stuff is amazing; considering the fact that every lecture in an Indian university begins with a prayer,an invocation song and the ceremonial lighting of the lamp; and then moves on to the actual lecture(at least an hour long) followed by a question and answer section completely devoid of questions.Guests wait in eager anticipation for the announcement that sounds something like ,'please assemble outside for some high tea'.

So what does high tea look like in this context? There is a queue that originates at a flimsy wooden table(covered with a white tablecloth or a plastic sheet) ,runs for some finite distance and then diverges into two(and sometimes three)distinct lines.The point of divergence(or convergence depending on how you see it)is usually the location for a potential scuffle.As one approaches the 'tea table',one will see a large stainless steel dispenser,minuscule disposable cups made of plastic and biscuits(or sometimes a slice of cake per person).It is customary for people to gulp down the tea and gobble up the snack and return to wherever they came from;satiated and content with the fact that even though the lecture sounded like ancient Greek,they stayed long enough for high tea!

It Happens Only in India: The ABC of the 'A.B.C. Programme'

A lot of acronyms come to my mind when I see the title of this entry,A.B.C. and B.B.M.P. in particular.For those living outside Bangalore the B.B.M.P.(Bruhat Bengaluru Mahanagar Palike) is the city municipality corporation and the A.B.C. is the famed 'Animal Birth Control' programme launched by the B.B.M.P. to counter a certain growing menace. Let me dissect the nuances of the programme based on things I have learned and perceived over the years.

A for Animal- The animal in question is man's best friend,the domestic dog. A spate of events involving citizens,particularly children,being attacked by 'pariah' dogs, has made the city municipality sit up and take notice.It isn't uncommon to see the most fascinating variety of mixed breed dog packs lounging around outside butcher shops and dumpsters.Little children,and adults with juvenile tendencies,often find themselves in the vicinity of dogs at the height of all kinds of canine activity;like squabbling,eating and even mating(yes Indian kids learn early).It is a well accepted fact that even the most docile house pet turns hostile when disturbed.The B.B.M.P. realized this after a spate of unfortunate and gory incidents where toddlers were killed by street dogs.

B for Birth- The cycle of birth and death is inevitable,even for the Indian street dog.For a species to survive,it is necessary for the birth rate to exceed the death rate. This probably explains the population explosion of stray dogs,given the fact that each female has around ten puppies every six months.Let us remember that only a handful from each litter live to attain maturity but the cycle repeats and the doggy demographic expands.Clever females have their puppies around places where food is available in abundance.Do dumpsters and butcher shops sound like nice places to hang out? For dogs,yes. For people,no.

C for Control- The B.B.M.P. realized that it was a lot easier to launch an Animal Birth Control programme as opposed to running a 'Keep Bangalore Clean' campaign(running two campaigns at the same time would have probably been a nightmare).The 'knights of the ABC',as I like to call them, are B.B.M.P. employees who move around in dog catching vans; carrying nets,rods and other equipment to catch dogs.Sterilized canine veterans who have been there and done that,sit nonchalantly as their compatriots are bundled into cages.The unlucky ones are 'euthanized' and the lucky ones(mostly friendly puppies) are sent back within a day,sporting a small cut in the left ear to mark them as 'sterilized'. There are also a set of dogs who are only too well versed with the methods of 'the knights of the ABC' to get caught.These are the animals who give birth every six months and over whom the B.B.M.P. has no control!