[Book Review] Chetan Bhagat's Two States

I recently read Chetan Bhagat's novel Two States (2009).
The book was highly recommended by a friend and since I had moderately liked Five Point Someone and One night at the Call Centre, I was rather curious to read it.
The novel is autobiographical by the writer's own admission and is inspired by his marriage to Anusha Suryanarayanan. The name of the 'hero' Krish is reminiscent of Hari from Five Point Someone. Krish is a Punjabi, who again studied at IIT.

Well the positives first.

It is a realistic, first hand account of student life and of the campus recruitment process in India. The book aims to outline the complications arising from love marriage in India with the added complications of an Interstate union. Bhagat begins with an intense focus on the two people in love and then slowly pans the camera as it were, to introduce the family members on either side, one by one.

It is commendable that the writer has devoted only a few pages to the boy-meets-girl-falls-in-love part and devotes the rest of the narration to familial conflicts that arise. Bhagat accentuates an important nuance of marriages in India - marriages here are not just between two individuals, but between two entire families.

If I were to accord percentages to the handling of different interactions within the story - it would go something like this -
Girl and boy- 50%
Girl's family description -25%
Boy's family description- 15%
Boy's experiences in Chennai - 10%

I believe, like most others that, for a novel to be credible it must have characters that are realistic. CB seems to have devoted all of his attention to the two main characters in the book. Other than them, it is disappointing to find stereotyped characters floating all over the book, who had no substance to themselves.

The second glaring disappointment in the book is the lack of adequate research about the language and practices of the Tambrahm community. He ought to have paid closer attention to the transliteration of Tamizh words that dot the book. There are quite a few misspellings too of very commonly used words. 



Yet, despite the literati lament, writers like him will rise and flourish as they cater to an emerging and ever growing audience that values light reading over literary merit.

[Blog] Visa Vista

Have any of you taken leave right in the middle of school just for travel? Well I have done so not just once but many times...

The good old days...

You see, my father did not believe in advance booking of tickets the in summer vacation– he was all for travel in off season- his logic was –that everything was easier this way - less queues, less people everywhere and most of all the weather would be good –so, I would take off, right in the middle of the academic year, citing the death of an already dead grandparent - my poor grandparents- how often have they died for me!

Travel after marriage became infrequent as my husband unlike my father believed in full attendance for my son. So we went back to travelling like normal people in peak summer and soon gave it up for all the obvious reasons.

Then came Facebook...

Firstly it lets you tell everyone where you are and drops a pin on all the places you have visited on a map – I am not usually jealous but, the evil demon enters my heart especially when a friend boasts of a 100 pins on her map.

Secondly my friends post an insane number of photographs of their travel to exotic locations. There are photographs of people in mid air- so I told myself I can’t manage the mid air pose but I certainly can get one against an amazing backdrop... So I took to travelling. I don’t know why but despite experiencing the travails with visa & immigration I still happily pack my bags in readiness for travel.

Recently I visited a new country. The airport was small with a compact waiting area with many shops close at hand. Best of all there was high-speed free internet- I hurriedly accessed Facebook. replied to emails and called my son for free on Skype. I spoke to him for a while – would have spoken longer but he had a pressing engagement -- he wanted to finish the film he was watching.

I quickly calculated the money I had saved in making free phone calls and thought I had earned for self and husband 2 large mugs of Costa coffee. We drank the coffee taking in the ambiance, when my husband suddenly realized that we still needed to complete immigration.

We reached a large hall where there were several queues – we were directed to the first, which was seemingly small. I saw a sign to the left – which read visa in 3 easy steps-

Step one - complete the form;
Step two - eye scan;
Step three - pay the fee.

"Wow!" I thought, "it can't get easier than this..."






In a few minutes I noticed that the serpentine queues to my right were actually vanishing in a jiffy while mine was moving very slowly. I wanted to be the clever Indian and join the fast vanishing queue but my husband whispered in annoyance –that’s for local residents. Finally we reached the counter and I greeted the officer with all the charm I could muster but he was unmoved and all he was interested in, was my husband’s designation. It was only after he verified this did he hand us the form. We filled the form very carefully as the slightest mistake would lead us back to the end of the queue.

We then went for the eye scan- where I had to sit in a low seat and dilate my eyes and stare at a camera that was a little away. Now I have had eye scans before with my gentle and considerate ophthalmologist. Therefore, I was quite taken aback to see a uniformed policeman conducting the test. The official was in animated conversation with his friend in the next seat and was barking instructions at me now and then – he would say right and then left and then right and left – this went on for some time –and I made good use of my training in classical Indian dance (Bharathanatyam) – but it didn’t help much as the official was dissatisfied with the outcome and made me dance some more.

Anyway as I left the room I was distracted by the picture of a monster in the official’s computer and wondered why he would keep such a picture -- but all too soon it dawned on me that it was actually a picture of me taking the eye scan.

I was heart broken and I dejectedly re joined the queue. After what seemed like an eternity I reached the officer who fed our particulars into a computer (I fumbled for my purse to take out the fee for step three) but he nonchalantly waved us to wait.

Finally, six hours after landing, we walked out of the airport.



A great realization has now dawned on me -- for travel one needs energy, patience and a dogged determination and as I am low in all of these attributes I have devised a new plan...

I have identified a photographer at the local studio who has agreed to photoshop my pictures against any background I desire.





Now I am on the look out for someone who will fake the location pins on my face book page.
Can anyone help me?

[Translation] Bharathiyaar's dramatic monologue: Kani kandavan tholurikka kaathirupeno?

Mahakavi Subramanya Bharathi was a journalist, poet, nationalist and a social reformer. He has written thousands of verses on extremely diverse themes-- ranging from Indian Nationalism, the Mahabharat, the glory of the Tamil language, odes to prominent Indian freedom fighters, to love songs, children's songs and songs of nature.


His poems display a patriotic fervour and his love poetry Kannan padalgal with the theme of Krishna are well loved and popularised by films and by carnatic musicians. But Bharathy also wrote equally moving erotic love poetry. When I translated the following piece I was reminded of John Donne's Elegy XIX: To His Mistress Going to Bed”


Off with that girdle, like heaven’s zone glistering,

But a far fairer world encompassing.

Unpin that spangled breastplate, which you wear

That th’eyes of busy fools may be stopped there:

Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime

Tells me from you that now it is bed time.


-- From “Elegy XIX: To His Mistress Going to Bed”:
In this dramatic monologue Bharathy displays a similar, rakish eagerness to tear away the veil from his mistress' face. He starts off by condemning the practice of veiling the face and we are made aware of his auditor's presence when Bharathy directly addresses her in the middle of the poem.

Original:
Dilli thurukargal seitha vazhakkam -- Pengal
Thiraiyittu mugamalar maraithu vaithal;
Valliyidaiyinaiyum Ongimunnirkkum -- indha
Maarbaiyum mooduvathu sathirankandaai
Valliyidaiyinaiyum maarbirandaiyum -- thuni
Maraitha naalazhagu maraidhadillai;
Solli therivadillai, manmadhakalai --mughach
Jothi maraithumoru kaadhalingundo?

Aariya munnerigal menmaiyengindrai? -- pandai
Aariya pengalukku thiraigal undo?
Oriru muraikandu pazhagiyapin --verum
Opukku kaatuvathin naanamennadi?
Yaarirunth thennaiyingu thadhuthiduvaar?-- valu
Vaaga mugathiraiyai agatrivittal?
Kariya millaiyadi veenpasapile -- kani
Kandavan tholurikka kathirupeno?

Translation:

The Delhi Turks popularised the practice- of veiling
Women, hiding their efflorescent face;
How pointless the custom, that covers,
A slender waist and the raised upward thrust
Of these breasts
No cloth could successfully hide the beauty
Of your narrow waist and the two breasts
The art of wooing can never be taught – can
Love blossom with the lustrous face hidden thus?

You’re all praise for old Aryan norms; Did ancient
Aryan women cover themselves so?
Have we not met a couple of times now- why
Then this sudden show of coyness for customs' sake?
Who do you think is here to prevent me - from
Flinging open that veil?
Off with this needless banter lass --having sighted
The fruit, would I pause ere I peel off the skin?

[Translation] Bharathiyaar: Ninnaiye Rathiyendru Ninaikirenadi

This song is a short and intense expression of love. Each of the four couplets have references to gods and a sage from the Indian pantheon. As its a love song, it features Manmatha (Maran, Cupid) his wife Rathi (Venus), the goddess Lakshmi and finally the sage Sukha.
The song's beauty lies in the pithy yet economical use of language.

Original:
Ninnaiye rathi yendru ninakirenadi-Kannamma,
Thannaiye sasi yendru saranam yeithinen.
Ponnaye nigartha meni, minnaye nigartha saayal,
Pinnaiye, nithya kanniye, Kannamma
Maaran ambugal en meethu vari vari veesa nee-
kanparaayo, Vandhu seraayo, Kannamma
Yavume suka munivarkku or eesanaa menakku un thotram,
Mevume, ingu yavume kannamma.

Translation:
Considering you as Rathi, and myself, the moon god,
I surrender willingly to you O Kanamma!
Oh golden hued one with luminous features resembling lightning,
Oh Lakshmi, Oh eternal virgin, Oh Kanamma!
When I am targeted by Maran's arrows,
Would you not glance my way or reach my side Oh Kanamma?
Much like the sage Sukha, who saw Shiva in everything,
I too perceive your form, in everything around me, Oh Kanamma!


Here is a soulful rendition of this song by P Unnikrishnan in Sindhu Bharavi.

It has also found a place in the film Kanne Kaniyamude and is sung by K J Yesudas.

[Blog] Madras Bashai: The Power of the Spoken word!

I have a confession to make – I have been an ardent fan of this dialect for as long as I can remember. I came into contact with this unique idiom as a child, when my brother would read with great élan and gusto a very delectable section in Madras Bashai from Cho Ramaswami's Tughlaq. I was in the process of discovering new languages such as English, Tamizh and Hindi and here was my exposure to an entertaining fourth. 

 The language felt strange, it needed a different vocalization and it had an element that I couldn't quite put my finger on back then. I was far from the best academically at school but I would meticulously find the meaning of every word and have a hearty laugh at each recollection. Though I knew that there was something very special about MB but only later did it dawn upon me that it is the 'attitude' that comes with the language that makes it so irresistible. The attitude and vocalization is automatically accompanied by an assertive body language. But more of this a little later on…

My interest in (MB) dwindled for some years but thankfully I happened to watch actors like 'loose' Mohan who handled it with such ease much like Rafa Nadal cruising along to victory at Roland Garros.  Other notable contributors that I can think of are Nagesh and Janakaraj but who can forget Kamal Haasan's flawless renditions in so many films?  But for me, MB is best experienced first hand in the streets of Chennai and in conversations with college junta who have taken upon themselves the task of its endorsement.

You might very well ask what sustains my continued interest in this language?  The answer paradoxically links back to my study of English Literature. It is widely known that English constantly expands itself through its borrowings from several languages worldwide. Hence an important component of English Studies is etymology (the study of the origin or roots of its words) - as far as I know MB in a way shares this trait; it has borrowings from the maximum number of languages- Sanskrit, Hindi, Urdu, Telugu, English and of course Tamil. I could spend hours studying origins and the several transformations that words have undergone in their incorporation.

And now to the power, attitude and body language: MB is the language of the streets and a common occurrence is a mild flare-up every now and then as people in vehicles of every imaginable kind negotiate their way through the incredibly narrow by lanes and crowded roads. To survive, one has to blindly follow the dictum- offense is the best form of defense and what better way to demonstrate this than to unleash a barrage of the choicest expletives and establish one’s supremacy- of course one should be prepared to be paid in the same coin in such encounters. Personally, I prefer being  like R K Lakshman’s common man, observing the  proceedings while making mental notes.

While I am all for the purification of Tamizh and ridding it of its many corruptions, calling MB as Chennai Tamizh is simply not acceptable. This move completely robs MB of its uniqueness and hybridity and consigns it to the realm of the pedestrian. It is as ludicrous as  having a gaana concert at Music Academy or passing off instant coffee as authentic filter kaapi. 
  This is simply not done.
  In one stroke such nomenclature dismisses the creative, adoptive processes at work and ignores the talent of the common man.

But, despite my abundant admiration for MB, I must grudgingly admit that while MB gives the speaker a sense of power and can make one feel a lot like HE MAN when he proudly proclaims- “I have the Power!” it is sadly stultified by its limited vocabulary. You can’t write a commentary on the Bhagawad Gita for example nor can you deliver a scholarly discourse on its own merits, using the dialect. But like me, if you have no such ambitions, you can enjoy the language for all the joy it offers and revel in the power it bestows. 

That being said, unleashing a choice phrase or two from MB in a Tamizh speaking crowd automatically livens the atmosphere. And if you ever run out of topics to speak on after you have discussed  Chennai weather- which doesn’t help  much (as its always variables of hot) and quite an undesirable topic of conversation anyway, you need the good offices of MB to the rescue. And believe me MB never fails - it works like a tonic every time, all the time.

So for the sake of all those ardent worshippers out there and the neophytes who have entered the fold after reading this piece, here are a few links for your further research.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Madras_Bashai#Vocabulary
http://www.geetham.net/forums/showthread.php?10670-Madras-Bashai-!-!-!-Njoy
http://slangmela.pbworks.com/w/page/9837645/Chennai%20Slang

[Blog] My days with grandmother - An abiding love

Whenever I think of my maternal grandmother (paati) two images quickly spring to mind - a large red rexine bag with a self pattern of roses and leaves and a pair of blue and white Bata slippers barely larger than mine placed neatly on the doormat.

I had no clue of paati's visits in those pre-telephone and pre-email days and even if she were to send a letter, she would probably arrive sooner as she lived just about a hundred kilometers away in the outskirts of Chennai, in my uncle's house.

Paati usually arrived sometime during the day when I was away at school and if I spotted the blue slippers, I would hammer impatiently at the door and rush screaming into the arms of the frail four foot frame of patti who waited equally impatiently for my arrival.She was a petite woman with silver white lustrous hair that she always wore in a neat bun in the back of her neck and I was always amazed at how she managed to swathe her frail form in the customary nine yard saree. Her face was wrinkled and shrunk like the rest of her body and her once fair complexion had changed to an even brown hue. Her ears and nose were no longer adorned by the shining diamonds that once rested there- (I hold preciously one of her nose pins that she gifted me in anticipation of my marriage when I was a barely four years old!) But she had startlingly pink lips that had somehow survived the ravages of time.

In those days, my mother tried (rather unsuccessfully, I might add) to teach me propriety but despite her glares I would excitedly look for 'the bag' and touching it ask excitedly, "Paati, what have you brought for me?"

The red bag was always the focal point of paati's visits as it held a virtual treasure trove of goodies- grandma had different gifts packaged neatly in old newspaper like candy, groundnuts, peanut candy and many other tidbits and she would release them at different points during the course of her visit.

I recall vividly one such visit and my unabashed question to her -"Paati what have you brought for me?" I remember her smiling excitedly at me and moving to 'the bag' with a spring in her step- my heart skipped a beat and my impatience was heightened by grandma's things that came out one by one from her bag- her neatly rolled bedding, neatly folded sets of clothing, her toiletries which she kept in a string bag that she had stitched herself. The wait seemed impossibly long but before I could cry petulantly - "What is it paati?" I heard the tiny clang of metal and my grandma unwrapped a set of tiny shining kitchen utensils made of brass. I let out a big scream as this was a windfall compared to the clay utensils that my mother bought me during the car festival at Mylpore, that promptly broke before the week was out! To my delight, I even found a traditional kitchen knife fixed to a wooden plank and other miniature versions of pots and pans and a stove.

I ignored my mother's entreaties to change from my school uniform to my 'home clothes.' I wanted to start play right away. My grandma with her winning ways narrated stories and coaxed me to do everything that was an improbability on ex-grandma days!

The next week was the rapidest one as she could never be persuaded to stay beyond a week at her daughter's house. That one precious week was filled with endless stories narrated till I fell asleep, next to her caressing her soft hands. She knew my taste in fiction and mealtimes were no longer a nightmare for my relieved mother.

Paati, I gathered later, was born into a rich landowner's family. She was married at the tender age of seven to my grandfather when he was still in school. Though she had attended school for a very short period, grandma was proud that she could write her name in English, and once, very slowly, she wrote it out when I appeared not to believe her. N. Subbalakshmi she wrote, with her eyes and concentration completely riveted on the slate, and her hand shook slightly as she tightly gripped the tiny piece of chalk. It is of course another matter that my knowledge of English at that point didn't exactly equip me to read such a long name, but I pretended to read nevertheless not wanting to disappoint her. But perhaps this pride or should I say signature happy tendency, sadly made her sign away all the wealth that grandfather had laboured to earn (and which she inherited due to his early demise) unwittingly to greedy relatives.


My innocent paati, had been cheated out of her wealth by avaricious family members, and the last years of her life were lived in great hardship. I remember the last time I saw my grandmother. She lay in a small bed in the corner of the living room in my uncle's house. She looked frailer than ever and I noticed how she had switched to wearing a six yards saree in white. I tried unsuccessfully to make her talk, but except for a brief look of recognition in her eyes, she lay there motionless. As I gazed at her, I heard my weeping mother complain that she had stopped eating for more than a week. I touched the almost cold hand that lay limp, outstretched. It registered no response. I returned to my home in a different city and the inevitable happened within a week's time. The only grandparent I had ever known, the only being who had given me so much of her love and attention unconditionally, the confidante and play mate of my childhood, was finally gone! I felt as if a part of me had gone with her and every thought of grandma makes my eyes brim with tears and I miss her today as much as I have done over all these years.

I still have the brass utensils, that have a pride of place in my curios display. Every time I polish them, I go into a reverie. I long to have her once more with me, and tell her what an angel she had been and how her visits had brightened my rather drab childhood, and how I regret not having the opportunity to express my gratitude. I want to make up for the disappointments she had faced for being childlike and want her to know how she had featured prominently in my thoughts in all the years of my youth though she had only touched me in the limbo of early childhood.

And I treasure those tiny vessels to pass on to my yet to be born grandchildren, and with them the selfless, benevolent love that survives and abides in my heart today.

[Blog] The Perfect Man

A thought can indeed come from the strangest of places. Well mine came predictably from the face book- Everyday I tell myself to reduce my visitations to this site but truth be told it’s the one addiction I find most hard to resist!

Anyway some of my friends regularly share these very colourful eye catching posters with pearls of wisdom in them. But as I belong to that vast majority that believes in giving wisdom rather than taking it from other sources- I tend to ignore these - but one did catch my eye recently –
It was a black and white poster and had the picture of middle aged woman and her grownup son – the son asks his mother – how can I find the perfect woman
And the mother replies- forget about finding the perfect woman –you try to become the perfect man…

This appealed instantaneously to the woman in me I saw it as a sensible piece of advice to the 50% of humanity out there! - I wanted to hit the like button and post a comment like wow or way to go …
But then I held myself back – as I found a wave of questions rising in my head –
Who is a perfect man?
What are his attributes?
And is it possible or is it stressful being one

I thought I would explore these questions with you my readers. Now the first question- who is the perfect man?
Is he someone like the person in the Raymond’s advertisement for the complete man?
The man in a suit who looks comfortable wearing it outdoors in Indian weather - who acts perfectly in every situation- the grown up man who remembers and honours his school teacher, who is a perfect husband, a perfect son and a perfect father. Since I do have a father, husband and son in my life and I have had male students in the past and when I run a comparative scan on both these images nothing really matches up so I dismissed the Raymond’s advertisement as a beautiful figment of some one else’s imagination created for the purpose of entertainment only!

Then I wondered is he something like James Bond? Who again is cool, debonair and unperturbed in any scenario… who can ride a bike drive a car at break neck speed… fly aeroplanes deftly maneuver ships in impossible situations? Has things and gizmos handy at all times… someone who perfectly anticipates and addresses all of his opponents moves. But after all, James Bond is the product of the collective imagination and effort of hundreds even thousands of people – experts working behind the scenes to make the film.
Now I move on to the second question what are the attributes of a perfect man? I thought I would look for these attributes among in well known people.

Would his attributes be something like what Mahtama Gandhi or Nelson Mandela or even Abdul Kalam’s have, of selfless service to the nation– is it good looks that we see in our film stars sports icons like Rithik Roshan or Leander Paes ? Is it the valor that we witness in our jawans and army officers who fight fearlessly to guard our nation? Is it brilliance found in people like Sreenivasan Ramanujan or Rabindranath Tagore? Is it one of these qualities or all of these qualities or is it something entirely different from what I have spelt out here?

That brings me to the third question- Can we at all have one common perception of perfection? Or does it vary according to our own likes and dislikes and our own personalities?

As the experts say – perfection is indeed a very difficult thing – its a conditioning imposed upon us by society that forces us to act against our will in most situations. – Its this conditioning that forces you to open doors for women, makes you give way to women in queues. Makes you get up very early or stay up very late, miss a meal or two, drive half way across the town -- all for someone else’s sake!

Life it seems is one long journey where we let ourselves be constantly conditioned to conform more and more to society’s norms.

You might very well ask why I haven’t talked about the perfect woman well the same things apply to her as well as she too is the product of similar social conditioning.
Finally I leave you with this thought who according to you is the perfect man? And is perfection at all possible?

[Translation] Bharathiyaar: Vellai Thamarai Poovil Iruppal

This song has for long been my favourite composition as Bharathiyaar in this song veers away from traditional presentations of divinity. This song is a tribute to the muse in Indian mythology- the goddess Saraswathi. Interestingly, the poet doesn't mention her by name but chooses instead to showcase her presence through a discussion of human talent and creativity.

Original:
Vellai tamarai puvil iruppal vinai seiyum oliyil iruppal
Kollai inbam kulavu kavidai kurum pavalar ullathilruppal

Ulladam porul tediyunarde odum vedattin ulnintr olirval
Kallamatra munivargal kurum karunai vasagathut porulaval

Madar tingural paatil iruppal makkal pesum mazhalaiyil ullal
Gidam padum kuyilin kuralai kiliyin navaiel iruppidum kondal

Kodanganra tozhiludaitagi kulavu cittiram gopuram koyil
Idanaittin ezhilidaiyutral inbame vadivagida petral.

Translation:
The one who sits on a white lotus lives in the sound of the veena,
The poem that brims with a million pleasures- she dwells in the hearts of its creators.

In my quest for finding meaning, (of life) I realized,
That she reveals herself to ardent seekers through Vedic chants.

She lives in the utterances of guiless sages and forms the quintessence of their kind words.
She resides in the sweet song of women and in the chatter of very young children,
She has her abode in the song of the nightingale and the parrot-
And in selfless acts performed as a labour of love,
like a painting, a tower or a temple.
She is the beauty in all things beauteous and exists as the very personification of joy!

[Translation] Vairamuthu's Nenjukule from the film "Kadal"

Its not usual for me to spend my energies on translating film songs but I have made an exception for this one out of sheer respect for ARR's music, Vairamuthu's lyricism and my addiction to this song.


So here is my translation of this song and I have stayed as close as possible to the original.

Original:
Nenjukulley Omma Mudunjirukaen
Inga Ethisayil En Pozhapu Vidinjiruko?
Vella Paarva Veesiviteer Munadi
Intha Thangatha Manasu Thanni Patta Kanadi

Vanna Maniyaram Valathukai Gediyaram
Aana Puliyellam Adukkum Athigaram
Neer Pona Pinnum Nizhal Mattum Pogalayae Pogalayae
Nenju Kuzhiyil Nizhal Vanthu Vizhunthiruchu
Appa Nimunthavathan Apuramma Guniyalayae Guniyalayae
Kodakambi Pola Manam Kuthi Nikkuthae

Patchi Urangirichu Paal Thayiraa Thoongirichu
Ichi Marathu Maela Elai Kooda Thoongiruchi
Kaasa Noigarigalum Kanurangum Vaelayila
Aasa Noi Vanthu Maga Ara Nimisam Thoongalayae

Oh Oru Vaai Irangalayae Ulnakku Nenaiyalayae
Aezhu Èttu Naala Èchil Muzhungalaye
Aezha Ilanchirukki Aethum Šølla Mudiyalayae
Rubber Valavikkellam Šathamida Vaiyillayae

Translation:
I have tied you up in the strings of my heart
I wonder though what direction my life would take!
By throwing an innocent glance in my direction
you have turned my fragile heart into a water stained mirror
Your only adornment the watch on your right wrist
But your demeanour is enough to halt a tiger
Though you have gone - your shadow it stays on it stays on
and it has fallen in the hollow of my heart
Carrying (the weight of) your form in my heart I haven't bent down, I haven't bent down
My heart remains erect like the poles of an opened umbrella.

The birds are asleep and the milk has curdled
The leaves of the 'ichi' tree are asleep
Even those afflicted with tuberculosis have finally fallen asleep
But I, who have been afflicted in the heart can't have a moment's shut eye

Haven't eaten even a mouthful or drank a drop of water
Haven't swallowed anything for over seven eight days
I am but a poor young girl who can't express herself
Rubber bangles don't have the luxury of making a noise!( unlike glass bangles)

[Blog] The Charm of the Charminar

What do you sell O ye merchants?

Richly your wares are displayed.

Turbans of crimson and silver,

Tunics of purple brocade,
Mirrors with panels of amber,

Daggers with handles of jade.

These words written almost a century ago, by the nightingale of India Sarojini Naidu are as true today as it was in her times. In those early years of my stay in Hyderabad, my relatives would often visit me just to experience the novelty of coming into contact with a new culture, a new language and a new cuisine. And I would take them as promised to my favourite haunts in the old city – the Salar Jung museum and the Charminar. Though both these places are very close to each other one needs to devote an entire day to each of these places.

Visiting the Charminar, not only gives one a sense of he history of the place but its the whole package of history, life and experience of a bygone era at first hand.Even before one approaches the monument there are darwajas or doorways on all four sides to signal one's approach to this magnificent edifice.

The minute one crosses the doorway one almost steps into history as it were.All around you can see quaint buildings with a blend of Persian and Mughal architecture. There are tiny shops everywhere. There are pearl shops that have been in the trade for hundreds of years having made pearl ornaments for the king and the nobility. You can see samples of the jewelry from these times on display and you can order replicas if you so wish.

There are shops that sell colourful sarees and dress materials with gold embroidery. There is the chudi and Lad bazaar where, in shop after shop there is a display of multihued glass bangles and the multi coloured broad stone studded lac bangles that are a specialty here. The array of coloured bangles all together is a breathtaking sight.

If you are hungry any time there is nothing as rejuvenating as a cup of Iranian tea served in street cafes. As far as I know the Iranian tea is unique to Hyderabad –its an orange tinted thick tea with a cloying taste served often in chipped or cracked cups –– but who even looks at the chinaware when the contents are so heavenly!

As you walk along heavily crowded road there are street vendors every where selling fruit and flowers vying for space with the ever moving crowd - the dull grey and dun colours of the buildings all around are in stark contrast to the bright orange, of the marigolds, the pure white of the jasmines and the deep purple of the jambul fruit and the bright pink of the ghaneras. It is said that in its heyday the shopping district had about 14,000 shops.

And there is shop that is easily 25 metres long right in the middle of the road that sells china and glassware- the traffic weaves around this spot and the products are on display on either side.I have spent hours here and if one is patient one can easily walk away with the occasional treasure that is so inexpensive and yet would make an impressive gift or an impressive adornment in your living room.

Suddenly, in front of you looms the majestic Charminar with its four towers. It’s a four storied structure- an elegant and romantic edifice. The galleries in the upper storeys overlook the four major thoroughfares, which once were royal roads and provide a panoramic view of the city.

Many theories abound about why it was built but the most commonly held one is that the sultan Mohammad Quli Qutub Shah, the fifth Sultan of the Qutb Shahi Dynasty, prayed for the city to be rid of the plague and built it as a thanksgiving on the very spot that he prayed- and that the Charminar was to be the at the heart of the new city that he planned to build.

As the twilight dims and night falls like a dark blanket on the skyline I stay on despite my aching feet to watch the dull luminescence of the illuminated Charminar.– Night lends a magical touch to the atmosphere and I share with my relatives the other legend about the Chraminar – which is - that it is the very spot, where a prince was bewitched by a beauty - and as I close my eyes I can almost hear the horses hoofs and see the prince coming face to face with his future queen Bagmati later named Hyder Mahal from whom the city is named.

But I unwillingly shake off the nostalgic reverie and remember that my role as hostess means that I must treat my guests to the famed Hyderbadi biryani served with the accompaniments of mirchi ka salan and raitha available at restaurants a few kilometers away. And the shahi thukda –a sweet fit for a king is indeed a good wrap up to a glorious day.

[Blog] Up Up Awry!

Am I a patriot? Well probably. if you were to go by my conversations with friends I would be the first to jump up and defend India and rave and rant about the Indian value system and Indian sensibility.

But as we all know India as a nation is a conundrum of contradictions- contradictions that might baffle any social scientist. But we Indians can easily do away with all the accusations about contradictions in one stroke with the the much overrated 'Unity in Diversity' card.

But one area in particular that I can't reconcile to - is the major disconnect between the Indian I encounter on the street - the friendly and usually more than helpful kind and the one that I see inside airports. I can never understand what comes over the Indian the minute s/he enters the portals of an airport.

You get a taste of things to come at the baggage scan counter itself- if you have an extra bag or two and if you are travelling alone you will be passed up at the baggage scan by quite a few passengers who arrive much after you.

As you wait to collect the boarding pass you might be passed up again and again at the security check- and that computer and I-pad which was so useful for your travel is now a curse as you fumble with the bag and deposit it in the tray and look on helplessly as others gleefully inch past you.

You see we Indians don't believe in queues- what is a queue anyway - a foreign word that is as difficult to spell as maintain- so why observe it at all?

But this is just the beginning. There is more trouble awaiting the hapless traveller as most airports in India are undergoing transformation.  One can pray all one want for an aerobridge but all that one is going to get is that impossibly high bus and that difficult stairway.

By the time you take the bus ride and lug your hand baggage up the stairway you are half dead and you tell yourself "A few more minutes now and then I can rest!" pipe dream actually, because invariably the space allocated for your baggage storage is grabbed by the early birds who beat you to it. So you sheepishly put away your own in someone else's spot. What the heck! "If you can do it so can I!"

I don't know why, but most airlines always seem to have this bizarre sense of time- I can almost imagine some authoritarian figure sitting in a well lit, well air conditioned office working on a 9am-5pm schedule sadistically plotting the timings - flights are most active just around midnight. So if you thought you could sleep through the flight and arrive fresh at your destination, think again. Firstly they never serve dinner until much after takeoff (well not that I look forward to it in any sense of the term - who can stomach stale highly microwaved dinner at 2 a.m. in the morning anyway) but cabin lights are not dimmed till dinner is cleared. When they finally put off the lights and you struggle to decide on the best position to fall asleep in the extremely uncomfortable seat, other factors take over and ensure you stay bleary eyed throughout. I can never understand why kids begin to cry the very moment you begin to fall asleep or why most co passengers decide to catch up on the exercise they so easily abstained from on land or even why some folks are so chirpy at 3.00 a.m.  I remember one particular journey where a woman and her husband kept me awake the whole night detailing her medical history (it made me wonder what kept her alive and so voluble at that, given her condition) to a co passenger who couldn't care less-but I have since found an easy saviour from all this noise in noise cancelling headphones.

When the plane gets ready to land- the flight attendants can go on and on with their warnings about switching off mobiles and keeping the seat belts till 'the plane comes to a complete halt,' we Indians don't really care do we? because mobiles ring and seat belts click left right and centre much before actual touch down. And its a real wonder how people manage to extricate themselves, dislodge the luggage and position themselves in the aisle all in a trice, and dare I say that the queue is conspicuous by its absence.

As you can imagine, I resign myself to be passed up once again- I really don't mind getting down last -it gives me the opportunity to collect my things in peace but I do mind being hit on the head and shoulders repeatedly by missiles- sorry bags of the overenthusiastic pushing jostling crowd these bangs are serious enough to cause temporary insanity- but I don't have the luxury of wallowing in this state as I have to negotiate the entire process of disembarkation and exiting the airport which calls for full possession of one's wits.

As I live in the Middle East- I experience problems unique to this sector but that warrants a lengthy discussion rather than a passing mention. It is what Shakespeare might have called - 'And thereby hangs a tale.'
 So do I love India and Indians? I most certainly do, only not the air travelling mutations!

I came across this video which sums it all up pretty nicely: