Friday, February 20, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
An Ode to Friends.
My husband always wonders at my addiction to Friends. “You’ve seen this episode 12 times before!” he’ll cry and change the channel to a music video he’s watched …12 times before. He watches as much as he can, that is, before I clobber him with a chair and retrieve the remote from his unconscious grip.
It’s an addiction that comforts and cheers at the worst of times. I was bereft when Friends ended, and think nothing of watching reruns of the same episode as many times as they show it.
I know every ‘Oh-My-GOD”, every “How YOU doin’”, every “Could you BE more …” in the 10 seasons of Friends. Yet I laugh when they laugh, shake my head patronizingly (“that Joey”), and hope Ross and Rachel won’t break up; like it’s…maybe not the first time…but certainly only the fifth time I’m watching that episode. I feel like I’m sitting on that couch with them in Central Perk, ribbing the others (sometimes cruelly) about some trial they’re facing at the moment.
Sad, I know.
I think it’s because it takes me back to when people had time to be friends in my own life. I’m particularly attached to this sitcom because it reminds me of my gang back in college. We were a mix of girls and guys (apart from three of us the combination changed when we graduated to Masters Degree), and we would hang out all the time. We would sit on the back staircase on our floor in JU and pass the time of day just like the characters in Friends. Of course we weren’t half as good looking, and were students rather than working people alone in the city -- but it was much the same.
Just like them, we would josh each other about sometimes sensitive things (I got no end of grief for my Bengali. I thank God I wasn’t overweight at the time, the teasing would’ve been merciless!). We would just be glad to be in the company of like-minded people and laugh uproariously at each other’s jokes. Conversation used to be stimulating—we would try to outdo each other in wit; sometimes there would be flashes of profundity in our naïve exchanges that I find SO hard to come by in my “adult” conversations nowadays.
I guess when I watch Friends all of that comes back to me. That feeling of belonging, of wondering what madcap thing your friends will come up with next; of that sudden flirtatious spark with one of the gang because you’re young and happy and attractive and everything is right and fun.
Now I’m still friends with most of the group from that time, though except for a few who I consider my closest friends still; everyone has got on with their lives and rarely get a chance to catch up. Not one is in the same city as the other; and I doubt with the sundry trials and tribulations that a near decade can bring, we could ever share the light-hearted banter that was at the heart of our closeness so many years ago. I know for a fact that we’ll never ALL be in the same room together, and in fact, there will be some who won’t even agree to it.
Now, 8 years down the line, some of us have done better than others, some have got married (not to each other; none of the Monicas and Chandlers made it oddly) and had kids, others haven’t. I find it strange that a group of people who shared such a close bond could be so different now. Yet, I feel confident that however happy or busy our lives are now, every one of us have a flash of nostalgia when we think of the staircases and window ledges we used to haunt for hours every day, chattering about everything and nothing.
And that’s the time when I switch on the telly and watch Friends re-runs.
It’s an addiction that comforts and cheers at the worst of times. I was bereft when Friends ended, and think nothing of watching reruns of the same episode as many times as they show it.
I know every ‘Oh-My-GOD”, every “How YOU doin’”, every “Could you BE more …” in the 10 seasons of Friends. Yet I laugh when they laugh, shake my head patronizingly (“that Joey”), and hope Ross and Rachel won’t break up; like it’s…maybe not the first time…but certainly only the fifth time I’m watching that episode. I feel like I’m sitting on that couch with them in Central Perk, ribbing the others (sometimes cruelly) about some trial they’re facing at the moment.
Sad, I know.
I think it’s because it takes me back to when people had time to be friends in my own life. I’m particularly attached to this sitcom because it reminds me of my gang back in college. We were a mix of girls and guys (apart from three of us the combination changed when we graduated to Masters Degree), and we would hang out all the time. We would sit on the back staircase on our floor in JU and pass the time of day just like the characters in Friends. Of course we weren’t half as good looking, and were students rather than working people alone in the city -- but it was much the same.
Just like them, we would josh each other about sometimes sensitive things (I got no end of grief for my Bengali. I thank God I wasn’t overweight at the time, the teasing would’ve been merciless!). We would just be glad to be in the company of like-minded people and laugh uproariously at each other’s jokes. Conversation used to be stimulating—we would try to outdo each other in wit; sometimes there would be flashes of profundity in our naïve exchanges that I find SO hard to come by in my “adult” conversations nowadays.
I guess when I watch Friends all of that comes back to me. That feeling of belonging, of wondering what madcap thing your friends will come up with next; of that sudden flirtatious spark with one of the gang because you’re young and happy and attractive and everything is right and fun.
Now I’m still friends with most of the group from that time, though except for a few who I consider my closest friends still; everyone has got on with their lives and rarely get a chance to catch up. Not one is in the same city as the other; and I doubt with the sundry trials and tribulations that a near decade can bring, we could ever share the light-hearted banter that was at the heart of our closeness so many years ago. I know for a fact that we’ll never ALL be in the same room together, and in fact, there will be some who won’t even agree to it.
Now, 8 years down the line, some of us have done better than others, some have got married (not to each other; none of the Monicas and Chandlers made it oddly) and had kids, others haven’t. I find it strange that a group of people who shared such a close bond could be so different now. Yet, I feel confident that however happy or busy our lives are now, every one of us have a flash of nostalgia when we think of the staircases and window ledges we used to haunt for hours every day, chattering about everything and nothing.
And that’s the time when I switch on the telly and watch Friends re-runs.
Friday, February 6, 2009
In case you were wondering if I'd chickened out of putting in my two cents about this one...
I’m angry.
As if it wasn’t bad enough that 2008 had been a GodAwful year, what with the Financial disaster (Capital F), bombings and what-have-you that wiped the smug ‘India Shining’ smiles bloody straight off our faces. Now we have complete lunatics entering our pubs and beating up women for “going against Indian culture” (yes, THAT again.) and giving quotes to the papers to the effect that they’ll beat up women in jeans and noodle straps (these thugs seem to have a keen eye for fashion, I thought men didn’t know the names for these things) and that they’ll forcibly marry off any couples they see on Valentine’s Day.
Of course very few people condone it, but the very fact that such mad men are allowed to run amok like this and clearly state their intentions to disrupt the peace and inflict bodily harm on peaceful citizens disturbs me. And obviously they have taken a huge leaf out of the book of ‘More ignominious chapters in Indian culture’ in this idea of forcibly marrying people off, ignoring the fact that a marriage wouldn’t even be legal if it’s done under duress by some gundas who come along.
Here’s my advice to such weirdos. Get A Life. Maybe you’ll be able to BEAR seeing other people happy or having fun then. Get a JOB. Maybe you won’t have to accept money from politicians for politicizing total non-issues and disrupting the peace then.
All of us, in our heart of hearts, feel bad for you guys and the singularly joyless, perverse existences you live – where every woman is a sex object and thereby “provocative” unless covered up.
Oh and also, stop saying that you’re on opposites sides of the divide with your fundamentalist brethren from other religions, because from where I’m standing your little tricks the past couple of weeks, and what the Taliban does to women, are just different by a few degrees, is all. (You guys should have a fundamentalist convention and have team building activities like, “Shoot the provocative 11 year old girl in the legs” or attend lectures on “How you can enforce culture without knowing any culture at all”.)
Shame on all of us, for allowing such losers to grow on our soil.
And Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone!:)
As if it wasn’t bad enough that 2008 had been a GodAwful year, what with the Financial disaster (Capital F), bombings and what-have-you that wiped the smug ‘India Shining’ smiles bloody straight off our faces. Now we have complete lunatics entering our pubs and beating up women for “going against Indian culture” (yes, THAT again.) and giving quotes to the papers to the effect that they’ll beat up women in jeans and noodle straps (these thugs seem to have a keen eye for fashion, I thought men didn’t know the names for these things) and that they’ll forcibly marry off any couples they see on Valentine’s Day.
Of course very few people condone it, but the very fact that such mad men are allowed to run amok like this and clearly state their intentions to disrupt the peace and inflict bodily harm on peaceful citizens disturbs me. And obviously they have taken a huge leaf out of the book of ‘More ignominious chapters in Indian culture’ in this idea of forcibly marrying people off, ignoring the fact that a marriage wouldn’t even be legal if it’s done under duress by some gundas who come along.
Here’s my advice to such weirdos. Get A Life. Maybe you’ll be able to BEAR seeing other people happy or having fun then. Get a JOB. Maybe you won’t have to accept money from politicians for politicizing total non-issues and disrupting the peace then.
All of us, in our heart of hearts, feel bad for you guys and the singularly joyless, perverse existences you live – where every woman is a sex object and thereby “provocative” unless covered up.
Oh and also, stop saying that you’re on opposites sides of the divide with your fundamentalist brethren from other religions, because from where I’m standing your little tricks the past couple of weeks, and what the Taliban does to women, are just different by a few degrees, is all. (You guys should have a fundamentalist convention and have team building activities like, “Shoot the provocative 11 year old girl in the legs” or attend lectures on “How you can enforce culture without knowing any culture at all”.)
Shame on all of us, for allowing such losers to grow on our soil.
And Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone!:)
Sunday, February 1, 2009
My attempt at a superhero story. :)
A bus full of ordinary office-goers (one of those red ones with the closing doors which charge a bomb) plunges into a suspiciously lumpy looking canal. Turns out that a multi-crore pharmaceutical company has been secretly (i.e at 2 pm on weekdays when everyone is at lunch) dumping their factory wastes into that canal. Among sundry gross things is a strong concentration of their experimental drug “Trait-R” which when tested on bunnies brought out and enhanced their dominant characteristic, that is, made them cute on monstrous proportions. It has sometimes unfortunate effects on humans, humans being rather unfortunate as beings. But if they’re dumped into a whole soup of this chemical the effect is disastrous.
Thus were born a league of superhumans, with their own dominant traits enhanced to the point of excluding every other trait (like a sense of humour or love for dogs.) In such a concentrated form they are:
The Fabricator (credit to Chris and Rema of office)
Clad in little white Lie-cra fabric, She saves the world one “You don’t look fat at all!” at a time.
Where the Fabricator is, peace and love and deluded fat people follow.
Blunder Woman
The antithesis of The Fabricator, Blunder Woman produces great unity wherever she goes. How you ask? Armed with her relentless faux pas (they’re smallish, blunt objects but hurt like hell if they’re hurled at you) she brings even the most mortal enemies close to each other in shared annoyance of her.
Not to be confused with, Cat Woman (alternatively called “The Bitch”)
Where Blunder Woman cannot keep her foot out of her mouth ( “Those allergies must be awful to make your face swell up like that! Oh dear…no allergies…you say…”) but is greatly pained by her super power to annoy and upset people; Cat Woman is greatly feared for her calculated and sometimes deadly blows to the human pride with her weapon of choice -- her hatchet Spite. (“Those allergies must be AWFUL to make your face swell up like that! Oh dear…no allergies…you say…” Walks away with a smirk.)
Super power: No Egos where she Goes.
The Incredible Sulk
More identified by the dark thundercloud hanging over his head than unconventional skin coloring and ‘fits all sizes’ underpants, The Incredible Sulk has the unerring power to feel affronted and victimized by anything people do. He will throw a hissy fit and then go outside and sit in a corner until people (who are usually the ones in the right, but ‘let it go, you know he’s like that’) search him out and insincerely apologize to him, so he starts acting like a normal adult again. This superpower helps people build extreme patience and tolerance; or alternatively buy a gun.
Stupor Man
The healer of all insomniacs and the bane of all others who already get their 8 hours and don’t want any more…Stupor Man will put anyone to sleep with his involved, self-congratulatory, and mind numbingly boring accounts of what he said and then what she said, and what he thought when she said that, and what he told her when she said that, and so on.
Superpower: An encounter with him, and you feel so much better about your own life.
Who is a close cousin of Direction Boy:
Armed with exhaustive directions to every place he’s ever been, in fact every place he’s ever heard of, and an eternal thirst to know directions to every place mentioned in every anecdote—Direction Boy has the superpower of interrupting the most interesting anecdote so many times for EXACT directions that people tire of the story and wander off. (“Hang on hang on; the cannibal bit you where? Papua New Guinea? Where in Papua New Guinea? North or South? Near that darling little shrunken heads shop on Eat Street?”)
Bag Lady
The whole world is in her purse, including a bill for a box of gum bought in 1973.
Super Power: Is guaranteed to root around in her bag and produce a half-crumbled stomach cramp pain killer when you have cut your finger and are bleeding to death.
And last but certainly not the least is
Fat Man
He can kill you just by sitting on you. However if you run away real fast, he’ll never get the chance – so it doesn’t really matter.
Thus were born a league of superhumans, with their own dominant traits enhanced to the point of excluding every other trait (like a sense of humour or love for dogs.) In such a concentrated form they are:
The Fabricator (credit to Chris and Rema of office)
Clad in little white Lie-cra fabric, She saves the world one “You don’t look fat at all!” at a time.
Where the Fabricator is, peace and love and deluded fat people follow.
Blunder Woman
The antithesis of The Fabricator, Blunder Woman produces great unity wherever she goes. How you ask? Armed with her relentless faux pas (they’re smallish, blunt objects but hurt like hell if they’re hurled at you) she brings even the most mortal enemies close to each other in shared annoyance of her.
Not to be confused with, Cat Woman (alternatively called “The Bitch”)
Where Blunder Woman cannot keep her foot out of her mouth ( “Those allergies must be awful to make your face swell up like that! Oh dear…no allergies…you say…”) but is greatly pained by her super power to annoy and upset people; Cat Woman is greatly feared for her calculated and sometimes deadly blows to the human pride with her weapon of choice -- her hatchet Spite. (“Those allergies must be AWFUL to make your face swell up like that! Oh dear…no allergies…you say…” Walks away with a smirk.)
Super power: No Egos where she Goes.
The Incredible Sulk
More identified by the dark thundercloud hanging over his head than unconventional skin coloring and ‘fits all sizes’ underpants, The Incredible Sulk has the unerring power to feel affronted and victimized by anything people do. He will throw a hissy fit and then go outside and sit in a corner until people (who are usually the ones in the right, but ‘let it go, you know he’s like that’) search him out and insincerely apologize to him, so he starts acting like a normal adult again. This superpower helps people build extreme patience and tolerance; or alternatively buy a gun.
Stupor Man
The healer of all insomniacs and the bane of all others who already get their 8 hours and don’t want any more…Stupor Man will put anyone to sleep with his involved, self-congratulatory, and mind numbingly boring accounts of what he said and then what she said, and what he thought when she said that, and what he told her when she said that, and so on.
Superpower: An encounter with him, and you feel so much better about your own life.
Who is a close cousin of Direction Boy:
Armed with exhaustive directions to every place he’s ever been, in fact every place he’s ever heard of, and an eternal thirst to know directions to every place mentioned in every anecdote—Direction Boy has the superpower of interrupting the most interesting anecdote so many times for EXACT directions that people tire of the story and wander off. (“Hang on hang on; the cannibal bit you where? Papua New Guinea? Where in Papua New Guinea? North or South? Near that darling little shrunken heads shop on Eat Street?”)
Bag Lady
The whole world is in her purse, including a bill for a box of gum bought in 1973.
Super Power: Is guaranteed to root around in her bag and produce a half-crumbled stomach cramp pain killer when you have cut your finger and are bleeding to death.
And last but certainly not the least is
Fat Man
He can kill you just by sitting on you. However if you run away real fast, he’ll never get the chance – so it doesn’t really matter.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Travel Diary: Kodaikanal Part II
As I’ve forgotten the order of our visits and on which of the 3 days we went to each, (we returned only two days ago but my memory is like a freaking sieve, I tell you) I shall list the rest in no particular order.
1) Pillar Rock(s). The first day we went it was quite unexceptional, because there was nothing but mist beyond the railings, monkeys who posed patiently for pictures with practically an arm slung across the brave shoulders of tourists, and the ubiquitous stripy ear muffs. We paid a woman 5 rupees to take a picture of us sitting next to her stuffed toy tiger. We didn’t want to stand next to the monkeys, yet found the experience lacking a certain something if we couldn’t have any animals in our photos. The next day we visited again in case the mist had cleared up and was rewarded by an awe inspiring view of rocks jutting up into the sky like pillars. It was magnificent, like the product of special effects in a Spielberg movie, and I almost expected to spot a pterodactyl or two near the misty summit of the rocks.
2) Bear Shola Falls. Lovely, lovely, lovely. Very few people. NO ear muffs. A tranquil walk amongst coniferous trees ended in a prodigious rock with a waterfall spilling down its length. Its solitude made it my favouritest place in Kodaikanal.
3) Green Valley View/Suicide Point. A colleague had told me before I left for Kodai that there were people employed to collect bodies that pile up at the bottom of this place. I have a sneaking feeling this is ENTIRELY why my husband agreed to take a day off from work for the Kodaikanal trip. Unfortunately by the time we located this place (it’s actually not called Suicide Point, hence the confusion) Jeet had fallen quite ill (hills never agree with us, ask my college buddies. I was so notorious for falling sick on trips to the hills that the professor meant to accompany us on one of our college trips to Sikkim showed great reluctance to take me.) and stayed in the car while the rest of us went to investigate.
I guess I was expecting something spooky; or at least a lonely, desolate place where people feel they can die in privacy. “I was on the top of the hill, and the sun was shining down on me. So I figured it was a nice day for a bit of a suicide.” What I didn’t expect was stairs lined with earmuff shops ending in a viewpoint protected with a high spiked fence. Frankly, if one has the energy to climb all those stairs, fight off the earmuff vendors and the teeming multitudes that constituted their clientele, and THEN be limber and tough enough to scale the nasty looking fence – I would enter my name in the Olympics instead of providing employment for the body gatherers of Suicide Point.
4) Pine Forest: We went to a stretch of the Pine Forest that looked quite touristy, and therefore, thick with retired Bengali people taking a stroll in their shawls. Again, my husband and I stayed put in one place, as our friends went for a walk in the pine forest. We watched a particularly foul tempered Pomeranian dog chase monkeys and a cow indiscriminately around the clearing where we waited. The monkeys shinned up the trees in a trice, and the poor cow looked wistfully after them, like she would’ve liked to but was too dignified to make a monkey of herself.
5) And last but certainly not the least…The Kodaikanal Lake. It’s a man-made star-shaped lake at the heart of the hill station. A view of the lake from higher up on the slope is quite something. The day we arrived in town all we could talk about was the boating. “When shall we go boating on the Kodai Lake? Shall we go now? Later on in the day? Tomorrow? The day after?” “I don’t KNOW. STOP asking me!!!” We finally went to the Kodai Lake on the second day around 5 in the afternoon and were told by the first boathouse that they’d closed shop a little while ago. So we resolved to walk to the next boathouse along the lake where we would be sure to get a boat. 5-odd kms, 2 hours, one corn on the cob, one cup of tea, and a few fists of masala muri later we had done a complete circuit of the lake and all three boathouses without any luck.
Once I’d got home and taken off my one-size-too-small-but-pretty Reeboks, I decided the walk had been great fun.
And that’s about all we did before we set out again for Bangalore early on Sunday morning. This time we (I use the term loosely) drove during the day, and like the wind -- towards home.
Aaaah. (Say it with me) There’s no place like HOME.
1) Pillar Rock(s). The first day we went it was quite unexceptional, because there was nothing but mist beyond the railings, monkeys who posed patiently for pictures with practically an arm slung across the brave shoulders of tourists, and the ubiquitous stripy ear muffs. We paid a woman 5 rupees to take a picture of us sitting next to her stuffed toy tiger. We didn’t want to stand next to the monkeys, yet found the experience lacking a certain something if we couldn’t have any animals in our photos. The next day we visited again in case the mist had cleared up and was rewarded by an awe inspiring view of rocks jutting up into the sky like pillars. It was magnificent, like the product of special effects in a Spielberg movie, and I almost expected to spot a pterodactyl or two near the misty summit of the rocks.
2) Bear Shola Falls. Lovely, lovely, lovely. Very few people. NO ear muffs. A tranquil walk amongst coniferous trees ended in a prodigious rock with a waterfall spilling down its length. Its solitude made it my favouritest place in Kodaikanal.
3) Green Valley View/Suicide Point. A colleague had told me before I left for Kodai that there were people employed to collect bodies that pile up at the bottom of this place. I have a sneaking feeling this is ENTIRELY why my husband agreed to take a day off from work for the Kodaikanal trip. Unfortunately by the time we located this place (it’s actually not called Suicide Point, hence the confusion) Jeet had fallen quite ill (hills never agree with us, ask my college buddies. I was so notorious for falling sick on trips to the hills that the professor meant to accompany us on one of our college trips to Sikkim showed great reluctance to take me.) and stayed in the car while the rest of us went to investigate.
I guess I was expecting something spooky; or at least a lonely, desolate place where people feel they can die in privacy. “I was on the top of the hill, and the sun was shining down on me. So I figured it was a nice day for a bit of a suicide.” What I didn’t expect was stairs lined with earmuff shops ending in a viewpoint protected with a high spiked fence. Frankly, if one has the energy to climb all those stairs, fight off the earmuff vendors and the teeming multitudes that constituted their clientele, and THEN be limber and tough enough to scale the nasty looking fence – I would enter my name in the Olympics instead of providing employment for the body gatherers of Suicide Point.
4) Pine Forest: We went to a stretch of the Pine Forest that looked quite touristy, and therefore, thick with retired Bengali people taking a stroll in their shawls. Again, my husband and I stayed put in one place, as our friends went for a walk in the pine forest. We watched a particularly foul tempered Pomeranian dog chase monkeys and a cow indiscriminately around the clearing where we waited. The monkeys shinned up the trees in a trice, and the poor cow looked wistfully after them, like she would’ve liked to but was too dignified to make a monkey of herself.
5) And last but certainly not the least…The Kodaikanal Lake. It’s a man-made star-shaped lake at the heart of the hill station. A view of the lake from higher up on the slope is quite something. The day we arrived in town all we could talk about was the boating. “When shall we go boating on the Kodai Lake? Shall we go now? Later on in the day? Tomorrow? The day after?” “I don’t KNOW. STOP asking me!!!” We finally went to the Kodai Lake on the second day around 5 in the afternoon and were told by the first boathouse that they’d closed shop a little while ago. So we resolved to walk to the next boathouse along the lake where we would be sure to get a boat. 5-odd kms, 2 hours, one corn on the cob, one cup of tea, and a few fists of masala muri later we had done a complete circuit of the lake and all three boathouses without any luck.
Once I’d got home and taken off my one-size-too-small-but-pretty Reeboks, I decided the walk had been great fun.
And that’s about all we did before we set out again for Bangalore early on Sunday morning. This time we (I use the term loosely) drove during the day, and like the wind -- towards home.
Aaaah. (Say it with me) There’s no place like HOME.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Travel Diary: Kodaikanal Part I
A very old friend of mine called me up one morning and asked if we would like to join them on a trip?. (this friend is the oldest that I have, I’ve known her from when I was 6, at a time when I was friendless and alone at school, and the only friends I had were of the imaginary kind. Actually, come to think of it I didn’t have too many of those either, compared to the raucous imaginary-friend parties some other little girls seemed to have. Those imaginary friends, phew, do they know how to have a good time!)
So we said yes, and away we went a week later at 1 in the morning in my friend’s car to drive for 9 hours and 450 kms to Kodaikanal. We had gone to our friend’s place to spend the night and start out early the next morning, but after we were finished with dinner starting off just then seemed like a jolly thing to do. So off we went at 1 in the pitch dark and it was quite jolly because the others drove. I didn’t sleep however, because I felt morally obliged to sit bolt upright scowling fiercely at the road ahead, thereby lightening the drivers’ (i.e my friend’s and my husbands’) burden significantly.
We got there at 10 the next morning. And it was beautiful. Beau-ti-ful! Ooty was a shabby little ugly duckling hill station compared to this one. (and let me tell you, when I went to Ooty I thought it was ugly even without seeing this place.)
And COLD. We kept wondering how cold it was, and discussed it repeatedly: “It must be atleast 10 degree centigrade…don’t you think?” “I have no idea. Stop asking me.”
My friend has a bit of an OCD about cooking and keeping house, so she instantly launched herself into making the guesthouse like home, (which as I very helpfully observed as I propped my feet up on the center table and flicked through my book ‘kind of defeated the purpose.’) Apart from all the cooking and cleaning and constructive sneering, we managed to take in the following sites:
1) Coalker’s walk. Don’t ask me what that means, my interpretation would be that if you’re high on coke, this is how the world would look to you. (Yes, yes not the right spelling – give me one that works better, smart asses.) It’s a pathway cut into the hill (the 21,300 meter high Palani hills) and provides you a wonderful view of the world swathed in mist. You can also walk there should you wish to rub shoulders with people who wear summer clothing accessorized with tiger-striped ear muffs in an attempt to look trendy or die of hypothermia, I’m not sure which. After a refreshing snack of cotton candy and barely concealed snickering at the ear muffs, we took ourselves off to the next tourist spot which was:
2) The Horticultural Gardens. It was a lot like other horticultural gardens I’ve visited, except that there was a very ugly couple being filmed with a video camera. Jeet said he thought they were getting married, and the others thought they were actors. I just thought they were ugly and the cameraman in dire need of money. My adventurous friend struck off up the slope following no apparent path and we followed obediently behind. I was grateful that Jeet waited for me as I hopped awkwardly over rivulets (looked like drainage water, nothing fancy) and yawning gaps in the hill while the other two walked briskly on ahead and disappeared round bends. Once I was sure I wouldn’t roll downhill and stop half dead near the feet of the couple being filmed, I decided it had been quite an enjoyable walk. Tip to tourists: Do not touch the cactuses in the greenhouse, even if a solemn 14 year old boy swears it won’t hurt.
So we said yes, and away we went a week later at 1 in the morning in my friend’s car to drive for 9 hours and 450 kms to Kodaikanal. We had gone to our friend’s place to spend the night and start out early the next morning, but after we were finished with dinner starting off just then seemed like a jolly thing to do. So off we went at 1 in the pitch dark and it was quite jolly because the others drove. I didn’t sleep however, because I felt morally obliged to sit bolt upright scowling fiercely at the road ahead, thereby lightening the drivers’ (i.e my friend’s and my husbands’) burden significantly.
We got there at 10 the next morning. And it was beautiful. Beau-ti-ful! Ooty was a shabby little ugly duckling hill station compared to this one. (and let me tell you, when I went to Ooty I thought it was ugly even without seeing this place.)
And COLD. We kept wondering how cold it was, and discussed it repeatedly: “It must be atleast 10 degree centigrade…don’t you think?” “I have no idea. Stop asking me.”
My friend has a bit of an OCD about cooking and keeping house, so she instantly launched herself into making the guesthouse like home, (which as I very helpfully observed as I propped my feet up on the center table and flicked through my book ‘kind of defeated the purpose.’) Apart from all the cooking and cleaning and constructive sneering, we managed to take in the following sites:
1) Coalker’s walk. Don’t ask me what that means, my interpretation would be that if you’re high on coke, this is how the world would look to you. (Yes, yes not the right spelling – give me one that works better, smart asses.) It’s a pathway cut into the hill (the 21,300 meter high Palani hills) and provides you a wonderful view of the world swathed in mist. You can also walk there should you wish to rub shoulders with people who wear summer clothing accessorized with tiger-striped ear muffs in an attempt to look trendy or die of hypothermia, I’m not sure which. After a refreshing snack of cotton candy and barely concealed snickering at the ear muffs, we took ourselves off to the next tourist spot which was:
2) The Horticultural Gardens. It was a lot like other horticultural gardens I’ve visited, except that there was a very ugly couple being filmed with a video camera. Jeet said he thought they were getting married, and the others thought they were actors. I just thought they were ugly and the cameraman in dire need of money. My adventurous friend struck off up the slope following no apparent path and we followed obediently behind. I was grateful that Jeet waited for me as I hopped awkwardly over rivulets (looked like drainage water, nothing fancy) and yawning gaps in the hill while the other two walked briskly on ahead and disappeared round bends. Once I was sure I wouldn’t roll downhill and stop half dead near the feet of the couple being filmed, I decided it had been quite an enjoyable walk. Tip to tourists: Do not touch the cactuses in the greenhouse, even if a solemn 14 year old boy swears it won’t hurt.
(To be continued.)
Friday, December 19, 2008
What Indians do-do in books.
This is going to be a long one, so anyone who can’t read beyond 500 words may wait for my next post and skip this one.
I just finished reading the Booker-prize winning book the White Tiger, which my friend Chiquita was kind of enough to gift me as a birthday present. It was excellently written and quite riveting. (Can you sense the ‘but’ coming? Here it is.)
I was unfortunately reading Shantaram simultaneously. So the whole effect was one of overkill. When I read one of these books, I can’t help but be overwhelmed by how well…sub-human and ridiculous… Indians are made out to be. Have you noticed? I can’t deny most of the stuff that is put in these books, I would be lying if I tried. Yes we live in the Turd World, 90% of people use the great outdoors as a Great Outhouse. I refrain from explaining further because you only need to pick up one of these books to learn all about this phenomenon.
90% of us are, of course, desperately, miserably, “the pavement is my home” kind of poor-- that’s true. And when you’re describing the conditions they’re in I understand that one needs to linger lovingly over each scatological detail – ostensibly to portray the sickening existence they endure. But, why, oh why…do Indian authors in English (which Shatantaram is not, we’ll get back to that book in a moment) feel compelled to describe the bowels of even the upper class (evil, upper caste, murdering raping) characters of the story? They go to their gold-inlaid, made-with-the-blood-and-sweat-of-downtrodden-untouchables bathrooms. So why this detailed inventory of what they did there for the readers? I’ll tell you why. Because it is expected of an Indian book in English. It’s almost as if the publishers send the draft novels back to the authors with a note: “Dear Indian Writer in English, there isn’t enough faeces and sputum in the ninth chapter. Please rectify this mistake. Regards, the Editor.
Apparently shit sells.
Do these Indian authors (all of whom invariably come from upper caste/upper class, western educated families, with the luxury to take a year or two off from paying bills, so that they can write a book on circus-freak, black-and-white India and get a Pulitzer prize from the West for writing a 'no-holds barred, gritty expose on Indian society') talk about their bowel movements at those posh wine and cheese parties they meet each other at? Would they even talk to a person who does? No. But when it comes to writing a book, they have to discuss it over two revolting pages for each character, in all its Technicolor disgustingness. The West reads it with fascinated disgust and showers accolades and prizes on these people for ‘telling the truth about India in all its shittiness’.
Do western people not go to the bathroom? If you read their books one might even think that is the case. And that’s how it should be, because it’s a foregone conclusion that all human beings do and there’s no need to dwell on such details just for cheap thrills.
Now that I’ve used the word “shit’ 24 times, “bathroom” 19 and “sputum” once, I shall expect my Booker at the address provided on my home page, thank you very much.
Moving on, I want to point out some things I have noted so far in Shantaram. You can still forgive an Australian for talking about Indian do-dos (after all kangaroo crap is perhaps the only thing you can step in over there) but what I find outrageous (though terribly entertaining) is the exaggeration. Apparently he saw a man with his head on fire running into the sea to douse it while he was riding into Mumbai on a bus from the airport. I have been to Mumbai and traveled that stretch he’s mentioned a few times and never seen a man on fire. Neither have I been in a car accident the very next day and been dragged out of the taxi by my stereotypical cheerfully amoral and perennially ridiculous Indian guide, just in time to be saved from being lynched along with the taxi driver by an Indian mob.
All the Great Indian Novel stereotypes are tiresome. There are millions of people in this country of all shades and beliefs and humours. Are we all to be divided into cruel overlords and tortured low caste farmers? This is not to say that the sordid stuff they put in books about India doesn’t happen at all (they DO happen, unfortunately) what I object to are the generalizations. I read with disbelief as Adiga made sweeping generalizations about how people treat drivers in India. My parents have hired a succession of 3 drivers over the last 10 years (the drivers leave when they get better opportunities, my parents didn’t kill them, nor did they hunt down and kill their entire families down to the last third cousin when they turned in their car keys.) and not once has their been any rumors of my family members asking these gentlemen to wash their (the former’s I mean) feet in hot water. Nor in cold water, I hasten to add. They have never been asked to sweep the courtyard or play ball with the children either. Strange but true. And as for their being asked to pour whisky for their masters from a bottle that’s always kept in cars for the purpose AS they drove, let me tell you I’ve never heard of such a thing in my life. And it hasn’t been such a short time for me in India either.
In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Adiga spent a lot of time in the West because he refers to the character throwing away food in anger in two places in the book. Indians, especially someone as poor as the protagonist, NEVER throw away food. At the most, you might throw away some on your plate that you JUST could NOT eat…but throwing your share of the chicken curry against a wall of your mud and thatch hut in anger? That’s just fiction. If an Indian family has an argument over dinner they shovel their food into their mouths as fast as they can and stomp off only when dessert is done.
I wish someone would write a book or two about the wholly different trials and tribulations of the middle class, maybe a family that doesn’t torture the help, if we can be so daring. Maybe we can just put a note at the beginning of the book that it is understood that these people DO go to the bathroom, but entire chapters have not been devoted to it in interests of brevity. Maybe this family’s problems can be more universal, like yours and mine…problems at work, problems in love, problems with parents and kids, making friends losing friends people dying (but not necessarily because an upper caste overlord beat them to a pulp because the temperature of the foot bath was wrong, or because they tried to escape from being a sex slave)…you get the drift.
I will personally give such an Indian a prize. The story might not be exotic or Booker worthy, but it’ll be a subtle story about lives many of us literate middle class professionals live; and thereby identifiable. Anyone brave enough for the challenge out there?
I just finished reading the Booker-prize winning book the White Tiger, which my friend Chiquita was kind of enough to gift me as a birthday present. It was excellently written and quite riveting. (Can you sense the ‘but’ coming? Here it is.)
I was unfortunately reading Shantaram simultaneously. So the whole effect was one of overkill. When I read one of these books, I can’t help but be overwhelmed by how well…sub-human and ridiculous… Indians are made out to be. Have you noticed? I can’t deny most of the stuff that is put in these books, I would be lying if I tried. Yes we live in the Turd World, 90% of people use the great outdoors as a Great Outhouse. I refrain from explaining further because you only need to pick up one of these books to learn all about this phenomenon.
90% of us are, of course, desperately, miserably, “the pavement is my home” kind of poor-- that’s true. And when you’re describing the conditions they’re in I understand that one needs to linger lovingly over each scatological detail – ostensibly to portray the sickening existence they endure. But, why, oh why…do Indian authors in English (which Shatantaram is not, we’ll get back to that book in a moment) feel compelled to describe the bowels of even the upper class (evil, upper caste, murdering raping) characters of the story? They go to their gold-inlaid, made-with-the-blood-and-sweat-of-downtrodden-untouchables bathrooms. So why this detailed inventory of what they did there for the readers? I’ll tell you why. Because it is expected of an Indian book in English. It’s almost as if the publishers send the draft novels back to the authors with a note: “Dear Indian Writer in English, there isn’t enough faeces and sputum in the ninth chapter. Please rectify this mistake. Regards, the Editor.
Apparently shit sells.
Do these Indian authors (all of whom invariably come from upper caste/upper class, western educated families, with the luxury to take a year or two off from paying bills, so that they can write a book on circus-freak, black-and-white India and get a Pulitzer prize from the West for writing a 'no-holds barred, gritty expose on Indian society') talk about their bowel movements at those posh wine and cheese parties they meet each other at? Would they even talk to a person who does? No. But when it comes to writing a book, they have to discuss it over two revolting pages for each character, in all its Technicolor disgustingness. The West reads it with fascinated disgust and showers accolades and prizes on these people for ‘telling the truth about India in all its shittiness’.
Do western people not go to the bathroom? If you read their books one might even think that is the case. And that’s how it should be, because it’s a foregone conclusion that all human beings do and there’s no need to dwell on such details just for cheap thrills.
Now that I’ve used the word “shit’ 24 times, “bathroom” 19 and “sputum” once, I shall expect my Booker at the address provided on my home page, thank you very much.
Moving on, I want to point out some things I have noted so far in Shantaram. You can still forgive an Australian for talking about Indian do-dos (after all kangaroo crap is perhaps the only thing you can step in over there) but what I find outrageous (though terribly entertaining) is the exaggeration. Apparently he saw a man with his head on fire running into the sea to douse it while he was riding into Mumbai on a bus from the airport. I have been to Mumbai and traveled that stretch he’s mentioned a few times and never seen a man on fire. Neither have I been in a car accident the very next day and been dragged out of the taxi by my stereotypical cheerfully amoral and perennially ridiculous Indian guide, just in time to be saved from being lynched along with the taxi driver by an Indian mob.
All the Great Indian Novel stereotypes are tiresome. There are millions of people in this country of all shades and beliefs and humours. Are we all to be divided into cruel overlords and tortured low caste farmers? This is not to say that the sordid stuff they put in books about India doesn’t happen at all (they DO happen, unfortunately) what I object to are the generalizations. I read with disbelief as Adiga made sweeping generalizations about how people treat drivers in India. My parents have hired a succession of 3 drivers over the last 10 years (the drivers leave when they get better opportunities, my parents didn’t kill them, nor did they hunt down and kill their entire families down to the last third cousin when they turned in their car keys.) and not once has their been any rumors of my family members asking these gentlemen to wash their (the former’s I mean) feet in hot water. Nor in cold water, I hasten to add. They have never been asked to sweep the courtyard or play ball with the children either. Strange but true. And as for their being asked to pour whisky for their masters from a bottle that’s always kept in cars for the purpose AS they drove, let me tell you I’ve never heard of such a thing in my life. And it hasn’t been such a short time for me in India either.
In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Adiga spent a lot of time in the West because he refers to the character throwing away food in anger in two places in the book. Indians, especially someone as poor as the protagonist, NEVER throw away food. At the most, you might throw away some on your plate that you JUST could NOT eat…but throwing your share of the chicken curry against a wall of your mud and thatch hut in anger? That’s just fiction. If an Indian family has an argument over dinner they shovel their food into their mouths as fast as they can and stomp off only when dessert is done.
I wish someone would write a book or two about the wholly different trials and tribulations of the middle class, maybe a family that doesn’t torture the help, if we can be so daring. Maybe we can just put a note at the beginning of the book that it is understood that these people DO go to the bathroom, but entire chapters have not been devoted to it in interests of brevity. Maybe this family’s problems can be more universal, like yours and mine…problems at work, problems in love, problems with parents and kids, making friends losing friends people dying (but not necessarily because an upper caste overlord beat them to a pulp because the temperature of the foot bath was wrong, or because they tried to escape from being a sex slave)…you get the drift.
I will personally give such an Indian a prize. The story might not be exotic or Booker worthy, but it’ll be a subtle story about lives many of us literate middle class professionals live; and thereby identifiable. Anyone brave enough for the challenge out there?
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