Why Page Three .....

Newspapers today have separate supplements that highlight folks , whose sole concern is probably to stay in the public eye. While newspapers in my younger days were thinner , less glamorous, and more mindful of what they published, I have often wondered how this so called market for gossip and celebrity circuit got built up.  

It could be something they say, or something they are wearing, and sometimes even something they are eating or drinking, which probably cost you and me the next EMI on something. 

And there are actually professional types  they hire to do this.   
 
    It seems  there exist people called publicists, who , for a price, make it their business to inform all and sundry , the minutest activity and other details about their client,  even stooping so low as to hint at things , that the general public might speculate upon gleefully  and swallow. 

Long long time ago, which is like 54 years ago, our family visited New Delhi around Christmas. There used to be a public darbar  by  Panditji  at Teen Murti, every weekday morning, where you simply went in, stood in line, and he came down and mingled, and met folks. Lots of school and college students with their teachers,  folks from rural areas, local folks, and tourists.  As students we read about him, the freedom struggle, and looked up to the government, and I still have an enlarged portrait of our entire family with him, on my wall.  My younger brother decided to present the flowers we took with us, I had none, and so I plucked the flox outside Teen Murti gates, and clutched them .  :-)    No security, no whistles or leaping sniffing dogs, and he accepted them along with my red Santa Claus brooch which I unpinned, to give him. He put his arms across our shoulders and my brother and I walked a bit with him. It kind of confirmed what we had heard. He loved kids. And we've believed in Children's Day, more as something that was true rather than a vote catching gesture .  

We didn’t know then that a word called “celebrity” existed.  And sometimes I even wonder why they exist today.
 

Today, I guess folks are obsessed with celebrities in India, because, secretly, they , the celebrities,  do what you could not. 

So a  guy who specializes in taking off his shirt at the slightest perturbation, and dances   with his hands hooked into his belt, displaying his abs, is a celebrity.   He drives recklessly, cars you only dream of, and has accidents. He is treated with kid gloves by the cops, he dances at their functions, and he is excused from court appearances because "he is shooting".   His entire family defends him, and all his girlfriends are glamorous and famous.   You, of the wrong U-turn that caught the attention of the cops, can you do that? 

Another guy , high up and powerful, kind of rubs it in, when he walks in the midst of 8 security  Black Cats,  his hands folded ,  a flunkey carrying his phones,  and people applaud, and bend to touch his feet. Some even tie shoelaces for him.   Someone in the background does all his dirty work; he calls himself a servant of the people, and moves one step higher.  Can you do that?  Forget servant of the people.  You barely manage to be a servant in your own house, with your grueling work schedule. And when was the last time you moved one step higher ?

Then there are folks from abroad, mainly movie and TV artists/singers.  Hype is built up about where they will stay, eat, party, and travel. Dishes are named after something they ate or nibbled . ( Did anyone even name a Khichdi after you ? )   There are security types who do sanitizing of places before these folks arrive.  Today celebrity waving is an alternate career option for some folks.   You stand at the airport, scream and shout out their name, possibly even faint, all at the rate of Rs 100 an hour.  And you hope that you accidentally get to see Aishwarya Rai or Yuvraj  Singh on the side.    Paying  people to pay people to wave at you.  Can you do that?

Folks with  Z-plus security.   Policemen in double digits, inspectors, jeeps, and Black Cats accompany you, even if you visit a kindergarten. Or even if you are out at unearthly hours.  Traffic stops for you,  potholes fill up, sirens wail, you race ahead on the wrong side of the road, and even then you reach everywhere half an hour late.   Can you, of  the  8:12 double fast Churchgate local train, do that?

Then there are  those , whose sole work is to attend social functions,  sometimes with varying partners, but always in clothes that indicate fabric famine, and even antigravity effects. They are  always ready to purchase ordinary looking things at  outlandish prices for charity , and dine on food where you eat Vada Pav   and call it “Pomme de terre avec pav”, and say "Vada Pav-lova" which means "I love Vada Pav".  Everything costs more than your family expenses for 6 months (and counting),  and the papers go gaga over   clothes, and partners.   You, who worry  about  Dosas at the Udupi  now costing 50  Rs , can you do that?

There are those who comment.  In  words and actions.  Trainee celebrities, who appear on  television  and  try and outsmart others  in their inability to express a  fullstop.  These folks, tie black ribbons, hold candle marches and lead walks with serious  expressions , dark glasses, they  hold hands  and form chains.   (It must be mentioned, that some of these people, to their credit, also run marathons, where every kilometer they do is paid for by some company as charity, and actually helps a deserving cause).     Forget candles, and banners, the last time you held a hand out, did the bus or rickshaw stop?   Forget marathons, does anyone pay you as you run from the bus stop to platform no 2 to catch your train, day after day?   Can you do that?

No ?  That's why the system has celebrities. So you can aspire to things. Which you may never get. 

 And you thought  that a son in IT, and a tall, fair, home loving, beautiful daughter-in-law also in IT, and a choreographed sangeet at your daughter's wedding , as folks clicked and posted on FB using Iphone 5  was the ultimate ? 

Think again.  

  

 

Vista Visits : Review of the Tata VistaD90

 I've taken lots of tests in my life.  Given a few.  I've driven stuff from a Mercury Cougar(1970-72) to a lumbering Ambassador(teens till mid twenties ),  and an almost  heritage style Fiat (for 38 years) to a Tata Indigo (since 2009).

But never have I done a "test"  drive . You are supposed to be testing a car .  Actually, you end up getting tested yourself.

Thanks to Tata Motors and Blogadda , I had the opportunity to test drive the Tata Indica Vista D90 for 3 days  recently.

You can look up all the technical details here. I wouldn't recognize a Quadrajet or even a Quintujet engine if it came walking in front of me.   But something tells me that this   engine is basically a  Suzuki-Fiat-GM alliance engine, which is variously tweaked  by the engineers, and  Tata's  call it  the Quadrajet , Fiat calls it the Multijet, Maruti-Suzuki types call it the DDis.  Which is actually nice, because I've consciously looked for Indian makes, really majorly driven Fiats and now Tata cars, out of choice, and this kind of fits in.

But it was my first time with a diesel engine. Took some time getting used to the typical sound.   I thought the initial pickup , was pretty slow, or as they say, sluggish. Like a person just getting up from sleep. There after, in 2nd, 3rd, and higher gears, the pickup improved amazingly, enhancing almost in a y=x**2 non linear fashion, and the car fairly flew across the lake side Link Road (JVLR) , which allows higher speed driving. Like the person suddenly rushing around realizing he had 15 minutes to catch the office bus.

I would have loved a long distance drive across expressways, but the review days were all weekdays and that was not possible.

I also found out, that like our politicians, that sense of power remained,  even when I drove at lower speeds on roads with frequent turns and gradients and the car comfortably drove in top gear without making any kind of cribbing sounds. Maybe it is a diesel engine thing. I don't know.

Unlike our politicians, the car has an excellent braking system.  Made amply clear when I drove on roads monopolized by cattle, and folks walking in the middle of the road.  I didn't have to struggle with the steering wheel, while finely negotiating sudden appearances of bulldozers, handcarts and sand heaps, and school children.  The car tolerated bad roads and our famous potholes with great finesse, probably because of excellent suspension, and a firm chassis.

Another thing I thought was a very thoughtful addition, was the fact that the car didn't start unless you pressed the clutch completely.  With four drivers, and one car in the family, the probability of someone leaving the car in gear when shutting off is non zero. I've been subject to sudden leaps of the engine in an unguarded starting moment.  I don't know whether this is a common feature in other cars.  But certainly , kudos to the makers here for this erstwhile simulation of getting into neutral.

  Several other nice things . Like the Touchscreen Multimedia Navigation System, Fully Automatic Temperature Control,  Driver Information System, Follow-me home Headlamps  and so on. 

 The car comes with a rear windscreen wiper (in addition to the usual ones). Greatly appreciated by someone with years of experience of wiping windscreens in a Fiat and the improved ability to see traffic in your rear view mirror .

Call it the old age non-audio Fiat hangover, but I am not comfortable, with one hand fiddling with radio controls while driving. The VistaD90, has placed all the controls for the audio on the steering wheel , operated by touch. Which is very nice.  

There is a blue-tooth system where you can configure your phone to it and have conversations on your phone without lifting a finger. And everyone inside the car can be part of it and know your secrets.  A dial pad for the phone is also available on the console of the music system. Which I think is a bit too much. When you drive, you drive.  You shouldn't be dialling and tapping 10 digits while driving. (You can always pull to the side of the road, stop and use your phone).


Apart from the fuel gauge, speed, rpms and other standard parts of a dashboard, this car can also tell you your average mileage, how many kilometres you can go on existing fuel  (till empty) and so on. Which is great.

Then there is what I call the "nag" feature. It has these beeps it gives, if your seat belts lie unused. Or if your doors are not closed properly. And you must listen and comply for the nagging to stop.  

The driver side door is fitted with easily reachable locking controls which are really ideal if you are regularly driving a gaggle of kids to school.  Window open and shut controls are also right there, which is very useful.



Several thoughtful features. The headlights remain on for 30 seconds after you shut off the car.  Kind of guiding your way through a dark garage. Late evenings, and you return to the car in semi darkness, and unable to sense the ignition key point , you bend a bit to see behind the steering wheel, only to be delighted, by a ring of light around the keyhole. What a nice surprise !

The front seats are adjustable is many dimensions, and be  put in what I call the alert driver mode, tall person mode, lumbar support mode etc. The non driver side seat can also  be put in semi sleeping position (if no one sits behind).  The rear seats can collapse in a 60-40 way, so that you can adjust seating along with increasing boot space for some lengthy item . Three people can sit comfortably in the rear seat when no seats are collapsed. It is also possible to collapse the remaining two seats. 

Good leg space for folks in the rear seat, given that this is a hatchback. Provided someone taller than 6 feet isn't driving.  It is possible that the lady in the photo was happy with it since I was driving, and had to adjust the seat a bit towards the front.

A decent boot space, not meant for lugging large suitcases  along with four passengers. But that's where the collapsing seats are useful, if you carry fewer passengers.

One design flaw, if I might call it that, is that the driver is unable to see the front end of the car. This flaw exists even in the Tata Indigo (which I drive).  If you are parking in front of a wall, it is difficult to see how close you are getting to the wall. It is also occasionally difficult to see how close you are to another car in the front.  The gradient of the bonnet could be better designed. I just wonder if this is a Nano hangup. It might work in the Nano because you are almost right in front yourself. But this snub-nose design doesn't work both in Indigo or the VistD90.  

A good city car, easy to manoeuvre.  Though a bit high . In height and if I might say so, price in Mumbai.  Also with the driver's seat setting that worked for me, I found it a bit difficult to get in and out without getting obstructed by the steering wheel.

A very nice three days, where family and friends were treated to rides and their opinions enjoyed.  A lot of folks suddenly thought I had a new red car.  Honest person that I am, I had to clarify.  Gave a lot of opportunities  to family folks doing photography.

I hear the car is fitted with air bags.

I am just relieved I never had to find out.

This is a part of the Product Reviews Program at BlogAdda.

Thoughtful Chews....

20 years ago, no one described anyone as a "Foodie." 

The word did not exist. 

You simply got on with your dal-chawal, amti-bhat, zunka-bhakri, rajma-rice, paratha-sabji or sambaar-rice.  Pangs of hunger away from home, or sometimes even at home, were satisfied at the local idli-dosa-thali place, or some fancy place which served you cream of tomato soup, bread sticks, cutlets and so on, as you skirmished with the cutlery. 

What happened , was the advent "FDI in eating" , and  consequently,  "L(ocal)DI in eating" in response. 

Suddenly, you had long lines of folks, grandparents and all, outside the Golden Arches, and Pizza places.  Not to be outdone, Indian fast food emerged out of the woodwork, and Pav Bhaji, Chats, enjoyed great prominence along with 25 different types of Dosas including Chinese Dosas and Schezuan Idlis with a hint of Ghee. As if mobilizing to oppose the FDI, street food erupted in the form of    Vada Pao, Samosa Pao, Open Air Dosa stands, and even Fruit Juice. Sugarcane juice kind of faded into the background and got replaced with Ganga Jamuna juice. 

I remember waiting in the area outside a popular joint in the Deccan Gymkhana area of Pune, sometime in the early nineties, as the place was super crowded, and a family of ten was going in.  To my intense surprise, a half bent grandma, in a standard cotton nine yard and a no nonsense bun  walked in along with an older shuffling grandpa, with a walking stick, accompanied by young folks dressed just so, and a bunch of overactive kids; all this at 10 PM.

This was a sign that “eating” per se, had become a hobby activity as opposed to a sensible requirement for living.

Institutes now certified folks in cooking and hospitality, it became fashionable to serve normal food in a complicated way, in fancy places, and as a bill, you ended up paying for their décor, watchman and air conditioning. It became infra-dig to even crib about this.   

“Plating” became a work or art, and folks went into raptures over a tiny dark piece of singed meat, adorned with some green leaves ,shiny carrots, some twirls of salad and a streak of some sauce across the plate, as if it was planning to be there, but changed its mind and went off to streak another plate at the last minute. Various drinks suddenly made their appearance, with sometimes risqué and shocking names, and a dollop of some vague alcohol.

Prices in restaurants hit the moon, and strangely, people actually thronged these places.   

Folks introduced what they thought was international cuisine.  Those whose self esteem depended on announcing where they went for dinner and with whom, patronized these places.

Folks joined fitness centres, and suddenly omelettes were white and not yellow, and everyone drank proteins, and bared their abs.  So called celebrities, who did all this, got a vicarious thrill out of saying they were “foodies” , and you wondered about someone stuffing himself/herself and yet showing up and posing, in appropriate three dimensions, with clothes cut just so ( in odd places).

While this may be true of those with money to throw, nothing has really changed for us.

Once in 4 years, we utilize our LTC benefits, go visit the Andamans, gorge on the fish and local delicacies, and five days later we are back, pining for a decent hot Varan Bhat with home-made ghee and pickle.

We spend our free time at home making fancy cakes with icing to die for, and lap up the praise, and then pine for homemade parathas with a dollop of white butter and pickle, as comfort food.

I’ve seen folks who go all quiet and single minded, as they meditate on slurping up the fish curry and rice made at home with the help of an ever-willing pao.

I’ve seen eyes light up in wordless delight as a bhakri off the tawa, is halved and split in layers, releasing a steam so wonderful, that butter simply melts, and the lasoon chutney mobilizes for assault on the taste buds.

I’ve seen chairs being adjusted, as someone prefers, to hike their pajamas, and sit comfortably cross legged at the dining table, now that curd rice with a tadka of kadhi patta and fried chillies was about to happen.

And I have seen the light, reflecting off a Payasam in a silver katori, compete with the light in someone’s eyes.

Su-shi did you say? 

Aiyyo. In my language, these are words for stuff babies do, and you need to keep changing them.

But yes, the diapers just may be Japanese.

Review of "RIP" by Mukul Deva

I received this book , "RIP" by Mukul Deva,  published by Westland in 2012, as part of the Blogadda Book Review program.

A cursory  search of  what RIP stands for, reveals 88 expansions, ranging from Rest in Peace , to  Rat Insulin Promoter.   The acronym, in this title, stands for Resurgent Indian Patriots. Possibly an 89th expansion.

The Resurgent Indian patriots , as they call themselves, are a group of army men, now retired from active service,  but very concerned about the rot, scams and scandals  in public life, and desperately wanting to do something about it.

The plot of the book , is based on the RIP's claiming credit for the killing of a corrupt  politician, and announcing the likelihood of many more within a given time frame. The subsequent  desperate processes set in motion by those in power who were supposed to do something about such things, their liaisons with redoubtable folks with even more redoubtable morals, and the complete disregard  for the common man on the road is the theme throughout the book.

Colonel Krishna Athavle, and his team of Special Forces officers, their names indicating a Pan Indian participation, and supreme motivation, plan their killings with great precision, and intercommunication.  The author introduces, another variety of ex army , Raghav Bhagat , a rogue para commando, who kills for money. In between these two are a bunch of ministers, bureaucrats, security managers and folks, who are a fine sample of how things operate at high levels. Reena Bhagat, a TV news anchor, and estranged wife of Raghav is the romantic factor in this novel. Predictably, she and Colonel Krishna Athavle  meet, and things progress, thanks to their respective sons , who are friends.

The story is replete with fast paced movements, events, precision killings, chases, and references to folks , that have different names, but remind us about folks in the current political pantheon of prominent personalities, on an all-India scale. There are also references to prominent events of the past like the hijacking of an IA plane.

A paranoid set of government folks ordering one set of officers to spy on another set of officers involved in the RIP investigations, introduces , what a cynical mind might define as a comic element and has much to do with the final outcome.

A recurring thought while reading this novel has been about how this is almost like a screen play and designed to be made into a film.  There is a hero, heroine, villain, molls, big and hefty bosses, a large amount of brilliant action chases, blowing up of cars, poisonous injections, and some human interest stuff in the form of two kids.

There is a bit of fun as you endeavour to recognize the thinly veiled characters of the book, and try to match them with who you think they are.

This is a fun read, a fast read, and at no point, does the speed of the story lag or meander.

One applauds the research and knowledge of military facts  , which is not a surprise given the military background and experiences of the author.

Just a niggling thought at the end. Reena Bhagat and Colonel Athawale get together, as they should, with their kids. She does not know about his participation in the RIP.

Leaves me wondering about her reaction, when she finds out.....  

This review is a part of the biggest Book Reviews Program. for Indian Bloggers. Participate now to get free books!

Meeting myself....

When I first started blogging,  I realized that I would need a profile picture.  A conscious decision to blog under a pseudonym , and I came up with Ugich Konitari; which as any Marathi speaking person will tell you, is nothing extraordinary. 

Thanks to the large number languages and dialects spoken in India, most people got curious about the name, and I even had a query asking if it was a Japanese name. I wish I had said yes, just for the sake of excitement, but like Mr G. Washington of the apple tree fame, I could not tell a lie, and explained what the name was.  There was a fine sense of coming down to earth in this, a sense of comfort at having a name which was supremely ordinary.

So when I was planning a profile picture, I thought it should match that sense. Someone who thrived on being who she was, was firmly modern in some ways, but  had her own down-to-earth, slightly old fashioned, striving-to live-in-a modern-world style;  like a cross between Britney Spears and Gangubai.

A well  known blog aggregater even interviewed me once and one of the readers (Solilo, folks will remember her)  , actually asked me what the profile picture meant and I had to clarify that I was quite happy letting my imagination fly on the broom, thank-you, and I was not in competition with Mrs A.  Rai  B. flying first class to London.

Some young folks even hinted that the picture  needed to be changed. But I doggedly refused. And kept flying on the broom.  I even found a quotation to match and put it on my page.  When I gingerly stepped into Facebook a few years later , I did not think twice before using that as my DP.

One of the spin offs of being a blogger was I would see a few photography blogs, the daughter was into photography, and she was inspired to start a photoblog.  She has been visiting local events in Mumbai, like the Ganpati workshops in Parel, and so on, and since last year, the Kala Ghoda Fair, that happens in Jan-Feb of every year.

She went there today with a friend, took several photographs, and of all the myriads of things you can buy there , in the numerous stalls, displays, and crowds, their eyes came upon a clay  figurine  which suddenly looked familiar.  A spirited native Indian lady, in her traditional dress, hair in a practical bun, swinging away with gusto, grinning away , toothily, displaying, if I might say so, a total of 4 teeth. 

Both the girls sensed a bell ringing in their heads. Encouraged by her friend, my daughter decided to purchase the amazing work of art, and lugged it home through a crowded suburban train, to gift it to me.

The similarity with my DP is uncanny. The attitude displayed by the lady in my DP and that on the swing is  absolutely identical. The thrill of flying high with whatever is at hand.  The disdain for size zero, or for that matter size 1. Or even more. Even the mode of dressing follows similar individual preferences.

I don't dress like this, but my mind does.

But there is a certain sense of joyful, carefree aging, in the clay figurine .  The freedom to find her own sense of enjoyment, unhampered by what people think, whether she is appropriately dressed for it or no; because she has  really seen it all,  and been through all that stuff .  She revels in her toothy smile, (in reality , I actually do have more like a toothy'gummy  grin),  its just that here, toothy means 4 teeth !

Maybe a few years from now, I will change my profile picture. On the blog and on FB.

Approaching the seventies, I just might need a more swinging lifestyle.......? 

  

Rules. Ruler. Rudest .

At one time, like decades ago,  people seriously followed rules. Now the rules are flouted, sometimes by those involved in making them, and as it happened recently with a lady traffic warden in Bandra (who insisted on the rule being followed, and got hauled  up by the cops because the rule breakers had more muscle power....).

These days some four letter words actually start behaving like their idiomatic alter ego.

Like "Rule" . As a noun.

As a verb,  there is nothing much happening , unless you are the "ruler".

 And so I only worry about the noun.

I worry, because I don't think it is doing me any good to understand the "rule".

Innovative interpretation rules. Sometimes innovation includes strong disobedience.

Rules. They sent out a rule about not keeping plants in your balcony, because when you watered them, the stuff kind of dripped outside disfiguring the outside color. In a matter of 20 minutes, rule abiding family entities emptied my balcony of a bamboo plant, bougainvillea, ajwain bush, hibiscus tree, several tusli plants and a neem plant, not to mention several tomato plants and a watermelon plant which suddenly appeared from thrown peels.  Stuff was carted to the compound, and I never saw it again.  I look up, and I still see various disobedient plants daringly enjoying the breeze in various balconies. It's the sign of the times. Rule followers are stupid.

Rules. Rickshaws think they are on a well deserved picnic in our area. With kilometres of straight undulating roads, they unfailingly park on a corner of two roads, so the person taking a left turn cannot see traffic coming from the left. Honking, gesticulating and finally rolling down the window, has the fellow menacingly getting out from his seat, questioning if I owned the road, and daring me to do whatever I wish. He will not move.  He is waiting for someone, the vehicle is already hired.  I stay put. Traffic piles up behind me. Honks. He curses with the confidence of someone who has all eventualities  covered , gets out and pushes his rickshaw around the left turn by two feet. I wonder why. And continue wondering. I leave.

Rules. We are a nation that drives on the left .  Some folks think they are in the US when they drive.  As per "rules"  , you overtake from the right, and slow movers keep to the left most , usually imaginary lane (never thought there would be cheating in quality of white paint).  However, bikers, whose heads probably spin at additional rpm's when they wear a helmet, consider it their duty to always overtake from the left, even though you've been showing a left turning signal for a kilometre. So blatant is the driving, that they even drive between a bus queue and the stopped bus, and a friend of mine was injured because a biker crashed into her. Gestures to slow down or stop, from passengers disembarking from a bus, are rewarded with impatient looks , and an outrage at being made to decelerate. A fellow I questioned even angrily told me he paid taxes, and I told him that I paid taxes too, (that too, without banging my vehicle into folks), and owned as much of the road as he did.

 Rules. Why just bikers and public transport,  rules are broken again and again at the top.  We have a serious issue about womens' security, a law and order and policing problem,  there is  sniping and shooting on the western border with an enemy country,  a committee urgently deliberates on the improvement to laws and asks for suggestions, and the premier law and order entity of the country whizzes off to BanglaDesh to announce some new  improved visa regimes with that country. Despite the fact that the steady influx from BanglaDesh  to India across porous borders doesn't happen with visas. When the ability to prioritize is missing, chaos results.    

Rules. The new rule about gas cylinders, said we could have 6 cylinders a year at subsidized rates, and the remaining at enhanced rates. As a rule, it isn't clear, when they start counting.  I recently ordered a refill, and paid the unsubsidized rate of nine hundred something. When I mentioned not having utilized my six  cylinders at subsidized rates, I was told that it is 3 cylinders  for every six month period.  I was on my fourth cylinder , hence full price. You go and try visiting the dealer, and his office is packed with people and you are unable to enter. Everyone interpreting the rule their own way, the government even deciding  how I should consume my quota, regardless of whether I live in a cold climate, whether I have many family members, and other factors that affect gas consumption rates, that might actually vary during a year.  Vote bank politics has now decreed the new subsidized cylinder limit as 9. I just wonder , if these rules are simply going to give rise to a new surreptitious business of counting cylinders in a "different" way.    

Folks still go the wrong way on one-way streets, I see so many folks driving and talking with one hand stuck to their ear, nicely observable through the not so tinted glass; massive cars blatantly park at an angle, using up two parking spaces, people inside treat you like dirt when you ask them to straighten up.

 At a six lane intersection, with only one lane at right angles, and all lanes with two way traffic, a speeding rickshaw cuts finely a cm away from my toe , the driver glares and whizzes away, even though the light indicates that pedestrians may walk then; and a police chowky bang in the intersection is locked from outside, no one policing the intersection, because so many are busy catching drivers, cars , bikes and tempos, down the road.

It is normally traditional to breathe a sigh of relief when someone introduces rules .

You think life is simplified. 

No.  At least not here.

We have come to a point, that everytime there is a rule specified, an alternative system gears up to counter it, for a price.  Those that can pay, pay. At some point soneone up there, notices, and initiates one more rule to counter this.

And this continues ad nauseum, in what people call a loop.

In my younger IT working days, something getting stuck in a loop was bad news.

I guess times have changed.  

The incredible meet ......

I've been to various blog meets. Some with 5 folks in 3 star hangouts, some with 200 people in 5 star places, and everything in between.

But this was different. Two  bloggers, who over the years, have become , sight unseen, great admirers of someone, who may be amongst Mumbai's leading blogging dogs, with his own blog. Of course.

Every photo tells a story.  And his just became a book.

He lives in Mumbai's most popular suburb , often called the Queen of the suburbs. The two bloggers reached a landmark, and were escorted from there by something like a pilot motorbike, which was much in the fitness of things because the head of the family where he lives, has connections to both pilots and bikes.

We entered  to an amazing welcome , of wagging tails, excitement, and a bunch of uncontrolled leaps; uncontrolled, because it was clear, that he knew who was coming, he was told earlier to go easy, but like any child who loves visitors, he kind of gave in to his impulses a few times.

Much indulgent nosing around with cool nostrils, a surreptitious lick thrown in quietly, a tentative jump to place his front legs on the blogger's shoulder,  and stretching his neck to be patted and spoken to, he would sit for a while, and then get up again , unable to contain his excitement. 

His eyes simply spoke volumes. The fellow is an excellent listener. When you said something to him, you could tell he understood. He also follows customs which would make any matriarch of any family proud.

Sits quietly by you, as you scratch his back or pat him. Teeth baring and cooing is not really his scene.  He does not threateningly hover around, smelling bags and purses. When the bloggers were offered Tilgul by the family matriarch, he may have wanted some, but did not make a song and a dance about it.

His choice of food would warm any one's heart. Chapati sabji, Kande pohe, Upma, and the like. And if you keep bread and Dosa equidistant from him, the Dosa clearly wins. No wonder his mentor in the family, is often found photographing the lovely traditional dishes cooked in his house.

While the bloggers were having a long chat,  he wandered around, went to his favourite spot in the balcony, to check out if he needed to shoo away any trespassing birds. There were some barks from somewhere outside. He answered back. The conversation continued a bit more. Maybe he told his friend ," No yaar, I cant come, we have some guests. Maybe in the evening . ...."

He has this uncanny ability to be part of the group, and listen, and participate in silent communion. Maybe he understands a lot more than things addressed to him alone. If you look into his eyes, you will agree.

The bloggers admired his natural coat, that hinted at some special DNA. Someone once made a film on 1001 of those.  And he sat quietly, under the divan, listening and probably being greatly tickled by all the praise being showered on him by the two elderly bloggers. Much like a kid, enjoying being praised for a good performance somewhere.

I think he also watches television news. Had he been able to talk and communicate , I am sure he would have made and excellent contributor, say , with Rajdeep Sardesai's discussions on CNN/IBN.

But he must make do with his expressions. Which his mentor, the family head, captures on film. And every week , they inspire a poem. Woof poetry.  

He surely had hunger pangs gnawing inside. He came out from his hiding place, as the bloggers got up to leave. Much loitering around their feet, with now, a side foray to an area where there was a tin of biscuits.  I've seen kids stamping feet and throwing their limbs around demanding sweets . Or else.  But here was this fellow, just with a hint of movement towards the tin, once in a while giving in to the impulse to leap and place front legs next o the tin, but yet, hesitating.

He has his days when he joyfully yelps, charges around, wags his tail furiously,  and thinks the house motorcycle is his enemy.  But he understands the occasion.  And  thinks in what one may say, is a very human way. 

 There were some photographs happening. One of the bloggers gave him a biscuit, which was devoured before the camera could focus.  He kind of hung around the visiting bloggers.

 Suddenly there was a flash.  And instantaneously, he barked an alert.  Someone had clicked. Flashes of  light were serious stuff.  And he had to act.  A responsible fellow, enjoying the adulation and love, but always aware of things around him.

The two bloggers waved goodbye to him, and left to go for lunch with the head of the family.

He stayed back. Grandma was alone. And he would give her company.   

The two bloggers returned home. Completely impressed and smitten.....

Requiem for a tree.....

My mother had very green fingers. She planted a coconut tree in our small garden in Pune, the year I was born.  And before I learned to spell “Kalpavruksha”,  I was living and learning coconuts. 

Like me,   green and smooth as a child, sheltered at the centre, under the generous maternal  palm leaves.  Like me, at puberty, away from the tree , an introduction to the world around. 

Being tough outside.   A rough  peeling of fake attitudes  and cleansing before learning to be useful  in the home.   The rough dried fibres  combed with a machete, like my fashionably dry hair, being combed by my mother, shaking her head, and proceeding with a great coconut oil massage.    The typical sound of a coconut being broken,  the clamour to get  a sweet sip of the coconut water.  

 The coconut  meat, shredded , sitting on a “vili”; some to be used for dal, subjees, and  chutneys, and some to extract sweetness in the form of coconut milk.  Like a busy young bitter-sweet life,  and you remained what your Mother Tree taught you.

Bath soaps  in our time were looked down upon.  Milk, Cream, or better still, Coconut milk,  mixed into a paste with Ambehaldi  , and  an ayurvedic herb like Ghavalakasri,  worked like magic.  Nothing to beat the mixed scents of a coal fired copper boiler,  and this paste slathered , rubbed and being washed off by the hot water, on a winter morning. 

A full active day in school/college,  and we would use the coir “shendis”  of the whole coconut, to clean our roughened toes and heels, and then  rub some coconut milk or even coconut oil on to them at night.  More milk for our faces.   The natural coconut fat worked itself on our skin, and fought early morning winter cycling winds for us, as we rushed for PT classes In college.

 It wasn’t really all about preserving  our, sometimes  non existent beauty.  There was a no-nonsense quality about the coconut.  Its life was not about appearing Page 3, but being comprehensively useful  to society.

Age affected the coconut tree, and sometimes the palm fronds fell off. I have seen folks sitting in the afternoons with sharp implements, and creating fine long sticks, that ultimately became a broom.   There was even some kind of oil extracted from the tough brown shell, that was used medicinally for discoloration on limbs, by older folks.   We used coconuts to honor elders, and God, breaking them in front of the latter  as a check on our egos.

I don't have a tree now,  but I have something the Parachute folks have introduced. Though I cannot understand  why they  spell "Advanced "  with an "S".

My mother gave me the unshelled coconut from “my” tree when I got married.  I still have the wrinkled shell.   Twenty five years later,  my mother passed away.    

Strangely,  the tree has never borne fruit after her , and later passed away itself.