He takes the gun firmly into his hands and peers down the barrel. Satisfaction. Clicks it back into place-
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
He stands there, smoking out of his head, the gun still pointed at his temple. The evening is just as startled, it kicks up the dust and swirls orphaned leaves around with the wind. The town is fortunately empty this evening, families making the monthly shopping trip to the city and the noblemen housed in their castles hosting tea parties. In the town square, we stand in silence: it is both disbelief and terse finality in the air, the smog-tainted drizzle pattering down on terracotta rooftops bringing relief and detestation and peace at the same time.
He starts to cry, the dry sobs haunt me, a reek of guilt. The gun clatters upon the pavement, it seems it will stay there until I decide to move my feet and close the distance between us, the least I can do for a start. The hollow tinnitus of empty tin cans suspended from my father's crucifix on silken ribbons clatter and clamour with greater vigour when the feeble wind rises from beneath the valley, but tin cans don't have to feel guilty. I do. The mercy of the Lord be with me, this man is my brother, but I have sinned. He moves quickly, sensing my hesitation and he hugs me. I hug him back, the war is over. The sounds of bombs going off in my head is dying out, one baleful ring of thunder at a time, until they're hanging suspended in mid-air beyond the valley of shell-charred tree stumps and dandelions. But the bombs will fall once more, after this evening.
He asks after father, whose life he saved almost a year before. Father is keeping well. And- So is mother. I'm curious. How did you survive the war? They couldn't kill me, but I didn't let them know. So I joined them. That was when he left us. Mother was weeping, a traitor had prayed with her in the town church, a traitor had enjoyed her blanquette de veau on the rare Saturday when she made them. Father was livid. Join after the murderers of your brother. The fury was alive in the air, we felt it in our skins returning from the fields that day. I wish father was alive now. I wish he hadn't died with one son and two daughters. I wish and I hope that beyond the joys of this renewed brotherhood was the joy of a father seeing his son return victorious from battle.
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Wednesday, 6 July 2011
Wednesday, 22 June 2011
The spontaneously combustible love of her children
If you drove down one of the semi-prominent streets in the city's largest shopping area tonight, you'd come across a restaurant of some fame bedecked with vines of wires with red and yellow bulbs glowing on them. Aquaria is its name, but larger than the board that declares that is one that declares "50th Wedding Anniversary!", and yes, with a real and provocatively slanted exclamation mark.
Of course, three hours still remain for the dinner party to commence but the womenfolk are already busy getting the proportions of mascara and ugliness right on their faces. I must be careful, I tell myself, as I wait patiently before everyone has departed to the venue so I can ready myself in peace and silence. With one hand reaching out for coffee and the other fending off a cousin's head curiously close to my laptop to see what's keeping her brother busy, I spend my evening all the while dully astonished by how the plasticity had slipped everyone's mind... or perhaps their determination in keeping it from conquering the festive mood.
A few weeks ago, my mother and my sister returned from somewhere in South America after my father had finally been transferred to a city in India with the company he worked for. Since I was temporarily lodged with my maternal grandparents before I went off to college, they joined us, and suddenly, we were nine people in a 2 BHK: grandpa, grandma, an uncle, an aunt, their two kids, and me and my mum and my sister. Not a day had passed when summer decided to join us as well.
Barely 10 days before the occasion, my grandma received a phone call from one of her cousins, a cousin who'd been thrown a surprise party by her son for her 40th wedding anniversary. As soon as the call ended, there was an awkward silence in the house. Everyone knew paati was a bit of a tempestuous gossip-monger, and as soon as her sour joy would turn into envy, a rant would follow. And it did, and it did. In fact, on second thought, it wasn't a rant as much as it was a lecture on the duties of children towards their gossiping parents, it was a lecture on how siblings existed only so the traditional rat race could be inherited from one generation to another. Thatha (grandpa), a silent man as ever, only grunted. For the much more important occasion of his turning 80, he'd called us fools to try and celebrate anything.
As afternoon turned to evening, and evening turned to night, the presence of paati's voice faded but her eyes seemed to bore into us the expectations that burned in her soul. My uncle did the smarter thing and decided to meet her halfway: he bought dinner instead of having her cook and, as we expected, she wasn't one to be cowed down this time. Grudgingly enough, my mum and my aunt decided to throw a dinner party in her honour and invite her closest relatives, about 20 of them.
Soon, phone numbers were being looked up, the family tree was being drawn up, the menu was being pieced together, and family politics were being called into question. The cousin who'd started it all, of course, was invited first. As commitment to the initiative mounted day after day, so also did the scale and scope of the investiture: everyday paati called up a distant brother or a sister, the list of invitees was modified; everyday paati expressed discontentment with an arrangement, the restaurant was duly notified; everyday paati seemed intriguingly contented, we trod more carefully around the house.
Soon, all that had happened lost every mark of the grudge we bore against the matriarch for "forcing" us to spend Rs. 20,000 on nothings because the tables had turned enough: the guilt, now, was oozing out of our every action and inaction. We were now all condemnable proselytes of a righteous cause, and this was our chance to erase clean the chargesheet.
Behold! The day was come. It rained cats and dogs outside as I readied myself. My diminutive shadow of an uncle - albeit being a celebrated social worker - waited outside on his bike: may be that the rain was expected to cleanse his lack of affection, in paati's eyes he would now be the knight who rode in the rain.
I joined him a few minutes later and by the time we made it to Aquaria, the umbrella hadn't done anything against the wind-blown rain soaking our pricey garbs. More than 50 people had shown up and the street was lined with cars; the police was there, perhaps suspecting the presence of mafioso; the word had spread enough to have relatives call in to congratulate from exotic places like Vijayawada and Bangalore. Finally, the piece de resistance: paati booming on the mike about what such a happy occasion this was, the spontaneous love of her children and grandchildren embracing her like a warm hug after all these wonderful years.
Of course, three hours still remain for the dinner party to commence but the womenfolk are already busy getting the proportions of mascara and ugliness right on their faces. I must be careful, I tell myself, as I wait patiently before everyone has departed to the venue so I can ready myself in peace and silence. With one hand reaching out for coffee and the other fending off a cousin's head curiously close to my laptop to see what's keeping her brother busy, I spend my evening all the while dully astonished by how the plasticity had slipped everyone's mind... or perhaps their determination in keeping it from conquering the festive mood.
A few weeks ago, my mother and my sister returned from somewhere in South America after my father had finally been transferred to a city in India with the company he worked for. Since I was temporarily lodged with my maternal grandparents before I went off to college, they joined us, and suddenly, we were nine people in a 2 BHK: grandpa, grandma, an uncle, an aunt, their two kids, and me and my mum and my sister. Not a day had passed when summer decided to join us as well.
Barely 10 days before the occasion, my grandma received a phone call from one of her cousins, a cousin who'd been thrown a surprise party by her son for her 40th wedding anniversary. As soon as the call ended, there was an awkward silence in the house. Everyone knew paati was a bit of a tempestuous gossip-monger, and as soon as her sour joy would turn into envy, a rant would follow. And it did, and it did. In fact, on second thought, it wasn't a rant as much as it was a lecture on the duties of children towards their gossiping parents, it was a lecture on how siblings existed only so the traditional rat race could be inherited from one generation to another. Thatha (grandpa), a silent man as ever, only grunted. For the much more important occasion of his turning 80, he'd called us fools to try and celebrate anything.
As afternoon turned to evening, and evening turned to night, the presence of paati's voice faded but her eyes seemed to bore into us the expectations that burned in her soul. My uncle did the smarter thing and decided to meet her halfway: he bought dinner instead of having her cook and, as we expected, she wasn't one to be cowed down this time. Grudgingly enough, my mum and my aunt decided to throw a dinner party in her honour and invite her closest relatives, about 20 of them.
Soon, phone numbers were being looked up, the family tree was being drawn up, the menu was being pieced together, and family politics were being called into question. The cousin who'd started it all, of course, was invited first. As commitment to the initiative mounted day after day, so also did the scale and scope of the investiture: everyday paati called up a distant brother or a sister, the list of invitees was modified; everyday paati expressed discontentment with an arrangement, the restaurant was duly notified; everyday paati seemed intriguingly contented, we trod more carefully around the house.
Soon, all that had happened lost every mark of the grudge we bore against the matriarch for "forcing" us to spend Rs. 20,000 on nothings because the tables had turned enough: the guilt, now, was oozing out of our every action and inaction. We were now all condemnable proselytes of a righteous cause, and this was our chance to erase clean the chargesheet.
Behold! The day was come. It rained cats and dogs outside as I readied myself. My diminutive shadow of an uncle - albeit being a celebrated social worker - waited outside on his bike: may be that the rain was expected to cleanse his lack of affection, in paati's eyes he would now be the knight who rode in the rain.
I joined him a few minutes later and by the time we made it to Aquaria, the umbrella hadn't done anything against the wind-blown rain soaking our pricey garbs. More than 50 people had shown up and the street was lined with cars; the police was there, perhaps suspecting the presence of mafioso; the word had spread enough to have relatives call in to congratulate from exotic places like Vijayawada and Bangalore. Finally, the piece de resistance: paati booming on the mike about what such a happy occasion this was, the spontaneous love of her children and grandchildren embracing her like a warm hug after all these wonderful years.
Wednesday, 1 June 2011
House of fools
The carpenter was come, with his bag of tools slung with the utmost nonchalance over his shoulders as an attestation of his experience with his chosen profession, and as with any man the description of whose lodgings involves "asbestos" and "sheet" in the same sentence, even the slightest creaking hinges caught his immediate attention for repair and, consequently, due payment. Fortunately for him, my grandfather was a miser—the fortunes bedecked in the old man's meticulous and acrimonious use of the rubbish that gathers around one's person when one's life has been a scrupulous summa of barely-sufficient incomes and barely-sufficient living spaces.
While the two retreated to a dark corner of the room to harvest further agreement commensurate with maximizing their respective gains, while even as I pondered on the nuisances of new shelves that would pay no consideration whatsoever to my procerity, my grandmother had come silently to the conclusion that any assistance with the proceedings was sure to purchase a moment's concern from her otherwise-reprehensive husband. Appropriately, she now stood inspecting the blueprint of a dismantled chair, contemplating in all probability the size of a screw that would be necessary to join the seat with its legs; it must be said that she still had a long way to go if the way she held the hammer was anything to go by—let it only be said that if she were to hammer a nail, the hammer would be lodged in her wrist.
Torn between preventing the old woman from killing herself and the old man from killing the building, I sat up just as the scream of an iron-tipped drill came industriously to life against decade-old concrete; just as an unfortunate nail was put in place; and braved myself to face this house of fools.
While the two retreated to a dark corner of the room to harvest further agreement commensurate with maximizing their respective gains, while even as I pondered on the nuisances of new shelves that would pay no consideration whatsoever to my procerity, my grandmother had come silently to the conclusion that any assistance with the proceedings was sure to purchase a moment's concern from her otherwise-reprehensive husband. Appropriately, she now stood inspecting the blueprint of a dismantled chair, contemplating in all probability the size of a screw that would be necessary to join the seat with its legs; it must be said that she still had a long way to go if the way she held the hammer was anything to go by—let it only be said that if she were to hammer a nail, the hammer would be lodged in her wrist.
Torn between preventing the old woman from killing herself and the old man from killing the building, I sat up just as the scream of an iron-tipped drill came industriously to life against decade-old concrete; just as an unfortunate nail was put in place; and braved myself to face this house of fools.
Thursday, 26 May 2011
Ghost Wilkie
As soon as they found out that Father Ribisi was insured, they also found arsenic in his tea.
After deciding to leave the cabin, momma and poppa fighting, we drew lots and then drove east.
The city was magnificent but dull, something and nothing: people wore flashy coats but no smiles.
Leka was born on a wintry New York night under no moon but many stars.
That was the night pappa walked out with the bounty, plunging us into poverty.
Momma was having more and more drunk men over to tolerate lonely nights.
The farm was not doing as well as she thought it was.
She discovered that I was the one cutting up the roosters.
Church was the place for me; my family ditched me.
Embracing religion would be necessary to inculcate disciplining habits.
I had diarrhoea from drinking the holy water.
I was given morphine to be silenced.
The doctor groped me all over.
Wild electric shocks underneath skin.
Acidic taste on tongue.
Tincture of opium.
Golden bitch.
Laudanum.
After deciding to leave the cabin, momma and poppa fighting, we drew lots and then drove east.
The city was magnificent but dull, something and nothing: people wore flashy coats but no smiles.
Leka was born on a wintry New York night under no moon but many stars.
That was the night pappa walked out with the bounty, plunging us into poverty.
Momma was having more and more drunk men over to tolerate lonely nights.
The farm was not doing as well as she thought it was.
She discovered that I was the one cutting up the roosters.
Church was the place for me; my family ditched me.
Embracing religion would be necessary to inculcate disciplining habits.
I had diarrhoea from drinking the holy water.
I was given morphine to be silenced.
The doctor groped me all over.
Wild electric shocks underneath skin.
Acidic taste on tongue.
Tincture of opium.
Golden bitch.
Laudanum.
Tuesday, 24 May 2011
The Story of Theora Vorbis
There! There is a home, where there is mother,
Mother who must cook and wash and clean.
There! In that home, there is a father,
Father who must work and earn and sweat.
In the ramshackle glory of the kingdom we ruled
My brothers and I were daily taught and fooled
That money is all there is and nothing better!
There! There is a family whose memories I recall,
As they are all the experiences I fall back on.
There! In that family where the dreams are small
Was the push to break free and seek tomorrow
In the hope of owning one day a wealthy man
Who would provide and support like none else can.
I didn't learn of dreams or the sound of their call!
Here! Here is a home, where there is a mother,
Mother who must read and listen and, oh, rejoice.
Here! In this home, there is a father,
Father who must dote and lavish and dance.
Because there was suddenly wealth in our eyes and ears,
And with that were gone all of our filthy tears
For money is all there was and nothing better!
Here! Here is a family where togetherness holds sway
Even as Charlie sails the seas and David flies the skies.
But mother and father decide that they will stay,
And pay humble tribute to the lords of fortunes.
Coins in father's pocket sink him into the chair low
Even though I wait for him to hug me when I go.
If I could I would... I'd wish it all away!
Mother who must cook and wash and clean.
There! In that home, there is a father,
Father who must work and earn and sweat.
In the ramshackle glory of the kingdom we ruled
My brothers and I were daily taught and fooled
That money is all there is and nothing better!
There! There is a family whose memories I recall,
As they are all the experiences I fall back on.
There! In that family where the dreams are small
Was the push to break free and seek tomorrow
In the hope of owning one day a wealthy man
Who would provide and support like none else can.
I didn't learn of dreams or the sound of their call!
Here! Here is a home, where there is a mother,
Mother who must read and listen and, oh, rejoice.
Here! In this home, there is a father,
Father who must dote and lavish and dance.
Because there was suddenly wealth in our eyes and ears,
And with that were gone all of our filthy tears
For money is all there was and nothing better!
Here! Here is a family where togetherness holds sway
Even as Charlie sails the seas and David flies the skies.
But mother and father decide that they will stay,
And pay humble tribute to the lords of fortunes.
Coins in father's pocket sink him into the chair low
Even though I wait for him to hug me when I go.
If I could I would... I'd wish it all away!
The Story of Theora Vorbis
There! There is a home, where there is mother,
Mother who must cook and wash and clean.
There! In that home, there is a father,
Father who must work and earn and sweat.
In the ramshackle glory of the kingdom we ruled
My brothers and I were daily taught and fooled
That money is all there is and nothing better!
There! There is a family whose memories I recall,
As they are all the experiences I fall back on.
There! In that family where the dreams are small
Was the push to break free and seek tomorrow
In the hope of owning one day a wealthy man
Who would provide and support like none else can.
I didn't learn of dreams or the sound of their call!
Here! Here is a home, where there is a mother,
Mother who must read and listen and, oh, rejoice.
Here! In this home, there is a father,
Father who must dote and lavish and dance.
Because there was suddenly wealth in our eyes and ears,
And with that were gone all of our filthy tears
For money is all there was and nothing better!
Here! Here is a family where togetherness holds sway
Even as Charlie sails the seas and David flies the skies.
But mother and father decide that they will stay,
And pay humble tribute to the lords of fortunes.
Coins in father's pocket sink him into the chair low
Even though I wait for him to hug me when I go.
If I could I would... I'd wish it all away!
Mother who must cook and wash and clean.
There! In that home, there is a father,
Father who must work and earn and sweat.
In the ramshackle glory of the kingdom we ruled
My brothers and I were daily taught and fooled
That money is all there is and nothing better!
There! There is a family whose memories I recall,
As they are all the experiences I fall back on.
There! In that family where the dreams are small
Was the push to break free and seek tomorrow
In the hope of owning one day a wealthy man
Who would provide and support like none else can.
I didn't learn of dreams or the sound of their call!
Here! Here is a home, where there is a mother,
Mother who must read and listen and, oh, rejoice.
Here! In this home, there is a father,
Father who must dote and lavish and dance.
Because there was suddenly wealth in our eyes and ears,
And with that were gone all of our filthy tears
For money is all there was and nothing better!
Here! Here is a family where togetherness holds sway
Even as Charlie sails the seas and David flies the skies.
But mother and father decide that they will stay,
And pay humble tribute to the lords of fortunes.
Coins in father's pocket sink him into the chair low
Even though I wait for him to hug me when I go.
If I could I would... I'd wish it all away!
Microcosm of blasphemies
Smoke and Nebula have met once! I've come to believe that all smoke and all nebulae have some depth-any amount of depth that is some-and of Smoke's depth, I'm intrigued. He is rich, he is happily settled, perhaps happily joined, too-however small the chance of that may be-and has the one Cloud from that one meeting. Whenever we converse, he reveals not much; he is quick to crack a joke, he is quick to sprout in laughter, he is quick to philanthropy, and his demeanour only tells me he gives away so that he may receive in return the right to condescension. Agreed, altruism is a false virtue; nevertheless, Smoke is, by the looks of it, plastic: the veritable subject of any inquisition on the foibles of human nature, a true man-not the manly man, but the one who has known damage and, thereafter, recovered to completion, a true man.
Wednesday, 18 May 2011
A tribute to family
My grandmother's cousin today noon arrived along with her two daughters and their two sons (I don't know whose child was who and, frankly, couldn't care less). As has always been the case, excursions to a relative house must mandatorily involve a hired drive, preferably a fancy SUV (Toyota, if you please) that has space for eight but, for their sake, will and should carry only five. Petrol, you see, is a commodity whose price affects only their husbands or, for that matter, that insolent bitch of a house-maid who keeps clamouring for a pay hike.
My grandfather has been a brisk man all his life—industrious is a fitting word—and in the time of his retirement, it is only his greatest sorrow that anyone who pays his wife a visit must announce themselves by ringing the calling-bell four times just as he closes his eyes for a short nap. Why four times? Because it's so much fun listening to the muted sonorous "ding" from on the other side of the door.
The next habit on this list of must-preserve traditions is that of treating everyone else's property as public property; after all, there is no necessity to address it anyhow else when the government buses smell strangely of all the odours of humanity, is there? Pyols are pushed up against the wall, mats, pillows and blankets are heaved off of it and unfurled on the ground to seat themselves on it, only to complain of backaches ten minutes after and climb back up on the bed, grumbling something about a missing blanket.
As grandma leaves for the kitchen to make coffee for six people, she knows that she is going to draw some ire behind her back for getting the amounts of sugar wrong for each individual serving. Still, she makes coffee because these people did promise to her, a fine day not some three years from now, a trip to some obscure temple; the fear of god is the flame that boils the milk, I believe.
What is it with the children of middle-class faimlies in India who, upon having spotted an air-conditioner, must needs operate it for the purchase of their invaluable silence for the next... two minutes? On. Off. On. Off. I and grandpa look on. The bills! Rs. 0. The bills! Rs. 0, or that's what I think he sees. I only couldn't believe his mother was laughing with him at how the lights were being turned on and off.
Doors are slam shut, the warning in the slow creak of the hinges being thrown to the winds, as the dames gather for a commendable session of gossiping, as is due the dutiful housewife who has been showered with enough money by an unsuspecting gem of a husband—picked as he was based on his father's choice of shoes that afternoon—and then chaperoned for evenings after evenings to movie theaters, music shows, and shopping sprees. I say, cry havoc and let loose the "radical" feminists; I'd like to see what brand of egalitarianism theirs is!
100 chapathis and four bowls of tomato chutney later, they, the guzzling and gorging duly done on the fortunes of those whose benefaction must never waver because—hey!—they're family, dash all my hopes that they would leave; would more could they need? Food they have received, drink they have received, talk they have received; did they not have all of our afternoon's peace? Unfortunately, then, the cousin produced two tickets to some movie for the evening: in the cataract-infested eyes of my grandmother, that was two tickets for a visit in the future by the same dollops of humanity that, in all probability, had always seen it only as a deal.
My grandfather has been a brisk man all his life—industrious is a fitting word—and in the time of his retirement, it is only his greatest sorrow that anyone who pays his wife a visit must announce themselves by ringing the calling-bell four times just as he closes his eyes for a short nap. Why four times? Because it's so much fun listening to the muted sonorous "ding" from on the other side of the door.
The next habit on this list of must-preserve traditions is that of treating everyone else's property as public property; after all, there is no necessity to address it anyhow else when the government buses smell strangely of all the odours of humanity, is there? Pyols are pushed up against the wall, mats, pillows and blankets are heaved off of it and unfurled on the ground to seat themselves on it, only to complain of backaches ten minutes after and climb back up on the bed, grumbling something about a missing blanket.
As grandma leaves for the kitchen to make coffee for six people, she knows that she is going to draw some ire behind her back for getting the amounts of sugar wrong for each individual serving. Still, she makes coffee because these people did promise to her, a fine day not some three years from now, a trip to some obscure temple; the fear of god is the flame that boils the milk, I believe.
What is it with the children of middle-class faimlies in India who, upon having spotted an air-conditioner, must needs operate it for the purchase of their invaluable silence for the next... two minutes? On. Off. On. Off. I and grandpa look on. The bills! Rs. 0. The bills! Rs. 0, or that's what I think he sees. I only couldn't believe his mother was laughing with him at how the lights were being turned on and off.
Doors are slam shut, the warning in the slow creak of the hinges being thrown to the winds, as the dames gather for a commendable session of gossiping, as is due the dutiful housewife who has been showered with enough money by an unsuspecting gem of a husband—picked as he was based on his father's choice of shoes that afternoon—and then chaperoned for evenings after evenings to movie theaters, music shows, and shopping sprees. I say, cry havoc and let loose the "radical" feminists; I'd like to see what brand of egalitarianism theirs is!
100 chapathis and four bowls of tomato chutney later, they, the guzzling and gorging duly done on the fortunes of those whose benefaction must never waver because—hey!—they're family, dash all my hopes that they would leave; would more could they need? Food they have received, drink they have received, talk they have received; did they not have all of our afternoon's peace? Unfortunately, then, the cousin produced two tickets to some movie for the evening: in the cataract-infested eyes of my grandmother, that was two tickets for a visit in the future by the same dollops of humanity that, in all probability, had always seen it only as a deal.
"Fredo, you're my older brother, and I love you. But don't ever take sides with anyone against the family again. Ever."
Michael Corleone
A tribute to family
My grandmother's cousin today noon arrived along with her two daughters and their two sons (I don't know whose child was who and, frankly, couldn't care less). As has always been the case, excursions to a relative house must mandatorily involve a hired drive, preferably a fancy SUV (Toyota, if you please) that has space for eight but, for their sake, will and should carry only five. Petrol, you see, is a commodity whose price affects only their husbands or, for that matter, that insolent bitch of a house-maid who keeps clamouring for a pay hike.
My grandfather has been a brisk man all his life—industrious is a fitting word—and in the time of his retirement, it is only his greatest sorrow that anyone who pays his wife a visit must announce themselves by ringing the calling-bell four times just as he closes his eyes for a short nap. Why four times? Because it's so much fun listening to the muted sonorous "ding" from on the other side of the door.
The next habit on this list of must-preserve traditions is that of treating everyone else's property as public property; after all, there is no necessity to address it anyhow else when the government buses smell strangely of all the odours of humanity, is there? Pyols are pushed up against the wall, mats, pillows and blankets are heaved off of it and unfurled on the ground to seat themselves on it, only to complain of backaches ten minutes after and climb back up on the bed, grumbling something about a missing blanket.
As grandma leaves for the kitchen to make coffee for six people, she knows that she is going to draw some ire behind her back for getting the amounts of sugar wrong for each individual serving. Still, she makes coffee because these people did promise to her, a fine day not some three years from now, a trip to some obscure temple; the fear of god is the flame that boils the milk, I believe.
What is it with the children of middle-class faimlies in India who, upon having spotted an air-conditioner, must needs operate it for the purchase of their invaluable silence for the next... two minutes? On. Off. On. Off. I and grandpa look on. The bills! Rs. 0. The bills! Rs. 0, or that's what I think he sees. I only couldn't believe his mother was laughing with him at how the lights were being turned on and off.
Doors are slam shut, the warning in the slow creak of the hinges being thrown to the winds, as the dames gather for a commendable session of gossiping, as is due the dutiful housewife who has been showered with enough money by an unsuspecting gem of a husband—picked as he was based on his father's choice of shoes that afternoon—and then chaperoned for evenings after evenings to movie theaters, music shows, and shopping sprees. I say, cry havoc and let loose the "radical" feminists; I'd like to see what brand of egalitarianism theirs is!
100 chapathis and four bowls of tomato chutney later, they, the guzzling and gorging duly done on the fortunes of those whose benefaction must never waver because—hey!—they're family, dash all my hopes that they would leave; would more could they need? Food they have received, drink they have received, talk they have received; did they not have all of our afternoon's peace? Unfortunately, then, the cousin produced two tickets to some movie for the evening: in the cataract-infested eyes of my grandmother, that was two tickets for a visit in the future by the same dollops of humanity that, in all probability, had always seen it only as a deal.
My grandfather has been a brisk man all his life—industrious is a fitting word—and in the time of his retirement, it is only his greatest sorrow that anyone who pays his wife a visit must announce themselves by ringing the calling-bell four times just as he closes his eyes for a short nap. Why four times? Because it's so much fun listening to the muted sonorous "ding" from on the other side of the door.
The next habit on this list of must-preserve traditions is that of treating everyone else's property as public property; after all, there is no necessity to address it anyhow else when the government buses smell strangely of all the odours of humanity, is there? Pyols are pushed up against the wall, mats, pillows and blankets are heaved off of it and unfurled on the ground to seat themselves on it, only to complain of backaches ten minutes after and climb back up on the bed, grumbling something about a missing blanket.
As grandma leaves for the kitchen to make coffee for six people, she knows that she is going to draw some ire behind her back for getting the amounts of sugar wrong for each individual serving. Still, she makes coffee because these people did promise to her, a fine day not some three years from now, a trip to some obscure temple; the fear of god is the flame that boils the milk, I believe.
What is it with the children of middle-class faimlies in India who, upon having spotted an air-conditioner, must needs operate it for the purchase of their invaluable silence for the next... two minutes? On. Off. On. Off. I and grandpa look on. The bills! Rs. 0. The bills! Rs. 0, or that's what I think he sees. I only couldn't believe his mother was laughing with him at how the lights were being turned on and off.
Doors are slam shut, the warning in the slow creak of the hinges being thrown to the winds, as the dames gather for a commendable session of gossiping, as is due the dutiful housewife who has been showered with enough money by an unsuspecting gem of a husband—picked as he was based on his father's choice of shoes that afternoon—and then chaperoned for evenings after evenings to movie theaters, music shows, and shopping sprees. I say, cry havoc and let loose the "radical" feminists; I'd like to see what brand of egalitarianism theirs is!
100 chapathis and four bowls of tomato chutney later, they, the guzzling and gorging duly done on the fortunes of those whose benefaction must never waver because—hey!—they're family, dash all my hopes that they would leave; would more could they need? Food they have received, drink they have received, talk they have received; did they not have all of our afternoon's peace? Unfortunately, then, the cousin produced two tickets to some movie for the evening: in the cataract-infested eyes of my grandmother, that was two tickets for a visit in the future by the same dollops of humanity that, in all probability, had always seen it only as a deal.
"Fredo, you're my older brother, and I love you. But don't ever take sides with anyone against the family again. Ever."
Michael Corleone
Sunday, 10 April 2011
The Bloody Crowd
It becomes too much to expect to be able to sleep for two hours in the afternoon when you're the only grandson in an illustrious family - the span of the illustration being quite vast.
After a morning spent in a temple without any ventilation whatsoever and watching sweaty, old men bathing idols in scented water and milk, I came back for a ghee-drenched lunch, which isn't all that sumptuous when you can taste ghee in the water you're drinking. After that, I "reserved" my imminent tenure as occupier of a bed with a novel but soon found it in vain after platoons of relatives arrived in Maruti 800s and Swifts - always the brand loyalists - and turned on all the lights in the house. And by all the lights, I mean all the lights, like some occultist army bearing down upon the mood lighting-seeker. Oh, the cacophony!
I should have said this in the beginning: today is my grandfather's 79th birthday and you can find out all about its auspices in an old entry here. I'm not sure I comprehend the semantics but on such a wonderful day, he has to stand facing the east while his wife, nephews, nieces, children, their cousins, grandchildren, their cousins, and our neighbours prostrate before him and seek his blessings. Today, he's god. I can't quite place my finger on it but there's an irony hidden somewhere in there. In all of this, I'm pushed and pulled all around; a brother of my grandmother who hadn't seen me for years wanted to check if I was as tall as I seemed. I wouldn't blame the man, though, he did have quite a horrible memory and severe astigmatism.
I don't want to seem insensitive but sometimes (if not at all times), fat's fat, and my cousins definitely showed it. I had short bursts of panic attacks when, one after one, they mistook my laptop for a slate and decided to scribble on it with a chalk. So, between running from my stool in the corner to where my laptop was seated on the sofa, I was uprighted, made to probe beneath cots for lost earrings, forced to recite my academic qualifications again and again (I'm from south India, where four years in Dubai means I'm a sweaty Thor Heyerdahl), get glasses of juice for anything-but-phlegmatic uncles determined to seem smarter than me when I hadn't said a word.
Sleep would have to wait. Something had to make up for all this, I thought, something really had to. Perhaps dollar bills would be handed out to commemorate this memorable reunion, perhaps they'd offer access to some of their notable contacts along the way, perhaps... No. There's no such thing as a free lunch1, but sure as hell there's a lunch to be paid for with an arm and a leg.
After a morning spent in a temple without any ventilation whatsoever and watching sweaty, old men bathing idols in scented water and milk, I came back for a ghee-drenched lunch, which isn't all that sumptuous when you can taste ghee in the water you're drinking. After that, I "reserved" my imminent tenure as occupier of a bed with a novel but soon found it in vain after platoons of relatives arrived in Maruti 800s and Swifts - always the brand loyalists - and turned on all the lights in the house. And by all the lights, I mean all the lights, like some occultist army bearing down upon the mood lighting-seeker. Oh, the cacophony!
I should have said this in the beginning: today is my grandfather's 79th birthday and you can find out all about its auspices in an old entry here. I'm not sure I comprehend the semantics but on such a wonderful day, he has to stand facing the east while his wife, nephews, nieces, children, their cousins, grandchildren, their cousins, and our neighbours prostrate before him and seek his blessings. Today, he's god. I can't quite place my finger on it but there's an irony hidden somewhere in there. In all of this, I'm pushed and pulled all around; a brother of my grandmother who hadn't seen me for years wanted to check if I was as tall as I seemed. I wouldn't blame the man, though, he did have quite a horrible memory and severe astigmatism.
I don't want to seem insensitive but sometimes (if not at all times), fat's fat, and my cousins definitely showed it. I had short bursts of panic attacks when, one after one, they mistook my laptop for a slate and decided to scribble on it with a chalk. So, between running from my stool in the corner to where my laptop was seated on the sofa, I was uprighted, made to probe beneath cots for lost earrings, forced to recite my academic qualifications again and again (I'm from south India, where four years in Dubai means I'm a sweaty Thor Heyerdahl), get glasses of juice for anything-but-phlegmatic uncles determined to seem smarter than me when I hadn't said a word.
Sleep would have to wait. Something had to make up for all this, I thought, something really had to. Perhaps dollar bills would be handed out to commemorate this memorable reunion, perhaps they'd offer access to some of their notable contacts along the way, perhaps... No. There's no such thing as a free lunch1, but sure as hell there's a lunch to be paid for with an arm and a leg.
Saturday, 15 January 2011
Surrendering & Salvaging
Before you begin: The following story is meant only to elucidate a point being made in this post; any events detailed therein do NOT correspond to real events. No content here is meant to misinform or mislead the reader.
There was once a woman, a poor woman, whose husband had left her when their first child was born, and she was forced to give up the child for adoption as she had no means of supporting it after a few years and no intention of condemning the child to a fate similar to hers. The child, now adopted by an affluent family, grows up to become a healthy young man. Then, his birth-mother, now left begging by the sidewalks of the large city, spots him on the road one afternoon and begins to follow him, asking him for alms. He does not know who the old woman is, never having been old enough to be expected to remember anything at all before his new home. The woman, suddenly overcome with a surge of pleasure at having seen her son again, tells him the truth. He does not believe her, but has his doubts allayed by his adopted parents once he gets home. The next time he sets out, he wishes not to meet the old woman again because she forsook him when she should have not - at the same time forgetting that he wouldn't have been who he was if not for the surrender.
There is a strong analogy between this story and our daily lives. The old woman, impoverished and bereaved of any means to support herself in a fast-changing world with her antediluvian tools, is the culture we often find lacking in so many people when we talk of the decadence in India: the westernization brought on by globalization and liberalization of economies to survive in a world where the rules are set only by Big Brother.
The young child given up for adoption so early in life are the youngsters born today, living today, the very same people that our previous generations tout as the face of the future. Our culture as such is imposed on us by our parents and those who nurture us, teach us and care for us as we grow up; it may not seem necessary since it is definitely not innate, but the need to belong is, and so we seek to be native and "one" with some group of people. It is strongly tied in with our identity. However, when the culture seems lacking in some prime aspect that WE need to survive today, albeit succeed, it not only surrenders us to another culture but we also proactively seek out an alternative - if a restaurant I enter does not have the soup I eagerly seek, the manager will have no reason to force me to stay, and I will have no reason to remain, either. Neither is to blame but there is a resulting dissonance.
The affluent family is the second culture - the one that is equipped with those rights and liberties to exempt ourselves from unreasonable duties, duties that could hamper us, hinder us, in our quest for success in a world that no longer moves by the hours but the fractions of a second. It has to be conceded that there are many unreasonable expectations made of a youngster that do not so much as acknowledge the nature of the changing times, leaving one to decide whether one is prepared to lead a penitentiary life or, on quite the other hand, break free of the shackles and emerge free. Penance is a sin against practicality and freedom is a sin against faith. Which road is a child to take but the one that is available immediately, the one that provides the next morsel of food? If survival necessitates a change of sides, then so be it.
The old woman did not want to condemn, the young man did not want to come to naught, the affluent family did nothing to be held culpable for, but there innumerable grudges, favors waiting to be returned and a gratitude expression system that seems to be going haywire. Where are we in all of this? Rather, how are we in all of this?
[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="240" caption="What does it mean to be Indian?"]
[/caption]
If and when you want to endorse a revolution in your country, your state, your city or your village, then ask yourself this: how is it fair to expect all those born on this land to embrace their natively endowed gifts when the gifts themselves, inadvertently, forsake their receiver in the long run?
What is to be righted is the culture itself - even though it may not have wronged at all in expecting obedience in an age such as this, it must change in order to survive, or it must make peace with its senility and forgive defectors. A non-resident Indian (NRI) cannot be expected to listen to your calls; he will ask you how you expect him to be a hero when the rewards of heroism were dwarfed completely by the penalties for foolishness. That is, undeniably, an unfair expectation I myself have had innumerable times.
There was once a woman, a poor woman, whose husband had left her when their first child was born, and she was forced to give up the child for adoption as she had no means of supporting it after a few years and no intention of condemning the child to a fate similar to hers. The child, now adopted by an affluent family, grows up to become a healthy young man. Then, his birth-mother, now left begging by the sidewalks of the large city, spots him on the road one afternoon and begins to follow him, asking him for alms. He does not know who the old woman is, never having been old enough to be expected to remember anything at all before his new home. The woman, suddenly overcome with a surge of pleasure at having seen her son again, tells him the truth. He does not believe her, but has his doubts allayed by his adopted parents once he gets home. The next time he sets out, he wishes not to meet the old woman again because she forsook him when she should have not - at the same time forgetting that he wouldn't have been who he was if not for the surrender.
There is a strong analogy between this story and our daily lives. The old woman, impoverished and bereaved of any means to support herself in a fast-changing world with her antediluvian tools, is the culture we often find lacking in so many people when we talk of the decadence in India: the westernization brought on by globalization and liberalization of economies to survive in a world where the rules are set only by Big Brother.
The young child given up for adoption so early in life are the youngsters born today, living today, the very same people that our previous generations tout as the face of the future. Our culture as such is imposed on us by our parents and those who nurture us, teach us and care for us as we grow up; it may not seem necessary since it is definitely not innate, but the need to belong is, and so we seek to be native and "one" with some group of people. It is strongly tied in with our identity. However, when the culture seems lacking in some prime aspect that WE need to survive today, albeit succeed, it not only surrenders us to another culture but we also proactively seek out an alternative - if a restaurant I enter does not have the soup I eagerly seek, the manager will have no reason to force me to stay, and I will have no reason to remain, either. Neither is to blame but there is a resulting dissonance.
The affluent family is the second culture - the one that is equipped with those rights and liberties to exempt ourselves from unreasonable duties, duties that could hamper us, hinder us, in our quest for success in a world that no longer moves by the hours but the fractions of a second. It has to be conceded that there are many unreasonable expectations made of a youngster that do not so much as acknowledge the nature of the changing times, leaving one to decide whether one is prepared to lead a penitentiary life or, on quite the other hand, break free of the shackles and emerge free. Penance is a sin against practicality and freedom is a sin against faith. Which road is a child to take but the one that is available immediately, the one that provides the next morsel of food? If survival necessitates a change of sides, then so be it.
The old woman did not want to condemn, the young man did not want to come to naught, the affluent family did nothing to be held culpable for, but there innumerable grudges, favors waiting to be returned and a gratitude expression system that seems to be going haywire. Where are we in all of this? Rather, how are we in all of this?
[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="240" caption="What does it mean to be Indian?"]
[/caption]If and when you want to endorse a revolution in your country, your state, your city or your village, then ask yourself this: how is it fair to expect all those born on this land to embrace their natively endowed gifts when the gifts themselves, inadvertently, forsake their receiver in the long run?
What is to be righted is the culture itself - even though it may not have wronged at all in expecting obedience in an age such as this, it must change in order to survive, or it must make peace with its senility and forgive defectors. A non-resident Indian (NRI) cannot be expected to listen to your calls; he will ask you how you expect him to be a hero when the rewards of heroism were dwarfed completely by the penalties for foolishness. That is, undeniably, an unfair expectation I myself have had innumerable times.
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