Tuesday, December 26, 2017

Daddy and Mr. Saigal

My father loved several kinds of music. Our Telefunken spool tape recorder and our Pye radio gave us a wonderful variety of music to listen to, from Handel's Water Music, to the theme from Shakespearewallah, to Yehudi Menuhin and Pandit Ravi Shankar performing together, children's songs, comedy radio programmes, my brother's collection of pop and rock, and, of course, old Hindi film songs: Talat Mehmood, Jagmohan, Pankaj Mallik, Hemant Kumar, Geeta Dutt, etc. They were singers whose song were enjoyed and appreciated. My father's love for K.L. Saigal's songs, however, was a class apart. I have a strong suspicion that he worshipped him. In my teetotal family, even the fact of Saigal's premature death due to alcoholism was glossed over, without even the teeniest disapproval being manifest! Sorrow, yes, that his illustrious career was cut short, but never disapproval. At least that's what I remember from my early years.
Since Mr. Saigal was Daddy's all time favourite, there seemed to be a preponderance of his music in our home. My sister and I would protest sometimes, but Daddy's obvious joy in Saigal songs often overrode our petulant grumbling. He would hum Radhe Rani De Daaro Na, and even sing it at parties. All of Saigal's repertoire was cherished: my introduction to the ghazals of Ghalib and Seemaab Akbarabadi was in Saigal's voice. His  bhajans have found a place in my deepest core: the simple philosophy of Andhe ki laathi tu hi hai is a great comfort in difficult times. Suno suno he Krishna Kala is utterly poignant. But the ultimate Saigal song for my father, the creme de la creme of his fabulous repertoire, was a song that the maestro had written himself: Main Baithi Thhi. It is the song of a seeker, full of longing and deep spirituality: bhakti in its truest meaning.

Today, on your ninety-fifth birthday, Daddy, I want to thank you for making Saigal a part of my life. I wonder if he holds musical soirees in the afterlife. If he does, I'm sure that you have a front row seat! Happy listening, Daddy.

Monday, December 25, 2017

In the name of vanity!

Sushil and Tina Mohan were friends of friends, whom we met occasionally at parties and weddings. We had moved out of their town some years ago, so it was a pleasant surprise to bump into them at the breakfast buffet at a holiday resort. Rather, I bumped into Tina and we enjoyed a leisurely breakfast together, as the men were both out for an early round of golf. We spoke about our mutual friends, when we had last met them, our children, my grandchildren, and our lives in general. Tina looked at my few strands of white hair and laughed, "You are so lucky to not have to dye your hair."
I gave due credit to my mother's wonderful genes, and admired Tina's long and lustrous mane and youthful looks "You look very young, Tina. And in any case you are much younger than I am."

Tina sighed. "I've been dyeing my hair for years now, which is part of the problem. I look young, so Sushil insists on dyeing his hair and moustache."

"Is that a problem?" I asked, bemused.

"Yes, he's had a terrible rash for the past few months, which the dermatologist says is caused by a reaction to chemicals in the dye. And the doctor says this could lead to skin cancer, but he still insists on dyeing his hair and moustache. He just doesn't listen to any one."

I was shocked. Was looking young so important? I knew that nicotine and alcohol were physiological addictions, but a psychological compulsion such as this was really strange.

"I doubt if he would listen to me, but I will try and talk to him about this," I said, before we went our separate ways. To dye or not to dye is a very personal decision. The spouse now has plenty of salt among the pepper, but has never been bothered by it. We both seem to believe in comfort/laziness before vanity, but, as I said, I have nothing against hair dyeing in general.

The spouse and I had a relaxed weekend. He played golf. I swam in the pool, enjoyed the sauna, and read to my heart's content. We'd bump into the Mohans at the restaurant, and exchange pleasantries, but I didn't find the opportunity to have a little tete-a-tete with Sushil.

The afternoon before our departure I went to the local market to pick up a few souvenirs. The spouse was golfing. Tina had gone for a session at the spa. A very neatly groomed Sushil appeared, fresh from the ministrations of the local barber. He was in his mid-fifties, dapper, balding, with jet black, obviously dyed hair, which, to my eyes at least, didn't make him look particularly young. He gallantly offered to carry my shopping back to the resort, and I gladly accepted, glad for the opportunity to talk to him in confidence about his 'dyeing' issues! He was an easy conversationalist, and even before I could organize my thoughts, he started telling me about the rash, and the dyeing, and the dermatologist's advice, and the second specialist whom he consulted (who had the same advice as the first: stop dyeing!) and so on.

"But why must you dye your hair? I'm sure you will look fine even if you go grey".

"I'll stop dyeing my hair if Tina stops dyeing hers".

His tone was petulant.

"But she has no problem with hair dyes, so why should she stop? Besides, you are the one with medical issues. It's certainly not worth risking your health for something so trivial."

That seemed logical to me.

"Because she'll look younger than ever. I'll look too old to be with her. People will think I'm her dad or her uncle or something."

His reasoning seemed specious. I was inspired, for once, and countered his idiocy with an idiocy of my own.

" You'll look very very rich. People will assume that you are a rich, distinguished gentleman who can afford to have such a lovely young wife."

My line of reasoning seemed to appeal to him. We had reached the lobby. I thanked Sushil and took my bags from him. We left early the next morning, so I don't know whether he plans to follow my advice or not! However, our mutual friends' son is getting married in a month or so, and we do plan to attend. We will know then whether Sushil Mohan practices vanity before sanity or vice versa.

Photo: the back of the RE's head!

Tuesday, December 19, 2017

Not riding the camel

Our younger daughter accompanied us on a road trip to Rajasthan last winter. She was also the co-driver, so we spent some good times together in the front seats, while the RE relaxed in the back seat.
The spouse and I fulfilled a long cherished dream of visiting the Dargah of Moinuddin Chishti, the beloved Ajmer waale Khwaja. Our daughter had visited it earlier, so was somewhat familiar with the place. One night in Ajmer, one night in Pushkar, then off to Bikaner. Which is the locale of this post.


The spouse had been studying routes and booking hotels and planning most of the trip. He discovered what seemed like an interesting activity, a camel safari, which was followed by a folk dance performance and dinner in the sand dunes somewhere near Bikaner. 
(I had last sat on a camel in Puri, nearly eight years ago. 
That was some eight years younger. 
That was a mere 20-30 minute ride on a beach). 

This safari was a different kettle of fish entirely.

My camel didn't seem to like me. It also seemed much wider than the only other camel I had ever ridden! Sitting astride the camel seemed to be pulling apart all my thigh and pelvic muscles. It was jerky, kept diving forward ( making me hang on for dear life, clenching all relevant muscles even more), kept trying to sniff the hind quarters of whichever camel happened to be in front of it, and sometimes terrifying me even more by breaking into a trot. The desert was beautiful, the view of the setting sun with another camel safari in silhouette was breathtaking, but the ride seemed endless and my discomfort was intense. Dismounting, after what seemed like hours (but was probably not more than an hour and a half) was an immense relief. We explored the camp, enjoyed some tea, biscuits and namkeen, and chatted with our fellow adventurers. The arrangements were adequate, but the camp dinner got delayed, and I was irritable and exhausted by the time we got back to our hotel. 

However, this camel safari has had its uses. It is my personal benchmark for physical discomfort (quite apart from medical/surgical situations which have entirely different standards of discomfort). 
It can be hours of being stuck in traffic, endless waiting at airports, long flights, very long car rides:
(all highly privileged discomforts, I know) all of which I endure with reasonable fortitude, and thank my stars that at least I'm not riding that camel!

Monday, November 27, 2017

Woman to Woman: Madhulika Liddle's latest book.

I have always enjoyed reading Madhulika Liddle's work, so much so that when her new book was released recently, I didn't have the patience to wait for a physical copy, and immediately got it on my Kindle! Whether it be her fabulous Mughal era detective series, featuring MuzaffarJang and allies, or her short stories (My Lawfully Wedded Husband and Other Stories) or her blog, Dusted Off, in which she writes mostly about classic Hindi cinema, she is always good to read.

Woman to Woman is her darkest work till now, yet never so dark that the reader is engulfed in gloom.
Nemesis takes unusual forms in these stories. However oppressed they may be, the protagonists ultimately find some form of justice. The stories cover a wide swathe of history and geography, with the stories set in fascinating locales and time periods.

In the story 'Paro', Sana is sold as a bride owing to the particular circumstance of a cow going into labour, delaying her journey to a wedding with her aunt. Floods wreak havoc that night. Their farm is destroyed. Sana's father sells her to Usman, who promises to get her married in far off Delhi. She is first married off to Basheer, a man older than her father, who is brutal, demanding, and unwilling to give her time to adjust to her new life, far from her home in the North East. A week later, he sells her to Sajid who takes her to his village, a few hours away from the capital. Neither her husband nor his family are good to her, but Sana learns to accept her lot for the sake of her children.

In 'Ambika', her father sends her out for his after dinner paan on a cold winter night. She is raped before she reaches the shop. That she can name her rapist convinces her father that she must have brought it upon herself, and the shame is too much for him to bear. Ambika, however, finds a reason to live.

'Mala' works as a domestic help in a prosperous household. Ashu, the three year old visiting grandson, is totally enchanted by this attractive young woman, as she feeds him good food and looks after him, along with her other chores. She entertains him with her stories, and calls him her little prince. Much of this story reflects a small child's innocent perspective. Things take a dramatic turn when the younger son of the family comes home.

In 'Woman to Woman', a prostitute and a nun share the back seat of a bus and a conversation about the paths their lives have taken, and what choices they had in leading the lives they did. The ending is particularly poignant.

'Collector of Junk' is one of the most moving stories I've ever read. The protagonist Munni speaks of her Amma, who had a food stall outside a flour mill. While mother and daughter worked, preparing the food, there would inevitably be someone beside Amma, talking to her. Munni finds it strange that so many people come to moan about their lives to Amma, who always gives them a patient, sympathetic and often confidential hearing, among them a woman called Sughra. An encounter with Sughra leaves Amma deeply upset, but she refuses to share anything with Munni. What is the worst thing that can happen to a human being? Amma's answer to her own question is the very heart of this profoundly moving, compassionate story.

'The Letter' tells the story of Inimai's eager anticipation of a visit from her son and his family: "she smiled a bright toothless smile to herself as she thought of her grandchildren running in the coconut grove, splashing along the stream, sitting in enraptured silence, listening to her stories." You can almost taste the various delicacies she prepares for her family!

'Two Doors' is a heartbreaking account of a marriage, and a young wife, Kamini's response to the expectations that surround her in this role: "Years of careful upbringing had taught her that you did not argue with your elders. You could argue with the establishment, you could question the government, you could stand up for your rights- but anybody a generation older, and known to you, was to be respected." There is pressure on her to bear a child. Her husband, Vishal, is not particularly keen on having a child, but a sudden tragedy changes his outlook. "In a matter of days, they went from near-abstinence to near-orgies. If something that lacked either love or lust could be called an orgy." Doctors are consulted, fertility procedures are followed. Kamini's anguish is expressed with great authenticity.

'Maplewood' is a story set in an old, colonial bungalow in rural Madhya Pradesh occupied by a lone woman, whose late husband had inherited it from an old bachelor uncle. She can no longer afford to stay in a rented flat in Mumbai. Her son lives and works there, but his halfhearted offer that she stay with him does not encourage her to do so. Adjusting to life in an entirely different terrain is not easy. She rarely steps out, most household necessities being purchased by the local woman who works for her. An encounter on a dark and stormy night has unforeseen consequences.

An old haveli in Old Delhi, belonging to a wealthy family. A long period of childlessness. The arrival of a beautiful daughter, Laxmi. On each birthday Laxmi's father bestows upon her some precious jewellery: the little sandook given to her on her first birthday is filled with various precious trinkets over the years. The prospect of marriage at age fifteen becomes Laxmi's reason for no longer going to school. Laxmi was married to an ancestor of the narrator of this story, who is fascinated to find an old photograph of a highly bejewelled woman at the back of her parents' wedding album. Laxmi's major interest in her trousseau was in the jewellery she was getting from her parents and the bridegroom's family. Her love for jewellery remains an obsession throughout her life. How it figures towards the end of her life is intriguing. 'Captive Spirit' is truly macabre.

'The Sari Satyagraha' is one of the lighter stories in this collection. It is about an overly controlling husband and his wife, during the time of the Non Cooperation Movement. He does not allow her to wear expensive sarees at home, despite being well off and well able to afford good clothes. In the spirit of nationalism, Mr.Chaturvedi decides to boycott all British-made goods. Sulakshana's sister-in-law, Devaki, visits her and disapproves of her shabby clothing, as well as her brother's attitude in general: "He may be my brother, Sulakshana, but I am under no delusions......Let him concern himself with trade and politics and other such matters. Where the household is concerned - and most importantly , where you are concerned - he cannot tell you what you should do and what you shouldn't."  How does Sulakshana heed her sister-in-law's advice without overt rebellion against her husband?

'Wronged' is a story of relationships within a family, of the perception of who is wronged within a marriage, the shifting points of view of the grown up children of the couple concerned. Set in contemporary Delhi, the locales are familiar, and the conversations between the siblings form the narrative of this eloquent, fascinating story.

The final story in this collection, Poppies in the Snow, was longlisted for the Sunday Times EFG Short Story Award. It is a painful, intricate story set in Kashmir, with insurgents and counter-insurgency, love, brutality. betrayal and revenge. Beautifully and evocatively descriptive, it brings the Valley alive on the page. A truly searing story.

Woman to Woman is a wonderful addition to Madhulika Liddle's oeuvre.

Thursday, November 16, 2017


Between the books you want to read
and the as yet unpacked suitcases
and the laundry
and the ironed clothes, waiting
to be put away

We have help, here in India:
no dishes, no dusting,
no sweeping, no swabbing,
no ironing, no chopping
and yet, the conflict remains
between tasks and leisure.

The urge to write adds to the fun,
on these few days of being alone
when the need to feed
the significant other
is absent. A cooking break, mostly.

Being out helps, seeing a film
or play, or book event
all time seems well spent
away from the conflict zone
of home, where work and leisure
fight over my 'undisciplined' soul.

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Always so welcoming!

We bought this dining table in 1985 or so. It has been a part of our family for decades now. The chairs have been re-caned a couple of times, the table top has been changed, it has accompanied us to various corners of the country. Meals, conversations, guests, parties: it has seen a lot of life chez nous.
Nothing extraordinary here. Absolutely nothing which most long standing dining tables haven't done.

Now, however, in its dotage, as it were, our dining table, and the sideboard behind it (of the same vintage) have taken on a new avatar. They, especially the dining table, are welcoming all kinds of stuff unto themselves. Things which belong elsewhere. Medicines having been consumed, the empty foil wrappers, the medicine boxes, the glasses of water, all park themselves on the table. The table mats often stay on after a meal, unless they need a wash. A stray unused spoon may be hanging around. My handbag parks itself on one of the chairs at either end.The spouse and I both have our own desks, but very often cheques are signed at the dining table. Cheque books park themselves there, along with the newspaper that was used as padding under the NEFT form. Stray pens, newspapers with crossword puzzles or Sudoko, files, books in transit from bookshelf to bedroom, telephone chargers, battery packs, grocery bags until they are emptied and sorted. In winter, of course, jackets and shawls drape themselves over the back of the chairs. The home help does what she can, which usually means gathering all the table top detritus into a reasonably tidy pile and leaving it there.

It is looking so pretty and perfect and clean in this photograph. Perhaps we should have our meals standing up in the kitchen! When we were young there were children in the house, who had the thankless task of laying the table for meals and clearing it up afterwards. Perhaps child labour is required again. The last time I cleaned up the table and sideboard, it took so much effort that I am now hesitant to even leave a glass of water on the table, in case it grows roots and attracts a whole lot of other objects to give it company.

My dear table, please learn some detachment. Continue to embrace friends and family with warmth and love, and detach from material possessions. Do not be so welcoming of them. I think this is a lesson both of us need to learn!

Tuesday, October 31, 2017

Dominant habit?

This entire post is about me not minding my own business. Or rather, apparently minding my own business, but getting perturbed by something which should not bother me at all.

After my recent long travels and battles with jet lag and air pollution, I finally went for a walk, the standard round of our complex's drive. Some familiar faces were seen, some greeted, some merely noticed.

Among the latter category was The Balding Youngish Man With The Lhasa Apso.
The dog is adorable: he is a miniature Apso, and when he was younger and less sure-footed, would slide down the speed-breakers on his belly. Over the past several months, my friend O and I have noticed something somewhat discomfiting. The Apso's owner is often on his phone early in the morning. He holds the dog's leash in his left hand, and the dog remains on his left. However, he also holds the phone to his left ear, using his right hand, right across his chest. It looks terribly uncomfortable. It obviously doesn't bother either him, or the dog. How silly can one get, being discomfited by something that has absolutely no bearing on one's life????

Picture from Pinterest