GOT A GOOD GARLICKIN'

"EEEEEEEEEEK (Or did I distinctly hear, 'LEEEEEEEEEEEK')," yelled my aunt, when she heard I'd started therapy that involved eating two garlic pods first thing in the morning. "Don't come to our house, please, we won't be able to stand near you!"

Ouch. That hurt. She meant, of course, "We can't stand you anymore".... "We brought you up with good Brahminical values -- no onion, no garlic in food. And now, you eat them raw, and whole!" I was ingesting fire, and they were spitting more at me.

But after three days of drawing energy from the scud, I wasn't going to give up. "It controls blood pressure. It fights cholestrol. And, I've been told it'll do wonders to my skin because it fights free radicals," and so on and so forth, I'd ramble, licking my wounds. I could see noses crinkle up with each argument, at the other end of the line.

Would they ever understand, I'd think, as I'd slam the phone down, what my poor mouth has to undergo each time I'd chew on the fiery vegetable? And if one wasn't enough with its accompanying blisters and burns, I had to chew on two, with the opprobrium coming free!

Everyone I knew and loved was going to be walking around with breath analysers. The 'Shubha B.G.' (Before Garlic) and 'Shubha A.G.' comments were going to flow in my face -- if they ever got near, that is.

Onions and tears, did they say? Sniff, sniff... Here were people who'd loved me with all my sins and flaws, podcasting me as a rank outsider. An untouchable.
A penny for my pods?

VENDORS - II

Some time back, I'd posted a picture of a flower seller on the train. Over time, I've discovered more creative pursuits that vendors on the train engage in.

THE GREAT ROBBERY

It must take superhuman courage to travel by train in India, no matter what the romantics say.
Whether in "developed" Mumbai or that miracle of existence, Bihar, journeys are pretty much the same, the trademark being half a toe hanging out of a running train.
I just consider myself very, very lucky that i don't jostle a million people for a micro-inch of space... I don't travel rush hour, you see.
So I get an inside-out view of peak-hour traffic: I stand pasted to the door when my train chugs into the station, and before it even stops, a few hundred women of all shapes, sizes and spiked paraphernalia attached to their beings rush in like there's no next nanosecond in existence. There are collective war cries, cruel, triumphant laughs on finding window seats, and blows and elbows rained in the direction of anyone who dares get in the way...
Some of them condescend to move half a centimetre to let me get out, but not before crushing my little toe under their sharp stilettoes. And if I manage to emerge, with me and my belongings in one shape, I have to dodge crazed men and women whose single-minded pursuit of the 5.03 local will put all decorated Olympians to shame. Their goal: crush all impudent creatures who come walking in -- heaven forbid -- the opposite direction. And if they can manage to brush past a girl who looks lost and helpless in all the madness, it's a day well spent.
And after all this -- don't get me wrong -- they physically force people off trains as a form of protest against "inhuman" travelling conditions.
Bihar, of course, is every existentialist philosopher's dream country. They can actually prove the 'Death of God' here.
The latest National Crime Records Bureau report says: "The Patna rail police jurisdiction alone accounts for 23% of all crimes on wheels committed throughout the country." The report says Bihar and neighbouring Uttar Pradesh account for 51% of robberies on trains. The two states top the list of train robberies, followed by Jharkhand, Madhya Pradesh, Maharashtra, Gujarat and West Bengal.
And what do the authorities there do? Blame each other, of course, silly.
Railway minister Lalu Yadav says the GRP of the Bihar government has failed in failing providing security to passengers. Bihar CM Nitish Kumar says: "The Railways is responsible for the rise in crime on trains."
Fools' paradise.

MIZORAM ON MY MIND

Mizoram's been in the news, off and on, and on my mind for over a year.
Read a news report last week that said two years after the Bru National Liberation Front surrendered to the Mizoram government ending a decade of tribal insurgency, most of the former rebels are finding it hard to make ends meet.
This is also the year the state expects the dreaded 'Mautam'. Every 48 years, a species of bamboo in the state flowers, and is followed by an invasion by rats on granaries and paddy fields. Famine invariably ravages the state. Agricultural scientists say the bamboo flowers increase the fertility of rats.
The irony: Mizoram is blessed.
My first impression -- and a lasting one -- was a visual feast I tucked into last year from a small Alliance aircraft window: unending stretches of rolling hills, and silver hues of mist hanging barely a few inches above, as if wondering where to settle.
The plane was just as undecided: it made a sudden descent into one of those stretches, leading to one of the most charming landing stations I've ever seen.
Mizoram was as much about natural beauty as the mystery that's tied to it. Lengpui airport didn't look like an airport at all -- it was like a small waiting room that had sprung up in the middle of a hill station. The locals gave us cold looks (which I later discovered was reserved for 'Indians'); the winding road to Aizawl had hills, forests, waterfalls and homes hanging precariously from hill slopes, but people were not heard; much less seen.
As I took in the sights of Aizawl, still bowled over by its beauty, there was a sense of trepidation too.
The state is well and truly cut off from the rest of the country. The closest thing to home was a 'Bombay Dhaba' in an Aizawl marketplace. Prices of the most common things here are high since, as one shopkeeper told us, the goods come from either Hong Kong or Myanmar -- and yes, they do have their version of Burma Bazaar in the heart of Aizawl...
Aizawl is a pretty little city -- more like a small town -- word of the "foreigners" arriving (that was us) had spread, and a shopkeeper in the main market even asked us if we were the guys from "India". Everywhere we went, children would stop to stare at us and say, 'Indian, Indian.' And except for a few youngsters -- who, perhaps by virtue of having studied in places like Delhi and Mumbai, were more familiar with the 'strangers' -- they all gave us the looks.
Besides, we saw people looking stoned, faily regularly. One woman suddenly parked herself in front of us in a marketplace and kept looking through me, which unnerved me a bit...
Now for the brighter contradiction: they're a very warm people -- we attended a church service in Dawrpui, for the experience, and though it was in Mizo, the atmosphere was electric... There were drums, guitars, impromptu singing (and dancing) by local parishioners, and a great deal of devotion, which was very moving.
And the best part yet: the countryside is untouched by the marauding "tourists from India." In addition to the fact that there are no Pan Parags and Kurkures scattered all over the place (although the local people are addicted to paan eaten with a supari that leaves you feeling dizzy!), you can see clouds touching the hills everywhere -- in fact, you go through them quite often...
Their bamboo handicrafts and shawls are to die for, and the women are slim and lovely. Brought back a mini-version of a charkha in bamboo, and a lovely smoking pipe, among other things...
But there was something that didn't quite feel right, although three days can say very, very little about any place. Perhaps it was the "frostiness" we encountered. That very "safe" distance people kept from us.
Plus the nagging thought that there's a dark shroud on both sides of the divide. Came back home feeling that there's so much more I want to know about that state, its culture and its people, just as they probably want to know beyond the horrific stereotypes we carry about each other: The Mizos, we say, are the dog-eaters. The Indians, they say, don't care for us or treat us as one among them; they're rude, and besides, what has anyone done to ease that perception or bring the state into the mainstream?
Isolated, mysterious, Mizoram truly is. But I can't help going back there again and again, soaking up every bit of news I get about the state. It's now a deep, beautiful, indelible part of my memory.

MIRACLE OF LOVE

Read the most amazing story this morning about this Muslim maid who got sacked for tending to a neglected Ganesha idol in her Hindu employer's home, but continued to believe in the little fat God, and got her job back.
To me, this story is less about the string of "miracles" that followed for her, and more an incredible tale of unshakeable faith and the changes in your life it can bring about; there are those who will dismiss her little "miracles" as coincidences or fate, but to me, it's an instance of the beauty that love and attachment can bring with it.
Quite simply, if deep love for another human being can change a person and his/her life, by extension, strong belief in and love for a higher power can move the mountains most of us consider unsurmountable -- pain, heartache, suffering, depression, penury, disease... And what does that higher power demand anyway? Purity of feeling, steadfastness and some time, perhaps? Quite like what a loved one would ask for?
My own experience with the little fat God's been incredible. This year, like I've done for the past four years, I undertook the journey to see one of Mumbai's biggest Ganesha idols, the Lalbaugcha Raja, during Ganesh Chaturthi.
I'd never done this in over two decades in Mumbai, not because I lacked the faith, but simply because the "pilgrimage" involved trudging through very crowded, narrow streets and queues that stretch to nowhere. The noise and the crowd (most of whom smoke bidis, cuss and swear and give you unwanted physical attention -- incredible how these guys come to worship or are ostensibly returning home after worship) can leave you feeling nauseous.
The first year, I went out of curiosity and a sheer sense of adventure (Never really expected any devotion to flow at a site like this!). Entered through a route few used, in the dead of the night, got five minutes with the idol, bowed in respect, and left with the 'Wow, I did it' feeling. That's about it.
The second year was just as unspectacular, with the same fugitive entry. But by the third year, I was hooked. Nevertheless, I tried the shortcuts again -- used some influence, cut through the serpentine queue and got all of five privileged minutes with the idol. Prayed (synonym for begged, sought assorted favours). Sure enough, the pleas were answered too.
This year was different. Knew I had to go, if only to keep up the tradition, but kept putting it off. Maybe the heart wasn't all there (it has its own reasons), and that's usually when I procrastinate. Finally dragged myself there after a killing schedule at work. There was enough discouragement -- colleagues said, "Just look at the queue. Your turn will come tomorrow morning..." and "My brother works for a newspaper, but had to stand in the queue for four hours and return dejected..."
The testosterone display didn't make it easier. Heard my fair share of foul language along the way, and got touched in the wrong places. There was music blaring from loudspeakers, kids bawling, vendors screaming, incessant honking by vehicles stuck in a jam (and this was 1.30 am); worse, no cops or officials to rescue me and lead me in.
This year was indeed very, very different. I had had a little mental conversation with the idol before even getting there; and by the time I reached, just wanted to get it over and done with. Enough was enough, and heck, why didn't I use influence this time round? I was sick, tired, and wanted to get home and rest. Even contemplated getting back after standing in front of a huge TV screen that was broadcasting the chaos from the sanctum sanctorum.
But I remember, even as waves of fatigue were washing over me, asking Him just one question, "Don't you want to see me today?"
I won't call what followed a miracle, but it was strange enough. One of the organisers lifted a rope at that very moment, and I coolly made my way in. I was allowed free entry, although a family behind me was stopped. I kept walking, noticing that it was in the opposite direction -- worshippers were returning, in the same mode as I had seen them enter: crowding, pushing aimlessly, yelling. Again, there I was: In the midst of the chaos I so despised.
Lord, why was I doing this. And for Pete's sake, they were selling Spiderman masks, umbrellas, flashy, faux jewellery all along the route. He was all over garish posters, there were "holy men" selling all kinds of coloured threads, and a TV set was showing vulgar dances set to loud "devotional" songs in Marathi.
I was too dazed and kept walking, if only because turning back would mean walking into another hell hole. Ten minutes felt like an hour.
I walked right into the smell of incence and broken coconuts, and someone yelling: "Move on, move on, quick." And there He was. Sure as ever, towering over everything else with that little glint in His eye saying, "Just where did you think you'd run off to...?" ;)
That was it. Nothing mattered to me, and all surrounding sounds just faded out -- I couldn't hear the woman who was screaming at her kid right in front of me; or see the volunteer pushing people out, yelling all the time. I just felt lost in the surge of love -- He just made sure I got there, no hindrances whatsoever. I don't need huge miracles to change things around in my life; I'd just been blessed with personal, loving attention when everything around me semed hopeless, repulsive.
My two minutes with Him done, I walked back, still high. There was no chaos anymore -- only a lot of colour and vibrancy. And for a long, long time till I reached home, I had tears in my eyes.

THE TRUTH, THE WAY

Truth can be stated in a thousand different ways, yet each one can be true.
Swami Vivekananda

Quite simply, what's true for you need not be true for me. At a deeper level, how many of us are true to ourselves? To our nature? Being true to others is barely an extension of this.

Kierkegaard believed there was an objective truth -- concerned with the facts of a person's being, and a subjective one -- concerned with a person's way of being.

But I'm not attempting, here, to get into a metaphysical discussion on absolute truth, or even reality or the perception of reality. That's a subject that requires in-depth study and analysis.

In our immediate environment, how much of what we see or hear (or are taught) is the truth, and how much a facade? An attempt to control, condition? I'll never forget this scene in Renoir's La Grande Illusion where there's a shot of a radio and a sound clip of a news report on the war, juxtaposed with a person holding a mask.
Joseph Goebbels, who said, "If the lie is big enough and told often enough, it will be believed," had all prints of the film destroyed. But that is what the truth does: it's raw, it's powerful, and it's dreadfully painful. And like all painful situations, it stirs change.

I can't say all of the media is a lie (and not just because I work for the industry), but there are enough half-truths and untruths there to set you thinking. For that matter, I don't quite know which industry is free from lying/masking the truth/changing it to suit its purpose.
History textbooks are now being challenged for having fed children with white lies for years. Scientists and researchers fudge data; politicians lie to voters; witnesses lie to judges; the cops lie about 'encounters'; the government lies to the people; people lie to their partners, and even in their resumes. There are, of course, the 'casual lies' we all tell to escape tough situations at work, at home or on the street.
And then there are the exaggerations: those great attention-seeking mechanisms used primarily for the purpose of entertainment.

At the other end of the spectrum, little children -- and adults who are children at heart -- can immediately spot a lie. Not hard to understand: they're pure, they're free of fear; they're more in touch with their "true selves".

But why, why, why does one lie?
Demons, fears and insecurities, in Mahatma Gandhi's eyes, are greatest challenges to truth. Lying is pathological -- there are esteem issues here. Often, lying's a habit, and unless there's enough will power, it's difficult to break out of the cycle. It's often difficult to face what is real.

But just as the truth is painful, lying hurts too, and that pain is long-term.
The world, my friend, is imperfect. And only The Truth is perfect.

SAINATH

Couldn't help feel that surge of pride when I heard about P Sainath being nominated for the Ramon Magsaysay Award. Memories flooded in: Impressionable me, all of 18, in a classroom with other girls my age, riveted to Sainath talking to us about unsavoury 'isms' we'd never given thought to -- globalisation, commercialisation, and rural poverty.

I'll never forget how this girl from Bihar burst into tears when Sainath made a scathing remark about an unfeeling administration in the 'Bimaru' state that simply lets people starve.

But then, that's what Sainath does to you. He shakes you up. Into thinking hard, at times even violently disagreeing, but never passively letting what he says go over your head -- unlike what most media reports and the entertainment industry do to you.
You may think he's talking in extremes, but you simply cannot ignore the man. Because, at the end of the day, he hits you in your gut. You just know you're part of the same rotten system that watches and lets things pass without moving a finger (Nero's guests, he'd love to say: "How could THEY indulge in excesses and just watch?")

Whatever slot you may want to fit him into, there's one thing you can't deny: The man has the courage to pursue what he's passionate about, and what the world doesn't give a damn to. It also takes helluva lot of guts to spend your gratuity and all your savings to report from the poorest villages of the country, and on people no "respectable" publication or television channel would care to reach out to. More than anything else, I'm proud to say, he's left many generations of students -- and that includes me -- with a conscience.

He's talking about issues all of us know are crucial to the survival of our ecosystem and community, but choose to discuss in passing or even ignore... I've often wondered, when I'm at a sprawling new mall that's part of this resurgent economic superpower-in-the-making India we're all talking about: What's happening to all the mill workers and their families who've been shunted out of this space to make way for another monstrosity in the skyline? Where are they going? And DO I really need that 8th pair of Levis jeans when I know the guy who once worked here struggles to make ends meet while his son is probably being recruited by the underworld? Who's responsible for the disparity all this has created? Does anyone have a voice here, and does anyone care about the sociological implications? And who's answerable? Most of all, why do I just sit there and watch?

CURIOUS CATS

So who let the cat out? The kid who just can't stop asking "Why" till you want to hit him on the head; the pesky neighbour who wants to know who enters your house, why, what your family quirks are; the cousin who empties your wardrobe to check whether you have anything hidden there that'll give her enough fodder for gossip...?

Whatever it is, the curiosity machine certainly sems to be whirring. I can almost feel multicoloured bulbs light up in the brains of those who've just chanced upon juicy bits of information. Their eyes do light up, at least!

Here's where it comes from: There's something called the reticular arousal system in the brain, which has to do the most with alertness or intensity of attention (and thus curiosity). It is a column of nerve cells extending through the lower brain.

And hey, a little bit of the curious stuff can be good for you too. Researcher Dr Sonia Cavigelli's found, in her study of 80 female rats from birth to death, that the curious ones survived breast and pituitary tumors and lived, on an average, 25 percent longer than the cautious ones.
http://www.scienceagogo.com/news/20050209000020data_trunc_sys.shtml
Curiosity has been identified as a trait that predicts adjustment and success. It's also a "reproductive trait", one that is looked for in a mate. A positive relationship between curiosity and creativity has also been found (Vidler, 1977).
A study by psychologists at the University at Buffalo says the degree to which people are curious influences their personal growth opportunities and the level of intimacy that develops when they meet someone new -- the first study to examine how curiosity affects the genesis of intimacy.
http://www.acsu.buffalo.edu/~kashdan
Curiosity has also been identified as a major motivation for great accomplishments. http://www.csun.edu/~vcpsy00h/students/curious.htm

There's also the opposite effect, of course. One that extends beyond just obnoxious intrusive behaviour. Studies have shown that curiosity is a primary motive for dangerous activities and drug use.
There's an awesome link on the subject, for those who're -- well, curious:
http://www.educationoasis.com/resources/Articles/fosteringcuriosity.html

WE RESPECT OUR ELDERS. or do we?

I don't know what great Indian culture we love to flaunt. Read with horror in The Hindustan Times on Thursday, how a 75-year-old paralytic lady was thrown -- by her daughter and grandchildren -- into a garbage bin in Tamil Nadu. Follows another story about this guy who left his mother to die in a car in Navi Mumbai.

Are these guys human beings or what? Throwing senior citizens out into the street or into an old-age home, or even tossing them from home to home isn't uncommon; but throwing someone into a garbage bin, for Chrissake? How dehumanising can it get? And do it to a grandmother? The most adorable, cuddlesome and compassionate of all living creatures?

US V/S THEM

After years of trying to figure out Indian curiosity -- where relatives/co-passengers scan you from top to bottom, ask questions beginning with the innocuous, "Where are you getting off" to the more cutting, "Are you divorced? Why don't you have kids?", I'm beginning to wonder if it's an attempt to include you in a wider community -- no offence meant at all.

Even if this argument appears a little stretched -- I'm sure curiosity has its uses, apart from just forming a connection -- there must be something more to the Indian method of communication than meets the eye. It's true that we're not very "friendly" when it comes to greeting/smiling at people we meet on the street, but I've seen perfect strangers bond on trains, share food and part with heavy hearts, like they've known each other for a lifetime. In the course of a routine conversation, we often go into intimate details of families, contacts and so on, taking in every detail of the person we're talking to -- facial expressions, dialogue, props and all.

US researchers have studied communication patterns among the Americans and Asians for long, and point to this "individualistic" versus "inclusive" method of communication between the cultures. The methods may be different when it comes to us Indians, but the attempt, I think, is primarily to put "you" before "I".

Here's a sampling of the research:
A study by University of Michigan researchers led by Hannah-Faye Chua and Richard Nisbett (2005) found that when shown a photograph, North American students of European background paid more attention to the object in the foreground of a scene, while students from China spent more time studying the background and taking in the whole scene.
The July issue of Psychological Science carries the results of a study that suggests "rugged American individualism could hinder their ability to understand other peoples' point of view." In contrast, the Chinese are more skilled at understanding other people's perspectives, perhaps because they live in a more "collectivist" society.
LiveScience quotes study co-author and cognitive psychologist Boaz Keysar of the University of Chicago as saying, "This cultural difference affects the way we communicate. That strong, egocentric communication of Westerners was nonexistent when we looked at Chinese. The Chinese were very much able to put themselves in the shoes of another when they were communicating."
Psychologists at Hokkaido University in Japan have found that the Japanese gaze at the shape of a person's eyes, while Americans focus on the mouth. When people from the two cultures interact, these crisscrossed sightlines can even lead to miscommunication!

WHAT IS BEAUTY?

"It's a beauty", my dad would exclaim, when he'd see a flick of the wrist and a shot that went across the boundary. That was about the time I was studying the Harappa and Mohenjo Daro civilisations in school, and 'beauty' would conjure up images of the caption below a picture of a young girl's statue discovered among the Indus Valley ruins.

An age of difference here, but the connection's not as tenuous as it appears. Essentially, beauty is what hits the eye -- or the other senses -- and gets lodged in our sub-conscious over time, through repitition.
All our overtly expressed notions of beauty relate to concepts of immediate recall: nature, women, music and so on... It's primal, if it relates to the senses, and quite possible that images and concepts of beauty are stored in our collective unconscious as a human race.

A study recently released in the journal Psychological Science showed that what we think is attractive or beautiful is whatever requires the least amount of effort.
A lot like watching television: A soporific for the mind. There's an entire generation out there that's picking up its concept of beauty (read attractiveness) from Paris Hilton and Victoria Spice. Imagine that.

It's no surprise, then, that advertising relies heavily on these very concepts of 'beauty' to peddle products -- from two-wheelers to cosmetics to even homes. A favourite hunting ground for feminists. Naomi Wolf argues, in her 1991 best-seller, The Beauty Myth, that the old myth that women were fulfilled as housewives and mothers was gradually replaced by advertisers with what she calls "the beauty myth." To be accepted in the world of the liberated and independent “new woman,” she says, one has to meet rigid standards of slimness, beauty and fashion.
Interesting, how she puts it: "How to make sure that busy, stimulated working women would keep consuming at the levels they had done when they had all day to do so and little else of interest to occupy them? A new ideology was necessary that would compel the same insecure consumerism; that ideology must be, unlike that of the Feminine Mystique (Betty Friedan's “feminine mystique” -- advertisers consciously manipulate their portrayals of women to ensure they serve as good consumers), a briefcase-sized neurosis that the working woman could take with her to the office..."

Feminine mystique or not, feminist movement or not, one thing's for sure: In an increasingly consumerist, appearance-obsessed world such as the one we live in, we constantly get "constructed", interpreted images of skin-deep beauty. Maya, perhaps? A grand illusion? In all this clutter, you wonder: What IS true beauty?
And what kind of beauty gives you happiness?

'Beauty is truth, truth beauty — that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know,' said John Keats. My criteria come pretty close: Compassion, above all. An all-encompassing love, irrespective of prejudices. Plus honesty, confidence (a certain self-assuredness), and tonnes of creative energy.

GLOWING IN THE DARK

Graveyard shift ain't never dead. We got to work when people go to bed.
We got a tremendous work overload. The boss don't care about the dress code.
So if your hair's messed up, come on in. Nobody don't care 3 o'clock in the morning.
I'm fantasizin' about a six four, broke as hell moppin' the floor.
Graveyard Shift by AFROMAN

Okay, okay, I don't really do the graveyard shift, in the strictest sense of the term. But I'm half-way into the grave all the same... With my odd hours of sleeping, I have eyes that look like a racoon's. My back hurts like hell, blinking at a computer screen all evening (and the early part of the night). Acid's burnt its way through my stomach lining, by now, I'm sure... Par for the course for us "swing shifters" -- people worse off than I am, I'm sure, who work in hospitals or the armed forces.

Researchers say the graveyard shift causes ischaemic heart disease, cluster headaches, disturbs circadian sleep rhythms, and leads to poor mental health. All of which is no doubt exacerbated by lousy dietary habits like munching on fried snacks and guzzling cup after cup of overboiled tea through the shift.

The upshot? Power, perhaps? Creativity? The sense of doing something different? Contributing to the world around us? And of course, not having to travel during peak hours! Well, who in this world DOES work 9 to 5 all the time? There are also those who work better at night -- students, for instance, who can only absorb complex theorems at night, when all's quiet.

Besides, someone has to be the vigilant, street-smart dog. Criminal to let breaking news slip past the precious forty winks.

CHALTA HAI, YAAR

A relative told me, when I shifted to my new home, "You'll find one new thing falling apart each day." That wasn't very encouraging, as far as welcome lines go, but it couldn't be further from the truth.

Keeping my home dust-and-cobweb-proof is one thing, as I was soon to discover, but insulating it from shoddy, unprofessional work by builders/contractors/electricians, sundry others from whom I'd bought appliances, insensitive neighbours who chucked things out of their homes, quite another. From then on, till date, I am victim to a syndrome psychologists haven't yet discovered: Household Stress. And worse, here's something mum never told me, or perhaps Harvard would never think of teaching you: Your first lesson in ruthless street savvy begins at home.

Mine begins at my doorstep. The high-tech door lock I bought barely a year ago from a reputed consumer durables firm, is faulty. I have to struggle for a good five minutes with my key before I enter.

From here on, allow me to take you through a guided tour of disaster zone. Walk into my house, and find the walls wet with seepage from shoddy waterproofing in the building. Worse still, wade through ankle-deep water on a particularly bad day. No fault of mine, of course. It's just that every time someone's appointed to do the building waterproofing and repair, there are people who'll find fault with the process, and that's pretty much end of story.

So what does this land animal who doesn't find a flooded drawing room her idea of a weekend by the poolside, do? Pick up phone to call the guys responsible for this, of course. Not so fast, dearie, the damn phone's dead. Call them from your cellphone. Guy who's probably been warming that seat for God-knows-how-long in this cushy government job he knows will never be taken away from him asks you your number. Hangs up. It's that simple.

Walk into my kitchen. Try fixing myself a smoothie. Plug the food processor into the socket, and draw a blank. Call the guys. Ask them to come Monday morning, and they land up next Saturday afternoon. Act like they're doing you a grand favour.

Try playing my satellite radio for some peace. I've renewed my subscription a week before it's due to expire, but the darned thing won't work for reasons best known to them. I don't even bother calling.

Try switching on my computer. Recoil after I get this nerve-splitting electric shock. Sure-fire cure for the insanity all this has left me with, I guess. Run out, call the electrician. The guy says there's no earthing, and the wires fixed by the builder are of poor quality. Proceeds to correct the flaw, but the darned comp still gives you the rude jerks.

Try taking a shower, just to cool off. The geyser blows a fuse. Hey, at least you're not alone. Call the electrician back, and he gives you the same old spiel.

Look out the window. Find the place littered with bits of paper, deep red paan stains and packets of that great bane of modern civilisation -- gutkha. Ever tried living in a zoo, where the keeper's lost and the shit hits the fan? Welcome to my home.

Moral of the story: Don't ever try getting your house fixed in this wonderful country where consumer is truly king. Or at least, thinks he is. Hello, aren't they all talking about the great Indian middle-class that everyone in the world worth his bottomline is chasing? Anyone heard of courtesy, professionalism, ethics, follow-up service that go with courting business? Sab chalta hai, boss. We're Indians, and we live with half-baked jobs, half-truths, and general half-heartedness. Discipline, professionalism and courtesy are alien to this great civilisation.

If you thought you could get your way by being this polite, well-brought-up "convent educated" girl who never so much as swore or cussed, you've got many nasty surprises coming your way. Grow up, or be left plodding for answers in ankle-deep water and muck from someone else's backyard.

FLOWER SELLERS

It's a lazy Sunday afternoon on a VT local. Business isn't exactly booming, but there's plenty of room for fun 'n' games.

MY MONSOON WISHLIST

Must-Haves:
1. Slush-cum-garbage protection attachment on shoes
2. My very own winged chariot from which I can look down with glee at traffic queues
3. The weather bureau turned into a museum, and bird calls used for predictions
4. REAL traffic cops out on streets, not everyone and his uncle pretending to be one
5. Cardamom tea stalls every 50 metres
6. A changing room at Marine Drive for those who love the rain washing over...
7. Telepathic communicator to beat clogged networks
8. Waterproof dryer for rain-soaked clothes
9. Aerial filter that cleans up rainwater for those who love to drink straight from the clouds
10. Leather that repels fungus


And some things I NEVER want changed:
1. Kids looking thoroughly bewildered in their oversized raincoats
2. Guys out on the streets, floating and frolicking with tyres, hanging on to the back of buses and trucks... Having a ball when it rains, what else
3. Chivalrous men reaching out to women on flooded tracks and carrying them to safety
4. People struggling with upturned umbrellas
5. The fashion statements: Girls in colourful salwar-kameezes and jeans rolled up to their knees, hair dripping wet...
6. Steaming corn-on-cobs
7. The mist over the few remaining hills
8. Puppies shaking off the water from their bodies
9. The smell of raw earth, the song of the rain and the ultimate rain dance
10. Marine Drive

IT POURS WHEN...

Okay, it's pouring like crazy in Mumbai. Trains have stopped, there's knee-deep water everywhere. But that's not news any more.

Feels like I'm walking through rush hour at Churchgate station: It's horribly suffocating; the lady next to me gives me a jerk here, a nudge there, even flattens my toes under her stilettos, but I'll give her the look and run on. It's that mechanical.

Extremes of weather? When has that ever been more than a nuisance? Endless digging that leaves huge craters on streets, a municipality that raises the middle finger in your face and keeps passing the buck as monsoon after monsoon wreaks havoc? Oh shut up.

You're sounding like my bai -- every year, she has a story to tell. This time, she told me how her neighbour didn't let her kids get off the cot in their little hut, with a mini-flood in there. Or how all their food got spoilt, and they couldn't afford to restock. I didn't so much as flinch. Soggy, soppy stuff.

By the way, we now have a name for all this: 26/7. A lousy memory. It just flashes past, like the lady who works at the sales tax office in Churchgate.

USUAL SUSPECTS

Chanced upon a PTI story today that says Lalu Yadav's
b-i-l "demanded" a first class coach on the Rajdhani saying he "was the Parliament". You read that right. Only in Bihar. Who's to stop our slimy politicians? And in this case, their genes are crook-configured too...
Enjoy:

Patna, Jul 1 (PTI)
Railway Minister Lalu Prasad's high-profile brother-in-law and RJD MP Subhash Yadav, who was in the news for "ordering" authorities to stop a train at the platform of his choice, allegedly demanded a berth for himself and his aides in the AC first class coach of the Rajdhani Express.
"I am the Parliament.. I am the Parliament," Yadav shouted at the top of his voice and ordered making arrangement for a berth for him in AC first class coach of the Patna-New Delhi Rajdhani Express instead of in the AC second class, in which he was booked, last night.
Yadav claimed to have applied for reservation in the AC first class coach and occupied a seat in the AC first class compartment against the alloted berth, eyewitnesses said.
The train was delayed by nearly 20 minutes, triggering protests from other passengers.
Yadav was recently in the news for allegedly ordering the Patna junction station authorities to stop Rajdhani Express on platform number one for his comfort instead of on the assigned platform number four. The officials at Patna junction, including the station manager and deputy general manager (commercial), however, remained tight lipped over the episode but confirmed that the train left the station 20 minutes behind schedule....
Prasad's father-in-law was recently fined for travelling in AC first class coach in Samapark Kranti Express from Hajipur to Gopalganj without a valid ticket.

GOD'S GIFT TO THE LANGUAGE

Saw a poster on the train yesterday... Pretty much doubles up for the Creator.

"God gift astrologer. Job, business, love/late marriage, wife/husband problem, Everything past, present, future, hidden fact of life."
In Marathi, it's even simpler: Says, "Gurukripa God jyotish."

SILENCE

In the neurotic megapolis that Mumbai is, it's hard to earn your two minutes of silence.
The more you want to be alone, the more it hits you: The honking's incessant; everywhere you look, tempers are frayed --- on trains, in the neighbourhood, on the streets, at the workplace... The verbal violence just seems to be getting more intense than ever.

Popular music too, these days, appears to be a series of ear-splitting shouts, if not an assault by screeching voices and violins... You just have to hear Himeshbhai hammer away, "Ek baar aaja, aaja, aaja, aaja, aaaaaaaaaaajaaaaaaa" till it rips your senses apart and you'll know what I'm talking about...

In many ways, I'm lucky to live in an area where I get to hear a variety of birds chirp their way through the morning, and very often, contribute their own little notes when my music class is in progress. And like in music, I notice that the marked difference in the high-pitched ambient noise that jars each day, and the music of the birds -- or for that matter, the cadences of a raga -- is the silence that fills your being between the notes.

Eckhart Tolle says: "Pay attention to the gap -- the gap between two thoughts, the brief, silent space between words in a conversation, between the notes of a piano or flute, or the gap between the in-breath and the out-breath. When you pay attention to those gaps, awareness of 'something' becomes -- just awareness. The formless dimension of pure consciousness arises from within you and replaces identification with form."

And if anything can hold my attention for more than a minute, even if it's pure silence, I can safely tell myself I'm going many notches higher on the evolutionary scale!