Of greed and fear

Well, the greed part was more of an attention grabbing gimmick :D. What I really want to write about today is fear. In all the "about me", know me better posts there is one integral aspect of my life which hasn't come forth. And that is my deep , irrational cynophobia (or more commonly known as the fear of dogs)...

My earliest memory is of a chubby, tiny (well I was never tiny) me, waddling through rose bushes, and running for dear life while being chased by "Lucy", my aunt's mean Alsatian. And not to mince words here..Most dogs are equally mean, but some are more mean than others. (Disclaimer- I am not targeting any species, group or cult here, views are personal, for every one mean dog you have many cute, cuddly, loving etc dogs and so forth..So peace?). And Lucy anyway nurtured this deep hatred for me cause she always had to be tied up when I visited. So when she saw the 5 year old me pottering about in the garden she gave a yelp of delight and made a dash towards me. I gave a subsequent shriek of horror and tried an unsuccessful exit while screaming my aunt's name at the top of my lungs. And she finally rescued a much scratched and bloody me (that was the bushes not Lucy). So the fear which till then was more budding in nature was deeply ingrained from that day on.

My second encounter of the third degree kind was with "Silky", a name possibly on account of her coat? Silky was a childhood friend's Pomeranian (aww so cute??). No shudder. This one actually bit me.I felt that silky coat against my skin and felt as though a million insects were crawling on it. And was the cause of many painful injections.

I don't know if this is the case with everyone who fears something. But the moment I spy a dog, the rational part of my brain seems to sputter out and die, only to be replaced by a deep overpowering fear, skin crawling and nausea. Its something I am trying to fight against. I have tried to trace the root of this fear. It could be a subconscious reaction to my mom tightening her grip on my wrist every time she crossed a dog, when I was very young, she is pretty scared herself or what I always maintain, the fact that maybe I was a slave/ convict in my previous reincarnation and was chased down by a pack when I tried to escape. I am reformed now(Disclaimer again)....

But enough of the philosophical speculation.
Now living with this handicap in a place like India presents its own set of problems and planning.Where at almost every nook and cranny you are bound to chance upon a member of the species, (yes yes again I know usually they mind their own business and the likes) a dog free existence is a utopian concept. And please don't ask me "even puppies???". I hate that. Puppies more. Cause at least dogs know the ways of the world and propriety. Puppies are finding out.....

So existence in Pilani was a series of minor heart attacks. There dogs would prowl the hostel corridors with gay abandon and I would gingerly skirt the corrdidors with the wariness of an army novice negotiating hidden mines.

Back in those days when I went to engineering college, we had dinosaurs in our backyard and no cell phones. Getting a phone call from home meant, your name being shrieked out by a multitude of women, till you scrambled out of your room. The telephone enjoyed a place of honor in the corridor along with the full length mirror and was seated on a brown rickety table. That day I was perched on the table, talking to mom. I usually have a third eye for dog presence nearby, but that day I must have been really engrossed, cause when I looked around there were about 5 dogs surrounding my table, gamboling playfully and trying to put their paws up.
My mom tells me later that she thought I was dying of asphyxiation when she heard my strangled voice. A gladiator couldn't have felt worse than I did at that time. Well my convict self would have I guess.

My life flashed before my eyes and I thought how ironical it was that instead of being surrounded by loved ones when I was dying, well that place was taken....
I could hear my mom's hysterical voice over phone urging me to be calm and chanting various "mantras" - yep she is very religious and equally scared (its so funny when I think about it ). But now I whole heartedly support all her religious fasts cause when i unclosed my eyes which were screwed shut the dogs were miraculously leaving. I sprinted back to my room as fast as I could while mom I think took some nerve soothing medicines.
Another incident which comes to mind is when I agreed to go on a picnic with Giddy and her friends when I was visiting Bangalore. (Giddy please remind me to pay you back for this). We went in a TATA Sumo some 5 of us and one dog. Giddy had "forgotten" about the dog she claims. Anyway there was no turning back then. The dog was called Twincy or Pincy or some such terror inducing name. Its owner also professed being scared of it. And the worst part was that it didn't have a tail.

Now in the absence of any other insight into the species I usually relied on the tail (as we had been taught in primary school) to determine danger levels. Now in the absence of a tail, I had no forewarning. So I sat in front, with Pincy behind. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, a role reversal of sorts and I sat with my hackles raised ready to pounce out at the slightest sign of Pincy's movement towards my general direction...

I have made a complete fool of myself on many occasions given this irrational fear, clutched random strangers, missed classes (yes)and generally made a laughing stock of myself. I have also been branded a sinner...

Well the last incident happened in school. I was in class 1 or something, and we were having moral science (this was a convent) taken by our principal Sister. Now the Sisters had a pet called Susie and it was white and docile and generally very nun like in appearance and behavior. It was similarly respected in school.
While the class was going on Susie ambled in and made straight for my desk and promptly sat below it. Now my fear for Susie then was matched by an equally strong awe for the said Sister at that time. So I sat petrified, fighting back tears, afraid to make the slightest movement lest Susie should become aware of my presence. I am sure I stopped breathing.
So the Sister was asking some random question like "Who all would like to go to heaven?", which a sensible 7 year old would pass off as rhetorical. Well they wouldn't and the entire class promptly put up their hand. The entire class except me. I was sitting on a live bomb remember ?

And this brought Sister's wrath down on me. "You dont want to go to heaven?", she asked incredulously little realizing that heaven at that time seemed closer to me than she could have ever imagined. I sat as though turned to stone and she came towards me. At which Susie gave a yelp and disappeared and I could hear again.

The trick to conquer your fears they say is to laugh at it. Over time I have tried to do the same. Now I affect a nonchalant attitude whenever I see a dog nearby (like it cares)and it has helped a bit. I must learn to whistle....

A Christmas Story

This is a Christmas story. And if you tell me that Christmas was a long time back, I would tell you that writing a Christmas story at Christmas would be tacky to say the least. And when did I pretend that these stories had a point anyway?

He had many names- Father Christmas, Saint Niklaus or Santa Claus in its corrupted version. And he was essentially a collector, a collector of stories. There were millions of stories floating around and what he did was to cut and slice and transfer them around. In that way he was some sort of a creator.

And there was Blinky, the elf whose job it was to keep track of good stories and give Santa the heads up. Cause obviously Santa was the public figure, the relationship man, or so Blinky believed. The real work was done by her.

So Santa was strategizing with January over a strong cup of sweet tea and buns. "Good buns Blinky", said Santa while January sniffed. She was a cold hard woman with a permanent hangover post the festive season. “So anyway", she went on. There is war going on everywhere. The world is in a state of strife. Figure you could get your dose of raw emotions.”

Santa looked troubled. But it was his job. To absorb excessive emotion, to absorb stories of war and strife and heartbreak, so that at Christmas some part could be transferred to those who deserved, or were destined. Christmas… when he would try to restore some sense of balance to the world...

...Blinky brought little heart shaped cookies for February who took her assigned role so seriously that she was almost a cliche. There she sat pink and trinketed, with her tinkling laugh, this last was a new development Blinky privately observed. "Oh darling I have the sweetest love story ever !"…..

It was a dull sultry night and Blink was working late sifting through the bottles. And there he was. She saw the bottle marked April and it came back to her. April was almost as dry as the arrowroot biscuits he ate and had told the story of a deserving young guy and his love for this girl. But she had not shown any signs of reciprocating and on the contrary took pleasure in giving him pain.

Blink had rolled her eyes at that story and stifled a yawn. She thought the guy was a loser in his own right for letting himself be treated that way. But Santa, the incurable romantic had gone to take a look ostensibly claiming that his stock of longing and heartbreak had run out.

And as she sat looking at the story, a strange mix of emotions surged through her, heady almost euphoric. She had never felt anything like that before. At first she thought she had accidently split some essence and spent a while checking for leaks. But there was no denying. Blinky had irrationally, irrevocably fallen for him.

And there was nothing she could do about it. The ancient treaty and all that jazz. She was surprised at herself. For she was an elf who prided herself on being level headed and mature. She was not like the other female elves whose dearest ambition was to serve the Elf Queen and dance around toadstools with prospects. She went out and got an “education”. And here she was. Drawn towards a human of all things.

She tried to divert herself. May came and paid a visit. Blinky loved May. They sat by the sea on the rocks and just listened to the sound of the waves. Not a soul for miles. She had enough contentment to last for a life time. She stole the essence and drowned herself in it. But to no avail.

Wisdom came with July. Wisdom and erudition. Listening to great men speak. Bringing back essences of motivation and action and focus.
She knew it was of no use. She knew she had to do it. She would mix him a story for Christmas. But this time she would play a part.

She thought of the day she had first gone out with Santa. She loved seeing him in action. "How do you know what to give them?” she had asked wonder struck, the first time.
“I just give them the essence, the thought, the idea. It takes the shape of whatever they want. That's true of most things in life", he had said.
“The emotions are there to influence the thinking”, he said and winked. “But there are some who do not feel the power of emotions”, he said suddenly sober “and they really get what they want..but such men are very few ”.

She tried to get a grip on herself and sprinked a few drops of patience to help her. “I must be as immune as those few men”, she thought wryly.

October came with her knack of firsts. The first ten seconds when you realize you are in love, the strength of that emotion had taken everyone by surprise last year, this year, she made them experience the dawn of a new day, when reality hasn’t fully sunk in and the air was full of promise and hope.

And the hope was her undoing. She sprinkled the scent of a ballerina’s dance, a heady mix of seduction, exhilaration and ecstasy and went before him….

Santa was furious. “You know what you have breached”, he said, strangely quiet. “Well so you must go”.

She walked up to him that Christmas eve..and he was there waiting for her..with a smile on his face..but she was there too and the instant she looked at him looking at her, she knew that he would never love her. And she surprised herself by wishing for his happiness and giving him the essence, the essence which would take the shape of what he most loved and desired….

But the magic would not work however much she tried…and eventually she gave up and walked away..

December was watching the scene with Santa. “You should have let her have this last wish”, he said quietly. “ It was not in my power”, said Santa. “ What she felt there was love, and love made her human. Elf magic would not work for her”

“So love actually pushed her to a lower level of existence? Pity I liked her biscuits..”drawled December sarcastically.

And Santa looked at all the emotions he had collected over the years, willing himself to feel a part of what the men in the stories felt, willing himself to feel love..”

“Actually, it is higher”, he said softly..

My job doesnt give me time to breathe, let alone write. I hope this phase ends quickly

In which we resolve to start writing again

The Gods play scrabble

So how do the Gods chalk out millions of different life times, millions of different stories for each individual? Or is it just an old formula rehashed time and again with a few subplots thrown in for variety? That had been the standard procedure with the result that the Gods had plenty of free time and were consequently bored. Among the more conventional pastimes was Scrabble which an enterprising God had once learnt from a pearly white (their euphemism, coz the Gods where the whitest and there was no better white), while he was waiting for an admit.

Consequently a cruel streak in them, for Gods have to be cruel to be effective, which mortal would remember them otherwise, made them adopt this device for designing new lifetimes ,a collaborative process now (the Wise One was very keen on collaboration. He called it a buzz word since so many gods talking at once reminded one of angry bees) .The possibilities were immense thwarted only by vocabulary but the Gods were quick learners.

The first word had to signify the beginning, usually words like creation, inception or idea (for the metaphysically inclined) were used, but this one started with “Baby”, made by the practical motherly-looking-old-lady-god. The other Gods groaned at this because it severely limited their possibilities but an eager-fresh-faced-goddess made Beauty.

“So the fairy godmother has done her work again”, drawled a sarcastic no-nonsense-looking-God and he added wit and the Wise One added intelligence.

 This was met with protests since these stories tended to be much drabber than the others and the Gods liked their fun as much as anyone as and more than most. But the Wise One just smiled and said that the fates had willed it at which Fortune threw him a dirty look. This new system meant a lot of implementation work for her and she was feeling the strain.

“Ok time to start the story now”, said the Creative-God also the god of mayhem, thunderstorms and the likes.  “I am tired of the same old rigmarole, it curbs my creative instincts”. And he took the lonely Y which was free and made Y-E-T-I.
“But that’s not even a word! They don't exist “, snapped the starry-eyed eager-fresh- faced-goddess. “I was going to use it for a youthful flame”, she sighed.
“Yea like you ever have any ideas. Of course they exist, I personally supervised the look, and all this mystery only adds to their glamour”, snapped back the Creative-God.

The Wise One had to intervene. “We agreed that this would be a normal life”, he said acidly . I am done with the rock band groupie crap”, he added wincing , the memories of the last story were clearly still fresh.

So the Creative-God made yak and settled down with a smirk.

Fortune firmly put holiday and then school. She was glad to get her turn in as early as this. At least they steered clear of the gangs and the cults, which were quite a rage with the Creative-God right now. The Al-Qaeda was it? It seemed to be the theme of the season! No this would be a good life, she was firm, if they could just get by without Lucifer arriving.

Lucifer ambled in crooning, “So you think you can tell heaven from hell”. “Well you can”, snapped the Wise-One.
“Relax it’s a song”, said Lucifer grinning. “Chap called Pink Floyd”.
“It’s not a chap you moron”, said the Creative-God.
“How do they know”, said the old-motherly-one suspiciously. “If you ask me these bands are getting too smug for their own good. Why I heard something like a “stairway to heaven”, gave me a turn I must say. “How would he know how to work the switch?”

“It’s a metaphor nanny”, said Creative one indulgently. “You know a symbolic way of expressing”.
” I don’t hold with metaphors”, sniffed the nanny. “Stick to the plain facts. What if we started calling death, the end of all hope?”
She laughed wheezily at her own wit. Death and Hope were constantly in a state of strife and everyone knew who won in the end!

The story was unfolding before them. A small fresh faced girl, laughing on her way to school, a youthful teenager holidaying in Tibet (heh heh, laughed Lucifer. He was the only one who got the Creative-God’s jokes. They called it a satire).

The wise one made college and work since the Creative-God hand had been hovering close to the D and R . “Well then let’s make it love”, he said angrily “and heartbreak yes heartbreak”.
The sound of her sobs smote the heart of the eager-fresh-faced goddess, who promptly made marriage, and tried to explain to the elderly one that “a nice cup of tea “would not work both in the game and otherwise.
“Depression!” screamed Lucifer, in his element now, and the eager-fresh-faced goddess made a trip to Europe and old-lady-god made babies.
Creative-God however made I-P-A-D. “It’s a chance” he said to his bewildered audience. “But I will take it”.

This was met with deep suspicion.

“Whatever is this? The other day u were talking about some IPod and now this?” The IPod is the biggest revolution since the invention of the wheel”, said the Creative God.
“Bigger than Let there be light,  countered the Wise One his eyebrows raised.
“ Oh come of it”, snapped Lucifer. "The guy is pretty much a demi-god there”, he said, as Jesus blanched. “Just a figure of speech”, he added hastily.

"Well let’s not do grandchildren and all that!”, said the no-nonsense-God as her saw old-lady-god hands hovering dangerously towards "crib". I thought she would be doing something worthwhile?"
“Let’s make her write a book”, suggested Creative.
“Careful”, snapped Fortune. “The last one produced “The Secret”, having people believe they could bend me at will. You know I could never refuse a little attention and a girl is helpless in the face of devotion” (“Girl!” cackled Fresh face). “This one had me working overtime for weeks.”

“No not that one”, said Wise one quickly. More on the lines of HP since her life has been devoid of great love or tragedy to produce anything groundbreaking”.
“Oh that can be remedied”, said Lucifer quickly and death looked hopeful (Hope flinched).

“No”, said the Wise One, “It’s getting late. Let’s call it a day”. “Hee hee”, wheezed the old one who always got a pun late. “Now who fancies a game of chess?” said the Wise One. “I feel like there is a war coming on”……….

A stupid post

As Calvin would say, the quality of network programming is all violence and sleaze, and obviously we are hooked. How else would shows such as "Emotional Atyachaar", which sells infidelity, vicarious titillation and underhandedness and "Dare to date" which is the last word in wannabe behavior be allowed air time? Since I had not been a part of the “Rakhi ka Sawyamvar” movement, I made it a point to watch “Rahul Dulhaniya..”. To watch a couple of misguided females lie and cajole their way into the heart of a groom of questionable charms stops short of bizarre. Of course love is not blind; it can see and smell the money (ok maybe that’s a tad unkind!).

This was also the year the three Khans got out their magnum opus and fought for air, copyright and political time. While I liked 3 Idiots and MNIK (Yes I liked it, but I am an ardent SRK fan anyway), it is Veer which made an impression. After all it took Salman Khan 35 years to think up the story, so it deserves at least 35 mins of our time.

A narrative rich in history and patriotism and machismo and hence substantiating the torso revealing nature of Veer (the script demands it), Veer seeks to portray the lives of the war torn Pindaris .

Maybe his brain was overheated with 35 years of thinking, but Salman seems to have thought too far back into the past. The Pindaris seem very primitive in the evolutionary scale, their grunts and chants resembling the early man much more than any post Christ civilization.

Add to that a predilection for wrenching spleens, a general preoccupation with parts of the anatomy (wrist hacking and head butting), disturbing mom behavior (provocative dances with sons), the Pindaris seem to be a tribe in desperate need of a biology, anthropology and a societal norm lesson.

But their heart seems to be in the right place. Unfortunately the same cannot be said of their brains. For the Pindari father will kill his son and vice versa to be proved right and hence show that he is a man of his word (lessons in prioritization please!), the dashing Pindari guy will kill palace guards with impunity and steal royal treasure, but will endanger the rest of his clan in seeking to return “ek maa ki nishani”, the ambitious Pindari guy will impersonate a royal title to gain access to the palace, but his heart will then reassert itself and remind him of his true identity. He will then choose the most importune moment and emotionally blackmail people into addressing him by his correct title (gets beaten up till the heroine shrieks out ‘Veer”).

But he evolves fast. While he has been brought up delighting in simple pleasures such as dousing his dad with water and head butting him umm, he is equally at home in a royal cocktail party, playing the piano! He doesn’t know the alphabet but reads GB Shaw and figures out the divide and rule policy of the British based on his interaction with a racist professor.

But then Veer is no ordinary Pindari. He has been raised for a purpose. He is sent to school in England by his father who fondly believes that three years in England spent courting bovine heiresses will equip him with a firm understanding of the “way Britishers think” and hence enable the clan to defeat them at war! And what about the Maharajas they could never dethrone? Didn’t they already understand the way they thought?

The epic love story talks of the forbidden love of a princess who resembles the royal elephant for Veer. While she has every cause to hate him, she has for the alternative a gold fisted (he he) father who can kill her at slightest provocation. The film toys around with her dilemma for a while and then quickly retracts when faced with her complete inability to register any emotion. She is told to stop thinking, fall in love with Veer, dance with him and is then relegated to the background while the epic battle unfolds.

The Pindaris are bound together by a bond which is stronger than family, friendship of even acquaintanceship. It is a mutual love for violence. When Veer gets hit thousands of Pindaris from other provinces who would never have heard of him, attack the ramparts and get killed for his sake. And hence are sown the seeds of revolt , till the Pindaris get their rightful place in the scheme of things. Ok did I tell you that the son is born as his dad? Yes that is the disturbing  mom behaviour in action.

Weighty Issues

Mumbai is an accommodating city. It is a city in which jam-packed train compartments can always make room for one more. It is a place where landlords will graciously accommodate 5 people in the space meant for one, where narrow roads clogged with cars will still make way for that BEST bus (which should not be allowed in those lanes in the first place).
Where after being stuck at a traffic signal for 45 mins the taxi driver will wait even longer to allow the casual passerby, one who trundles along complacent in the belief that it is his right of way and glaring at the hapless car which comes too close or has the audacity to honk.
Mumbai is a resizing of expectations, one size smaller in everything.
So it is strange that in a city where the space constraint has made Mumbaikars evolve into slight, slim individuals, a survival of the trimmest, would be a city where, against all Darwanian edicts, I would manage to gain weight.
Now I have always been very tall and in a country where tall women are an aberration, it is more of a liability than anything else.
So right from kindergarten where tall equaled big, I have been made to feel guilty about taking up more than my rightful space in the terrain of life.
"Oh god Namrata, you are so BIG", would say a dainty 8 yr old, accusingly, my classmate then, who plainly thought I should be several forms higher coz of my "age" , while I would shuffle uncomfortably and try to look smaller.
Or in middle school when your friends come to about your waist, you would have to slump and slouch and generally contract in an effort to stay more grounded with real people.
You do have your usefulness to society. People identify your group quicker since you rise like a mast amongst a sea of other heads, you generally get pulled in for repair work and changing tube lights (yes I'm BIG if you insist but not necessarily stronger).
During shopping trips all your ready made garments have to go through a customization process and an incredulous salesperson.
Now it’s worse. You are tall as well as fat. That’s a new dimension to your problem.
You become aware that you are sporting those extra pounds, when waiters start showing you low fat options and automatically assume that you would have your coffee without sugar and your tea green, tactful colleagues start referring to you as "just right" instead of slim, you begin to think that jeans shrink a lot more during wash than commonly believed, and when your friends call and say that you look fat in your pictures.
So in a city where you are anyway taking more than your fair share of vertical space, throwing your weight around does not help much. Now you not only have to slouch your shoulders and bend your knees , you also have to suck in your stomach and such a 360 degree contraction is enough to make you curl up into your own ball of shame.
Shopping trips for more strategic clothing are also no fun.
Shopkeeper:"L madam?”
You, optimitic post your week long green tea stint and the lack of glucose making you light headed, fix him with a steely glare.
You: "No M will be fine".
Repair to the changing room where you grapple unsuccessfully with the garment, till your friends knock in concern. Emerge huffing and puffing and red faced your white outfit making you resemble a blushing penguin more than anything human, and assure them that obesity does not cause a heart attack immediately.
Now your mom advises you to go to the gym. "Doesn't help", you snap. "It will make you feel good about yourself", she counters.
"I still feel good about myself. And there is more of me to feel good about anyway. I feel so good I'm hysterical."
But then you watch London Dreams and realize that if Salman Khan does not apologize for his presence in Bollywood, you have no need to.
Well time to stop writing. The green tea is almost over.