Christmas without Santa

This Santa, was in more ways than one, like the other. He with the big tummy and flabby body, who arrived with the gift of bringing cheer and laughter in whichever close circle he roamed in. Most often than not, the subject of laughter would be himself, and the group would take a trip on him. Maybe that's why he was nicknamed Santa!

Santa was the last one to get into our batch, but found his way into the hearts of at least a few of us who got to know him quite well, within no time at all. In a place filled with all sorts of weirdos, Santa was a 'refreshing' friend to have. The first year was quite tough on Santa - he had taken a big decision of discontinuing the course at another top B-school after the first year and was having self-doubts of whether he did the right thing or not. Post summers saw Santa return with a vengeance - and thanks to the sleeping habits of my corridor mate who was the "paper writing" partner of Santa, I got to know Santa better. He would just walk in, get me out of bed and promptly make himself 'comfortable'. After a couple of hours, he would return, blaming Shahnas for not being very serious about paper-writing.

Santa would do a strenous work out + jog (literally forcing one of us to accompany him), only to more than compensate the loss of calories with "butter chicken" later on in the day. One asked him why he is a "Paul" rather than a "Pal", as is common with Punjabis, he retorted ... "arey, dadaji ne pseud banne ki koshish ki! Phir bhi kuch fayda nahin hua!" Such self-deprecatory humour was Santa's forte.

Santa getting carried away was a very common thing. Especially while making presentations in class, the danger bulbs flashed when Santa quoted examples of Coca Cola, irrespective of the subject! But one presentation was unforgettable. For some reason, the most "time pass" of guys came together in a group to participate in an IT presentation competition conducted by a leading FMCG company on campus. Each of us contributed in bits and pieces and none of us knew a clue about what the other had done. We thought that we'd get time to collate and synchronise while one of the other groups made the presentation. But, the worst case scenario unfolded ... we were the first group called. And Santa was in full flow ... managing the show till the time the presentation was collated and loaded onto the PC! And how he spoke that day. He really set it up for us. To cut things short, although there were far better prepared teams that evening, the first prize was won by us - a bunch of 'nobodys'. Needless to say, we nominated Santa as the team leader to collect the cash prize. After sharing the spoils at a Hazratganj joint (other batchmates who happened to be there could not believe their eyes seeing such a disjointed set around a table!), Santa gave the remainder cash to me saying that "we" would definitely spent the sum some day.

Santa loved playing tennis. The first time we played tennis on campus, Santa's rusty tennis resulted in him going down 0-6. Santa returned with a vengeance the next day, to win 6-0! The third and 'final' set was left pending.

The happiest moment for Santa and for all of us who knew him quite well came during placements. By a strange combination of design and luck, Santa who was the first on the wait list for his favourite Coca Cola, found himself being told that he has been made an offer. The mountain of a man just broke down ... and how! The bear hugs that followed were just so memorable.

It is with a broken heart that one writes about Santa in the "past" tense. The bubbly and cherubic Santa - with so much hopes and dreams, fell prey to that moment of madness on the roads, while he was travelling in a taxi. Say 10 years on, if one wondered who all one would meet in campus and would behave with you the same way as he/she always had, Santa would have definitely been one of the first on my list. It's almost as if that chapter is closed.

May his and Manju's souls rest in peace ... and God give courage and mental strength to their near and dear ones to endure this phase in their lives.

A stone for Machaan

“Are you awake, macha?” The booming voice and characteristic laughter was enough to disturb the sleep of even the most steadfast sleeper. “Let us arrange a bike, will you come with me?” More than a question, that was a request. “Where to Manja (as I used to call him)?” The electrician in our campus had apparently told him about a local mela in his locality. To which our amiable friend had promised that he would definitely attend.

Borrowing the bike from a friend ("Sada" used to be so passionate about his bike that he would never entertain such requests – but then, Manja had a knack of getting such things done!), the two of us were off by midnight. With great difficulty – the Lucknow winter did not make things easy, we finally managed to reach the place. This was a classical mela – they had Himalayas, including Mt. Kailas constructed as a tableaux, with people queuing up to pray (!), bhajan singing, honouring a “dada” called ‘kaala baalu’ (off went Manja and his raucous laughter causing more than a few concerned heads to turn!) and some songs sung by the “local” Mohd. Rafi. In the midst of all this, the electrician friend spotted Manja. His face just lit up (it had to be seen to be believed). He got us (“sahib logon ke liye”) steaming cups of chai.

Arming ourselves with bricks and stones – there were rumours that petty thugs occasionally waylay travelers, we reached the campus at around 3 AM.

But then, the happiness on the electrician’s face was worth the whole effort, was what Manja felt.

That was Machaan. Barely 3 years hence, in the same badlands of UP, they killed him gruesomely, for doing his duty, snuffing out the blossoming flower, who considered it his duty to bring happiness and joy around him.

Confusion reigns supreme

Well, everything about me is confused, say 'insiders'. Yes, true, I say. When it comes to personal issues and preferences, one cannot be black and white all the time - what say?

But, some areas of confusion get solved automatically. Like yesterday, I was confused who to support - Agassi, the eternal fighter, the best 'returner' of the generation, the achiever of so many things (who wouldn't give their right hand to have Steffi supporting for you!) OR Federer, the master craftsman, the 'butterfly' and the 'bee', the magician? I was not even given an opportunity to think through the confusion. The cable wala helped me out. He gave us only ESPN and Star Sports and not Ten Sports on which the live telecast was on! On coming to know that Federer ultimately won, was I happy? Or was I sad that Agassi lost, albeit fighting hard? Well, it was time to leave for office, on another wet Monday morning.

Wish, isn't there a cable wala in our lives too - who ultimately resolves the confusion?

Have I changed ?

In various contexts, people – even close family, tell me that I have changed a lot in these last few years. Is that so much of a bad thing, necessarily, I wonder? If you were caught up in a time warp, is it a crime to still be not caught in it. Well, I guess I have changed. And what surprisingly made me realize this? Of all things, sports!

I have always been the passionate supporter of the underdog, especially against a champion. I would always root for an Ivanisevic against an Agassi, for Anand against Kasparov, or India against Pakistan (!)

With the Aussie tail-enders doing what they are expected to do – fight, that is, and only 1 wicket separating England from a series equaling victory, guess who I rooted for. With much consternation I realized that I was rooting for an Aussie victory. To the extent that I was dejected and disappointed that Australia lost out by just 2 runs.

The process had been set in a month earlier, I guess. People say that Mohammed Ali was referred to as he “who floats like a butterfly, stings like a bee”. I guess the description would more fit Roger Federer than any other sports professional, these days. The delectable touch, combined with the out of the world angles in the cross court and down the line passing shots, scores a lot over the power of his ground strokes. Having defeated Roddick in the semi-finals at Wimbledon two years back, and returning the kitchen sink and more that Roddick threw at him in the finals at the exalted grass courts last year, I expected myself to root for Roddick, the underdog. But, despite my wanting to, I was ecstatic that Federer played another classic and won.

Well, it’s not about the underdog or the champion anymore, for me. It’s about who I appreciate better, I guess. Of late, I have been liking fighting qualities and hence my biased support for Australia – even in their failures, I see only the positives. Similarly, any tennis aficionado would vouch for the talent of Federer – for the generation that has not been fortunate enough to watch McEnroe, there is Federer and then there is God, they’d say.

So, have I changed? Yes, seems to be the answer. But then, I have always been a fanatic supporter of the Samba boys, in the football field, irrespective of who the underdog is, or what the fighting qualities of a German team are!!! Maybe, I have not changed at all ……

Compere par excellence …

Couple of months back, there was an article in the Indian Express by some Bengali academic who had compared the presentation styles of Ameen Sayani (of the eternal Binaca Geet mala fame) and Karan Johar, in his avatar as the host of Coffee with Karan. It was an interesting article analyzing the reason for the popularity of Ameen Sayani over the years. Imagine someone who literally introduced millions of Indians to the Vividh Bharati and weaned them away from ‘Ceylon radio’, continuing in the same vein to this day, being able to directly influence the popularity of radio channels, even in this FM age!

‘Sangeet sitaron ki mehfil mein’ (loosely translated as – in the august company of the stars of music: Can there be a direct word that can substitute mehfil!) is the program that currently runs on one of the FM channels. The last ‘episode’ is testimony to why there can be none like Ameen Sayani. It was on that great singer whose voice and style evokes emotions as mixed as passion, angst, pathos, melancholy and romance in the same song. Yes, the one and only Kishore Kumar. Here’s where Ameen’s presentation style makes the programme one of its kind. Did he select an old interview with the great singer himself? Or did he go into nostalgic memories of ‘those good old days’. Or maybe, did he get tit-bits of comments of the great contemporaries of that era on Kishore. He did none of these, but at the same time journeyed through a myriad and at times strange mix of all of these, and still managed to keep the listener engrossed in the flow of the story. Here’s how.

He took a live event held in Los Angeles (of all places!) in 1978, where Ameen himself was the compere, and started off with Ameen’s introduction of Kishore. And then, the great one, introduced himself in what Ameen reflects as his ‘standard’ way of introduction, calling himself Kishore Kumar Khandvawala! Ameen interspersed this with how Kishore used to regale Khandva walas, whenever he used to visit them. Ameen mentions what Sandip Ray (the legendary Satyajit Ray’s son) had to say about Kishore and Khandva in an interview. But, the class of Ameen comes across, when he gives a teaser that this will be part of a later episode! Then, after the customary inaugural song, Ameen played excerpts of his interview with Kishore’s son Amit Kumar. Amit narrated as to how his father chanced upon his son to play the role in a movie. Then the song ‘Aa chalke tuche, mein leke chaloon’ was played from the LA event! Then came an excerpt from an interview of Ameen with Talat Mahmood, wherein the legendary singer narrated as to how shy Kishore was in his initial days. It seems, he was so shy that among the then greats, Kishore stayed out of a ‘live’ event – a fundraiser in Mumbai, because he was too shy to play-act-sing on stage! This, Ameen, followed up with a boisterous Kishore on stage in LA, singing ‘Mere sapnon ki rani’. Followed by Kishore requesting the audience to be ready for some ‘heavy stuff’, adding “samach rahe hain aap”, and following up with the ever-soulful, melancholic “Chingari koi”, sung by Kishore in a “different” style. Ameen ending the episode with a promise that he’s keeping Kishore and Lata on stage in London for the next week. As the English folk say, ain’t I licking my lips for that one … eh!

Rain, rain please go away!

It poured, and how! The heavens came tumbling down, opening their floodgates and all hell broke loose down below. It was as if someone up there had asked Indra, portrayed in Hindu mythology as an arrogant god with questionable morals, as to what his full fury and latent power was!

I, for one, never thought that this would ever be the title on a piece, especially after what I had written the previous time. As they say, weather is so unpredictable! Even that fantastic of inventions, the computer, was actually invented to “predict” weather, is what I have read somewhere. Mumbai – July 26th became the latest in a series of natural tragedies happening on 26th of a month, (remember Gujarat earthquake? And tsunami?)

To anyone asking her age, athai (aunt) used to tell that she was born in ’99, the year of the great flood. (’99 stood for 1099, and as per that calendar, the current year is 1182). Similarly the generation that was witness to July 26 in Mumbai, will tell the next “The year of the great flood”. Hope this is the case, for this year has already seen the “great wave” and the “great rains”. Let us all pay obeisance to Mother Nature and hope for the best, but then, prepare for the worst. Just in case …

Rain, rain don’t go away …

Rains … take up any tourist information on Kerala and you would find the “season” to be marked as any time other than June-August. Ironically, this is the “season” when “God’s Own Country” spreads it’s green carpet, literally. It finally took Channel 4 of BBC to film “Rains in Kerala”, to indicate what the tourist misses out on. And then, Alex Frater wrote a book titled “Chasing the monsoon”. I am told that this book has kind of, become a cult classic, in the sense, that it has spawned its own category of backpacker followers, who ‘track’ the monsoon as it hits Kerala coast in the first week of June, makes its way across the plains to reach Arakan mountains in Burma, and all the way back across the Bay of Bengal. But, rain evokes some very special memories.

One did not look forward to rains, as a kid, especially if schooling is done in Kerala. Rains mean that one would have to wait till Onam (August-September, that is) for that new pair of Bata “Naughty Boy” shoes, one could not play during the 1 hour “games” period every week, that one had to get all messy with the raincoat, or be good at a balancing act, if one was adept enough to risk riding a bicycle with one hand on the umbrella and a sackful of bags dragging you back. Rains also meant that the fun involved in walking in ‘hawai’ sandals turned to travails for whoever washed your clothes, for the hawai has this fantastic ability to throw mud onto any portion waist downwards on the backside! Rains also brought ailments in its wake – cough, cold, fever invariably followed that adventurous jaunt in the rain. The explosion in mosquito population, coupled with the predictability (thanks to “another scorching summer”) of our electricity board meant sleepless nights, and that too in non-exam season! How criminal can you get! There was also the problem of pungent smelling clothes, for want of sun, and of course, the mud coloured socks that would be the challenge for any “New, extra power, super white” detergent powder.

But, still I loved rains. The smell of sand that the first rains bring, is intoxicating, to say the least. The small puddles that form in the cracks on the tar roads have this strange colour that no rainbow can match – of oil drops from leaking, creaky vehicles that get mixed with the water. Watching the “crowns” that get formed when large droplets drip down from tree leaves onto already formed puddles was fascinating to watch, especially if one was lying down in the sofa in the front room verandah of our house. Croaking frogs give comfort through the sleepless nights and the already lush greenery glistens with the lustre of multiple rounds of ‘finish’ that the rains keep providing. The movie Piravi (by Shaji Karun, the highly acclaimed Malayalam director - of Cannes fame – if that helps, for the uninitiated!) that captures the beauty of the Kerala monsoon like no other, springs to mind.

Monsoon to hit Kerala with a week’s delay is today’s news – and is a national level headline maker! Here I am, in Mumbai, looking out at the Southwestern sky – no it will take at least two weeks to darken. And rains in Mumbai – a different ball game altogether – trains in disarray, slosh all around and the strains that the city and the people go through in accommodating the poor umbrella! Mumbai, a city where there are islands of prosperity in a sea of poverty, rains deface you (can also be read as clean up!), unlike the gloss that they provide to Kerala.

Meanwhile, I am off to check out “Chasing the monsoon” at the nearest bookshop …!

Exploring friendship …

Well, what’s closeness of friendship? This line of thought took me back a couple of years when I was visiting Belgaum on an official trip. I had reached Belgaum early in the morning and was checking into the hotel, when I spotted the telephone register lying there. On impulse, I checked up for the name Toro, got excited on finding a number listed against the name (blessed is the guy who thought of having entries in telephone registers on last name basis) and dialed …..

Mind has its own flashback mechanism that no director can emulate. It was a rainy June evening, when a bright, smart looking boy joined our school bus “gang”. A brief introduction later, I found this boy with his father come visiting, later on at night, the same day. His father, in the army, was on deputation to the local NCC unit and had got an accommodation close to ours. My broken English was enough to break the language barrier and we were on level playing field, literally that is. From the very next day onwards, there were “triangular” Benson & Hedges series featuring Australia, Newzealand and India, held between the two of us. The venue alternated between Melbourne (the space within our house compound) and Eden Gardens (the open space outside his). Except for the torrential Kerala rains, nothing could break our daily trysts with the gentleman’s game. The rains ensured that we knew each other’s family quite well, for these interludes, usually long, meant some indoor activity or the other. Well, a year just flew by. The second year was less “hectic”, with many parallel friendships getting established, the focal point being this newcomer, who had an intrinsic “pull” quality, but then the bonding between families strengthened, more so given the fact that the family structure, with the match in age, order and gender of the children. The deputation of Mr. Toro came to a close, it was time for them to move on, and on the day they left, a little boy realized how fleeting, attachments like close friendships can be.

The initial flurry of letters and greeting cards soon became a trickle. However, in the intervening period of a few years, both of us religiously sent one another the wedding cards of our sisters, to which both of us dutifully responded with long letters. It was in Bangalore that we met, after about 10 years, and then the pull of the Information Technology sector took him away to the US, while I came to know that his parents were based in Belgaum. The promises of keeping in touch over media like e-mails were never been kept by either party. And then, this unexpected trip to Belgaum happened.

Thank God, the receiver went off hook at the other end, and a lady’s voice “Kaun hai”? Recognition, on giving the reference of name and place, was instantaneous and his mother literally forced me to visit them almost immediately. Having breakfast and talking to her as if the intervening gap of 15 long years never happened, I was getting overwhelmed by the flood of memories. But, being on an official trip, I had to take leave without meeting his father, who had gone on a typical retired life morning jaunt. However, I did compensate by returning early in the evening, and could spend some good quality time with him too.

My friend in the US has been oblivious to this little episode that got played out at his hometown. Needless to say, my “friend” and I have still not gotten in touch, and it has been close to 5 years now. I wonder, we were so “close” then, now, we may not be, but that did not stop the “closeness” I felt when I visited his parents, a couple of years back. Meanwhile, I am looking forward to my next Belgaum trip, or maybe, the story will have its own set of twists and turns.

I am still left wondering as to what “closeness” of friendship means …………

The day I saw an Iranian movie … at last!

“Made by Women” film festival is currently on, in Mumbai. The highlight of the first day, for me was the fact that an Iranian film was being shown. My introduction to Iranian films has been limited to the name Mohsen Makhmalbaf. With the opportunity of watching a movie by the great man somehow eluding me, imagine my horror on realizing that even his daughter Samira, I guess, has made films. That is when I realized that my backlog of Iranian films might just be too much.

After a hectic day at office and literally running away, to be on time, I found myself standing in the movie hall, which was screening a documentary titled “My Body”. Mumbai being Mumbai, had come in hordes and every single seat had been taken. This 30 minute documentary captured the essence of how one’s appearance and body features are considered to be liabilities, in comparison to others. And the delight a woman has when her daughter says that babies choose to come down to earth on finding the “right” person. But then, that story is for another time, this one being for the Iranian movie.

The movie is titled “The Day I became a woman” and has 3 stories. The first one is about a small girl of 9 years old who wakes up to find that she has become a “woman” that day, as per her grand ma and her mother. The girl, named Hava is keen to go out and play with her friend – Hassan. However, the grand ma and mom forbid her from going out. After much pleading, the grand ma allows the girl to go out, subject to the fact that she reaches back before “noon” (the girl was born at noon, and hence would complete 9 years by noon!). The grand ma tells Hava that she should come back when there is no shadow for the stick, when placed on the ground (metaphor for sun being directly overhead). The kids on the beach trading the beautiful plastic fish for Hava’s chador (scarf), Hava checking for the shadow of the stick every once in a while, speed of exchange of the lollipop between Hava and Hassan, as time draws to a close, are all captured elegantly and matter-of-factly, on film. The boys setting off with the chador as sail and Hava being taken away by her mother are very poignant scenes, perhaps indicative of the freedom that males enjoy compared to the restrictions imposed when a girl becomes a woman.

The second story is about a girl (around 20’ish) by the name Ahoo cycling herself away from all the societal strings imposed on her. The camera work is stunning, to say the least, beginning with the deer and pigeons that get scared by the animated shouting of the man mounted on a horse galloping at tremendous speed, until he comes up on the hordes of young girls, riding bicycles. The black of the burqa contrasts with the deep blue of the ocean. The bursts of speed that Ahoo gets are probably symbolic of the dollops of energy that Ahoo gets on successfully ignoring the pleadings of her husband, the priest, her father and her tribe. And finally, she stops … and the story is left at that.

The third story is about an old lady with a horde of boys gorging on a shopping spree. The comedy in the portrayal does not dilute the impact of the statements of the lady that she had all along wanted to enjoy life and that “they” did not let her. The music, the merry making of the boys on the beach and the caring black boy all enmesh well into the script. At the end, as expected, the director tries to interweave Hava and Ahoo into the old lady’s story. But, it is commendable that this is done without any pretext or justification, with the director careful about not trying to give any “answers”, so to speak. The name of the old lady – Hoora being revealed at the fag end of the movie compared to Hava and Ahoo being revealed in the very first scenes, is also striking.

To me, it seemed as if the director was trying to say that the process of denial starts with a girl becoming a woman (story of Hava), and all her life, she tries to escape from the trappings imposed by the society, ultimately she may not be successful in this (story of Ahoo). Finally, it is when one is as old as one can get, that a woman is able to enjoy whatever she dreamt of, all her life (story of Hoora). By then, she does not have anyone to enjoy these with, and is beginning on the journey towards completion and fulfillment of life.

All in all, the first taste of Iranian movie was elixir for me. Makhmalbafs et al, where art thou …!

PS: Later on, I realized that this was in fact Mrs. Makhmalbaf first movie as director and that credit for the script goes to Mr. Makhmalbaf himself!

An 80/20 riddle got solved

A 20-year-old mystery has finally been solved. Some would say that it is an 80-year-old mystery. For me, however, it was a 20-year-old one. One night, my parents and sisters woke up to screams of “Tutenkamun, Tutenkamun”, coming from an eight year old boy. No one had a clue to what this whole nightmare was about.

The cause of this hullabaloo at night was a little snippet about Tutenkamun’s excavation that came in a Malayalam children’s fortnightly called “Poombatta” (translated as Butterfly). Does any kid read anything other than Tinkle these days, I ask?

The sands of time in the valley of kings in Egypt revealed the hidden treasure and mummy of the boy king Tutenkamun who died an untimely death, barely in his 20s. The snippet mentioned that whoever was associated with this excavation, met with an untimely death. Fascinated that any kid would be by anything that had a ring of mystery to it, this particular story had the “twist” that the cause of the death of the boy king also remained unexplained.

It finally took National Geographic to clear the mystery. Last week was “Pharaoh’s Week” on Nat Geo. One of the episodes, rather a docu-feature ran to more than 2 hours, wherein the investigation was on 2 points – “King Tut’s curse” and “How did King Tut meet with his untimely death”. The fascinating story would amaze anyone interested in history or archaeology, especially Egyptology. Ultimately, the conclusion reached was that the man behind the excavation (Lord Carnarvon) apparently died of natural causes. And in typical Nat Geo fashion, although no conclusion could be reached about the cause of the boy king’s death, by a process of elimination, it was narrowed down to a combination of factors – a fall from chariot resulting in multiple fractures, and probable battle wounds getting aggravated over a period of time.

Thus, with new age technology including CAT scan unravelling an age old mystery was attempted, painstakingly.

Fortunately, my sister too had read the little snippet, and her faint recollection of the name made the elders in the house heave a sigh of relief, for they could at least solve the mystery of where the name of “Tutenkamun” came from, that night!

Tsunami that Arjuna saw

“The sea, which had been beating against the shores, suddenly broke the boundary that was imposed on it by nature. The sea rushed into the city. It coursed through the streets of the beautiful city. The sea covered up everything in the city. Even as they were all looking, the beautiful buildings were submerged one by one. In a matter of a few moments it was all over. The sea had now become as placid as a lake”. Is this the description of tsunami of Dec 26 as seen through the eyes of a lucky survivor in Phuket?

No, this is the account of the submergence of the ancient city of Dwaraka, as described by Arjuna, in the Mahabharata! On a recent visit to Dwaraka, I was captivated by the benign and calm look of the sea. It made me wonder, if this was the same sea that caused havoc and wiped out the magnificent city of Dwaraka.

Allegories to so many of our modern scientific discoveries can be found in our ancient texts – the story of usage of brahmastra resulting in arid and infertile land seems so similar to the use of nuclear weapons. The story of birth of 101 Kauravas, incubated in earthern pots, seems so similar to the concept of test tube babies. And yet, when it comes to something resembling a tsunami, people were caught off guard then, so similar to today! This proves that even gods and goddesses appear to have been helpless in predicting the fury of Mother Nature. We, lesser mortals, are debating about spending billions of dollars in setting up tsunami warning in the Indian ocean, on the lines of the pacific rim tsunami warning!