Posted in my musings... on 11/30/2006 09:43 am by sudha lakhera
This morning an auto driver said ‘thank you’ when I handed him the fare and added ‘have a nice day!’ While I nearly fell out of the auto at this unaccustomed courtesy - I was elated! A single sentence from him made me smile, made me forget the eight other auto rickshaw drivers who refused to ply a distance of less than a km, in the same morning. Minimum fare you see, doesn’t make them happy and why would they be concerned about a commuter trying to make it in time to work?.
I remember with pleasure shopping trips with my mother to small shops in our town. The shopkeepers welcomed us with a smile, they spoke endlessly on their wares, provided updates on the latest trends and offered refreshments. Walk into a slightly upmarket store today and more often than not, a plastic smile is thrown in your direction by a snooty looking sales person. This sales person will go on to appraise you from head to toe before deciding if he/she wants to assist you. The trend has changed, yet we shell out more money and still patronize establishments manned by indifferent staff.
At Global Access the other day, a friend and I walked upto a counter wanting to look at cell phones. An immensely cheesed off looking sales person, gave us a cursory glance and then stood still. With no signs of assistance from him I was forced to enquire ‘I’d like to see some phones please’ ‘Which one’ he shot back not moving an inch from his position or bringing any change to his facial ex-pression of total boredom. I told him and he extracted two demo pieces of the phones I had asked for. No explanations, no sales pitch - he gave the shortest possible response to our queries. The fact that we made a purchase of nearly 10 thousand too did not seem to interest him. We left a comment at the cash counter - i wonder if it will be followed up?
Each one of us in our professional or personal capacity touches another human life then why have we become so cold and indifferent. Why is it then that we no longer smile, say a kind word or show small courtesies to one another? Lets make a difference today like the Rickshaw driver did…
SMILE 
Posted in Of Men and Marriage! on 11/29/2006 05:03 pm by sudha lakhera
Early in the morning of my recent departure to Mumbai the cell phone rings shattering my sleep and displaying ‘Home’ as the culprit
‘Namaste Maa’ I mumble stifling a yawn. ‘you are still sleeping?’ quizzes my mom. ‘Yes Maa’ I say checking the time with half shut eyes. What time is your flight? ‘ ’seven in the evening Maa, I told you this yesterday also.’ ‘Oh yes! oh yes! how long does the flight take?’ ‘One and Half hours Ma - I told you this too.’ My skeptical mother totally ignoring the fact that I am quite a seasoned traveler, launches off on how not to talk to strangers, accept food from people, take care of my baggage, call whenever possible etc etc - holding the phone to my ear I say ‘Haan’ at regular intervals while my mind is desperately knocking on the gates of slumber land. Sometime later I receive instructions ‘here talk to your Papa.’
‘Good morning’ says a subdued papa, who has obviously received an earful on his filial duties as well as his habit of sleeping late prior to the call. ‘ How are you?’ he asks for lack of anything better to say. ‘Sleepy!’ I said while he snorted with laughter and said ‘Me too.’
‘By the way Papa a friend of mine is coming to Mumbai on Sunday so don’t have anything planned.’ ‘Aah yes’ he says inspiration dawning ‘your sister was mentioning that some friends of yours are coming over to see you on Sunday.’ ‘Not friends Papa, a friend’ I corrected in all innocence. ‘A friend?’ my papa repeated very wide awake now ‘is it a guy?’ ‘Yes’ I said horribly aware of the tactical mistake I had just made.
‘You are bringing a guy home? said Papa who I am sure by now, was sitting up in bed. ‘I am not - he is coming all by himself from ‘..xx.. city’ I defended myself, ‘Why is he coming then?’ was the next question. ‘To meet you’ I said realizing too late, that I had made another mistake in my choice of words. ‘He is coming here all the way from ‘..xx.. city’ just to meet us?’ ‘Yes’ I said realizing that now this was not actually sounding as innocent as it really was. ‘Does he have some work here?’ ‘No’ I answered truthfully. ‘Oh!’ said a very clueless father ‘Is he a South Indian?’ ‘Yes’ I answered, ‘Is he dark?’, ‘well sort of wheatish’ I replied, suddenly very uncomfortable with the direction our talks were taking ‘Lets talk when I get there.’
‘What does he eat’ Papa persisted ‘Food’ I answered tongue in cheek, ‘No silly girl’ said my father warming up ‘what will he eat for lunch here?’ ‘Let me come there and discuss the details Papa’ I pleaded yet again, very much awake and with no idea how to handle the cross examination. ‘Do you like him’ questioned an undaunted Papa ‘Ofcourse, I like him thats why we are friends.’ ‘But no friend of yours has come all the way from ‘..xx.. city’ only to meet us before!’ was Papa’s rebuttal. ‘You know what I have to get to work Papa - I will see you in the night’ I said quickly disconnecting the phone before my mother could come back on line.
The ‘friend’ visited my ‘at their best behavior family’ and left after some delicate probing by my mother and father. My brother declared him a ‘nice guy’, my mother agreed, stressing on the fact that he was ‘eligible’ more so for reasons of him being a Brahmin. My father made no comments but insisted on referring to him as ‘the guy who is only a friend’ throughout my visit. My sister, who is married and so due to location could not be part of the great event called up as soon as the guest departed to gather feedback from all but me.
I am back in Bangalore now and still being quizzed as to ‘how it is going?’ Anyone interested in learning the fine art of creating a mountain from a non existent molehill are welcome to to lessons from my khaandaan.
Think as the saying in Hindi goes ‘I axed my own feet’ this time!
Note: The guy in this blog was easy to identify and had to answer loads of questions… So smart ‘lil’ me has replaced the name of the city with ‘..xx.. city’ He! He! He! Do your own ‘Geography Guys!
Posted in my musings... on 11/15/2006 01:05 pm by sudha lakhera
Lalitha Krishanan’s post is disturbing http://ilivelife.rediffiland.com/scripts/xanadu_diary_view.php?postId=1163329196 - not only because it is yet another tale of a groping adult but also because even now, she seems to feel a helplessness against what happened to her all those years ago. Lalitha, I can only say thank you for bringing about an awareness by sharing such a personal and painful experience - giving us a first hand account. The past is now behind you but there is a future in the form of other children - if you see something wrong please speak up! The key maybe is ‘caution’ not ‘hatred’.
It was close to two in the morning, a friend and I sat at the coffee shop watching at the opposite table a man in his mid thirties talking animately to two young girls. The girls - not more than 16 hung on to every word of his, wide eyed and adoring . At first glance it seemed as my friend remarked, ‘an uncle baby sitting’ It soon however, became very evident, that the hungry gleam in the guys eyes were certainly not very fatherly. A look around and I realized that there were quite a few young girls spending the wee hours of their morning there. Girls in their teens, expensively dressed and well educated, attempting sophistication with a cigarette between their lips, at ease with men who were not family, indifferent to the hand resting casually on their thigh or draped across their shoulder.
Are parents in a misguided attempt to being ‘cool’ and ‘a good friend’ forgetting that it becomes imperative to put their foot down once in a while? Maybe, they don’t care, they know no better or have no time… How is it that even educated and upwardly mobile parents don’t realize when their child is being exploited?
The scene at the coffee shop was disturbing - maybe I am over reacting…
Posted in Of Men and Marriage! on 11/09/2006 06:03 pm by sudha lakhera
There was this guy I met for ‘marriage purpose, he came well referred, sounded nice over the phone and his pictures said he was worth a ‘dekho’. We met- he seemed somehow to have shrunk in height but then I might just have got my statistics wrong. Its also wonderful what a good photographer, the right pose and good lighting can do. But I was not disappointed and we happily went to lunch - he ordered salad and since he did not look too happy with my Biryani, coke and rasmalai order I decided to forgo the starters. He spoke well on subjects like family, clothes, film stars, sports and putting aside the food issue, I relaxed - this wasn’t too bad! Lunch over we decided to take a stroll and that is when it all started
‘Do you think I am overweight?’ he enquired. ‘Not at all’ I replied quite truthfully, with a smile. ‘This’ he said paying no heed my honest response ‘is not fat, it is muscle’ I nodded trying to look suitably impressed. ‘My body is much admired by my friends.’ At a loss as to what response was expected, I suppressed a giggle, nodded my head once again and tried to look even more impressed. This was obviously not enough for my Hunk, ‘feel’ he commanded. ‘What?’ I managed to squeak. ‘Me’ he said loftily. A million, not too pleasant thoughts, flooded my senses but I shook them off giving him a look of what I hoped would pass off as innocence. ‘My biceps’ he added kindly and I breathed easy! ‘Feel’ he commanded again - tentatively I held out a finger and poked the mentioned area. ‘Its hard’ I said, not having the faintest idea how to compliment a man on his muscles and thinking frantically for something sensible to say.
‘Everyday, I work out for four hours, then I swim four laps and play a few games of tennis’ he went on very engrossed in explaining his schedule. Before I realized it, the words came tumbling out ‘So when do you work?’ Wishing the earth would swallow me, I grinned to show I was joking, not very sure what to do or say next. My sense of humour obviously did not appeal to him, he shot me a look of pure disgust and announced ‘I wake up at four.’ Still fumbling for words I managed ‘ I just cant manage to wake up before seven thirty’ My fate was sealed. I bore a ten minute tirade on the benefits of early to bed and early to rise in silence, still not satisfied he turned to me and said ‘you need to shape up’ All 53 kilos of me shuddered in indignation - no one had ever called me anything but perfect! ‘I think I am right just the way I am, thank you’ I said, hoping to change the topic. ‘Thats what you think’ was his cutting retort instead of the compliment I expected. Visions of being pushed out of bed at four, of him standing in front of the mirror and asking ‘honey, do you think I have added some more muscle?’ flashed across my minds eye (forgive me wordsworth!) and I decided to scoot
Samson, later branded me arrogant, rude and with an attitude that sucks! In return I thanked him nicely, deleted his number and blocked him on messenger. I just hope that he found his Delila and I also hope he never reads this post!
Posted in Pets, Pests & other Peeve on 11/07/2006 05:33 pm by sudha lakhera
My father and I - our entrepreneurial souls inspired by visions of a poultry farm, bought a hundred brightly painted, fluffy chicks, peddled by a man in a basket, for a rupee each. My mother gave her usual reaction -she called upon the Gods, and along with my father and I, gave them a piece of her mind. Once, the worst was over my father and very charged up siblings got to building them a shelter. A huge net enclosure which was meant to guard strawberries (once upon a time…) from birds became a chicken coop. We filled the coop with oats, millet and chopped onions - and the chicks fell upon it with gusto! Greatly, motivated my brother dug up slimy earthworms, which the chicks refused to even look at preferring vegetarian fare.
The first morning and we found nearly twenty of the chicks dead - victims of a mass stampede! They had obviously been cold in the night and being extremely silly, climbed on to each other for warmth. The little corpses were duly buried and my father set up lots of light bulbs in the enclosure to ensure warmth. It worked for a while till we had a full blown thunderstorm. Think their little hearts must have given way and once again we had quite a few dead chicks on hand. About thirty of the hundred chicks survived a fortnight and proudly, under my fathers watchful eye, we let them out to run around the lettuce and potato patch we had planted. Papa soon bored of his task and went off for a smoke forgetting all about his fluffy charges. When rounding them up we understandably found many missing - the crows and rats had being doing a good job!
By the end of of five months we had a single chicken - who was by now a grown rooster - left. He firmly believed he was a dog and ran round pecking everyone in sight regardless of gender or size. Unlike a dog however, this muscular chicken took great pleasure in pecking close family and so one or the other of us children, running full pelt, chased by a very intent chicken was a fairly common sight. Our dreams of a Poultry farm and fresh eggs however, ended the day he decided to take a peck out of my mother…
It seems he made an excellent curry for the family to whom he was given trussed up in a cloth bag!
Posted in People on 11/07/2006 04:18 pm by sudha lakhera
My first memory of Gabbar Singh is of him with a sack of rice on his back walking up the curving road without even a walking stick to aid him. He was close to seventy then and had the wrinkles to prove it - to my seven years he was as old as God! He had come to work with a band of traveling labourers but when the rest of the ‘labour’ departed he remained behind running odd jobs for us and working as a Gardener in the neighboring homes. A small, musty room in the ’servant quarters’ of a Bungalow, owned by a benevolent pair of Anglo Indian spinster sisters, became his home
He had married four times he said - the first one died, the second eloped with his brother, the third he gave up on because of her vicious tongue and the fourth one was supposedly somewhere back in the village tending livestock. The much married Gabbar Singh became an immediate hit with my father and his friends most of whom were suffering from their first marriage and couldn’t even think of another! When quizzed on how he managed four women he would wink and burst into loud laughter. He was easily humoured and laughed with with gay abandon, his body shaking, his eyes watering. Watching him laugh could bring a smile to the most sullen faces
We children thronged to him - he always had wonderful stories to tell. Wide eyed we would hang on to every word of his while he brought alive ghosts, witches, fairies and talking animals. While telling his tales Gabbar Singh would knit, creating intricate, colourful patterns without any books to guide him. He knitted socks, sweaters and caps - some of these he sold to the shops dealing in hand knitted woolens and the remaining he packed off to various relatives in his village
We never asked if he had any children - not even my father knows. My sister and me he treated with a reverence which was surprising considering he belonged to an age and place in which girls were nothing but a burden - ‘Devi’ he called us. For us, he would cook lip smacking omelets on the stove in his little room (something my mother never knew of - she still doesn’t!) and serve us on tin plates. The omelets were as big an inducement as the stories he told and under the pretext of ‘playing’ we would spend hours with him. My brother he treated with slight disdain - saying that boys were no good and would grow up only to be ruled by their wives - a bitterness born maybe out of experience.
Gabbar Singh, was a chronic Drinker - he drank bottles of smelly liquor brewed in his village called ‘Soor’ and when that ran out, local country liquor. Yet, he was never intoxicated - I never saw his step falter or his speech slur. Watching him drink was something we kids never tired of. After his rice and Dal breakfast - he would place a steel glass, a brass vessel of water, his bottle of liquor, a plate of green chillies and some salt in a bowl on the sack that served as his table. Seated cross legged on the floor he would with precision pour alcohol in the tumbler, top it with water, gaze at it for a minute and then at one go, gulp the whole glassful down. He would emerge from behind his glass, wag his head, lick some salt and chew a chilli. Three or four glasses and an equal amount of chillies later Gabbar Singh was ready to take on the world. At night before after his dinner the same routine was carried out
One day Gabbar Singh received a letter from home and left. We never heard from him again but he remains in my memory - a grandfather figure with a wonderful story of his own life - a story he never shared and one which I will never hear. No one ever occupied his little room again
I went to see Gabbar Singh’s abode this time when I visited my hometown. The bungalow is now owned by some prosperous family from Delhi, the spinster sisters having died lonely deaths years ago, and used as a holiday home. The garden in which Gabbar Singh used to so lovingly tend Roses, Dahlia, Gladioli, Geranium and Oleander lies barren. I stopped for a minute in front of the little room of the run down servant quarters, the door had rotted away and the room was full of weeds - the owner is hoping to pull down the quarters and build another house there. I peeped in - was it Gabbar Singh I saw sitting there frying an omelet or was it just memories of childhood playing pranks on my mind?!
