I wouldn't say I am a liar. But I lie. I pad the truth, embellish the details and in general (and true Indian style) add masala to every event in my life.
But to be fair to myself I don’t do this to deceive or mislead anyone. But I genuinely find that the world is more fascinating when seen through a certain 'perspective'.
I am more than helped along this path by the company I keep. Most people put up a self portrait on facebook. It is generally the one picture that makes us look normal from the 3423 others that make us look like some weird alien beings from Zrag.
But my best friend decided to put up a picture that is an imitation of the "Scream" by Edvard Munch. (Google that, go on, I can wait). Not only did he match the pose but his picture even matches the background of the painting.
What rational man walks through a park and considers - "hmmm this background matches the one painted by that expressionist dude, I should click a picture of myself here". But I digress. The point is he was not satisfied with a normal picture and I am not satisfied by a normal life.
When I go to buy groceries for instance, I usually equate the trip with a quest to find supplies by Sudanese refugees on the run.
I almost never buy something without atleast once considering things like - if zombies were to attack the planet this very instance, could I cram this into a back-pack? Maybe eat it while desperately listening for rustling noises in the dense wood, nervously fingering my shotgun? Where would I get a shotgun? Alright maybe I have no weapons but save the can to keep fresh water. I can see it now...
Usually this goes on until I realise I am standing in a supermarket staring at the aisles with a bottle of olives in one hand, and the manager is beginning to look at me nervously.
No doubt you, oh non-existent reader, think I am crazy and have forgotten to take my pills again. The truth is that while your life is bland and dull and filled with mundane thoughts like "Gosh, I hope the mud doesn’t dirty my shoes", my world is a sensual pleasure garden where each and every moment is a trip down fantasy lane, possibly leading to a wild ride.
And this gives meaning to my life. It allows me to acknowledge that while I may not be part of history, it does not mean that my small and insignificant life cannot be one that is wonderful and filled with the strange and the exotic.
Next time you get up and do anything, get a bowl of cereal or watch a show on tv, consider the magic, the effort and the imagination that led to that product - be it milk or discovery channel special - being channelled to your home for you.
This world, if you chose to believe it, is built for you. Everything is aimed so that you can experience its wonders.
And if the cost of experiencing that wonder means allowing my mind to occasionally meander pointlessly, like this post is doing, then so be it.
Monday, 1 November 2010
Wednesday, 17 March 2010
Thin shopping
I am a fat guy and for me, normally shopping is an exercise in futility. After all, what is the point of going to ten shops only to have clerks measure my stomach and then make a half-assed attempt to pretend like their store has the size before mumbling “sorry nothing here”.
And they measure it in every store, like they cant believe anyone would possibly wear 44 inch waist sized pants. They cant take my word for it of course. They have to grope around me to ensure that their tapes give them the most accurate reading. What do they really expect? the magical number of 34 will arise if they measure it?
And even if they do have the size, the choices are generally ridiculous. In India the consensus seems to be fat men will only wear single-colour full-sleeve shirts and dull coloured pants. Anything else is beyond their imagination.
Indeed why should a fat man even dare to think he can wear something nice. Tell the bastard to lose some weight first and then bother to ask for “choice”, the lard ass.
Of course none of this has left me bitter in any way. No sir. But I do harbour a deep seated and uncontrollable jealous and envious rage at the thin ones who can literally breeze into any store and pull on the first pair of pants they find and walk out looking like James Bond.
Ironically then this happy delusion of mine was mildly miffed when i went shopping with my brother – in – law yesterday. Aside from the new knowledge that my sister's husband is a nit-picking teenage girl when it comes to shopping, I discovered a new angle. Thin people DO have difficulty finding clothes.
The jeans were faded or criss crossed with designs – a definite no-can-do since he needed to wear it to work. The cotton pants he selected were too loose and the next size too tight. The corduroys were too atrocious to even speak off. Then, after loafing around the jeans section for nearly an hour, we finally drifted over to the formal pants sections.
He had too many brown pants and would definitely not go a blue pant. Black was the way to go. He had too many pin-striped ones and he didn't like the slightly ribbed one. We eventually found a pitch black one, but the shade was slightly off. Luckily he decided to give up and just bought the pants. Heck by then I had also picked up two shirts for myself. They were nice.
As we stood in the never ending check out queue I realised that we had spent some two hours in this massive store for thin people ( not a single pant in my size) and not found anything. The awful truth was that since I was fat, I went to a store that I knew had my size and the choice was limited so it was usually a ten minute affair. Fed on a glut of choices and having to never face the situation of no size, thin people suffer from the disease of excess. The shade, the look, the feel, the material and even the stitching of their clothes had to be absolutely perfect. Being a fat man, I have never, EVER left a store TWO hours later – empty handed.
The slightest and smallest feeling of empathy crept into my hardened soul on the drive back home. Poor thin guys, unable to ever satisfy their nit-picking demands, doomed to bad clothing I suppose. Tragic, indeed.
No worries however, the world was put back into focus a short half–an–hour later. His clothes, however painfully obtained, fit him. The two shirts I bought – no such luck.
And they measure it in every store, like they cant believe anyone would possibly wear 44 inch waist sized pants. They cant take my word for it of course. They have to grope around me to ensure that their tapes give them the most accurate reading. What do they really expect? the magical number of 34 will arise if they measure it?
And even if they do have the size, the choices are generally ridiculous. In India the consensus seems to be fat men will only wear single-colour full-sleeve shirts and dull coloured pants. Anything else is beyond their imagination.
Indeed why should a fat man even dare to think he can wear something nice. Tell the bastard to lose some weight first and then bother to ask for “choice”, the lard ass.
Of course none of this has left me bitter in any way. No sir. But I do harbour a deep seated and uncontrollable jealous and envious rage at the thin ones who can literally breeze into any store and pull on the first pair of pants they find and walk out looking like James Bond.
Ironically then this happy delusion of mine was mildly miffed when i went shopping with my brother – in – law yesterday. Aside from the new knowledge that my sister's husband is a nit-picking teenage girl when it comes to shopping, I discovered a new angle. Thin people DO have difficulty finding clothes.
The jeans were faded or criss crossed with designs – a definite no-can-do since he needed to wear it to work. The cotton pants he selected were too loose and the next size too tight. The corduroys were too atrocious to even speak off. Then, after loafing around the jeans section for nearly an hour, we finally drifted over to the formal pants sections.
He had too many brown pants and would definitely not go a blue pant. Black was the way to go. He had too many pin-striped ones and he didn't like the slightly ribbed one. We eventually found a pitch black one, but the shade was slightly off. Luckily he decided to give up and just bought the pants. Heck by then I had also picked up two shirts for myself. They were nice.
As we stood in the never ending check out queue I realised that we had spent some two hours in this massive store for thin people ( not a single pant in my size) and not found anything. The awful truth was that since I was fat, I went to a store that I knew had my size and the choice was limited so it was usually a ten minute affair. Fed on a glut of choices and having to never face the situation of no size, thin people suffer from the disease of excess. The shade, the look, the feel, the material and even the stitching of their clothes had to be absolutely perfect. Being a fat man, I have never, EVER left a store TWO hours later – empty handed.
The slightest and smallest feeling of empathy crept into my hardened soul on the drive back home. Poor thin guys, unable to ever satisfy their nit-picking demands, doomed to bad clothing I suppose. Tragic, indeed.
No worries however, the world was put back into focus a short half–an–hour later. His clothes, however painfully obtained, fit him. The two shirts I bought – no such luck.
Wednesday, 10 March 2010
Twenty Three
I had a friend once. It seems like ages ago now. He was twenty three when he died. He didn't pass away, he didn't go to a better place, he didn't find peace. He died. He died far away, in a place i have never seen, but among other friends. I have to assume he died happy.
I sat next him for a total of three years. Three years is a long time but i don't think so. Not because I wish he was with me forever. But because I practically breathed the same air as him for some 600 or so days and yet I seem to know so little about him.
I don't know if he ever got his heart's wish, if his biggest dream came true, if he found what he was looking for or if he was looking for anything. I don't know if he was happy, if he ever tasted a perfect dish, sipped a perfect drink or saw a perfect sunrise at the end of a long night. I dont know if he got the woman of his dreams or what he dreamed about.I dont know if the number of people who hated him matched the number who loved him. I hope so.
I don't remember exactly which day he died and I didn't go to his funeral. I don't even know if he would have preferred this post to be a funny one or a sober one.
I know he was a good friend and mostly a good person. But I think that's too little a thing to show for 600 or so days. He was one of the rare few to whom I managed to be a good friend. I don't know if that mattered.
I am twenty three now and it is time to go find my own answers. So goodbye my friend. Twenty three and no more.
And oh, happy birthday to me.
I sat next him for a total of three years. Three years is a long time but i don't think so. Not because I wish he was with me forever. But because I practically breathed the same air as him for some 600 or so days and yet I seem to know so little about him.
I don't know if he ever got his heart's wish, if his biggest dream came true, if he found what he was looking for or if he was looking for anything. I don't know if he was happy, if he ever tasted a perfect dish, sipped a perfect drink or saw a perfect sunrise at the end of a long night. I dont know if he got the woman of his dreams or what he dreamed about.I dont know if the number of people who hated him matched the number who loved him. I hope so.
I don't remember exactly which day he died and I didn't go to his funeral. I don't even know if he would have preferred this post to be a funny one or a sober one.
I know he was a good friend and mostly a good person. But I think that's too little a thing to show for 600 or so days. He was one of the rare few to whom I managed to be a good friend. I don't know if that mattered.
I am twenty three now and it is time to go find my own answers. So goodbye my friend. Twenty three and no more.
And oh, happy birthday to me.
Thursday, 18 February 2010
The Lethargic Side of The Force
Someone entered my room the other day and boldly declared that he was being beautifully lazy. "How?" I asked. This was a challenge. I would have fixed him with a cool stare but my face was already set in one direction and moving it was inconceivable. "God! I woke up at 11 today and did nothing except lounge about and still haven't bathed...". I glanced at the clock. It was 4 pm. I wondered whether should spare him. Perhaps show a shred of mercy. I never finished that decision as my mouth had already begun to speak so my brain decided it was too late and and anyway such thoughts were too long for comfort.
"I have not moved from this chair in 21 hours...this room in five days..this house in the past ten days. Bath? don't make me laugh..."
That's when the nosebleeds and cries for his mother, soap and a deodorant began. Pansy. All these amateurs think they know the power of the Lethargic Side of The Force. Fools. They know nothing.
I have stared into the void and fallen asleep. I have seen the true face of blackness and refused to put the effort of looking away. I have felt the force fill my being and quickly let it out as gas before I became dangerously motivated. Indeed I have totally forgotten what I intended to write after this since memory requires too much action. Still whatever it was it would have spectacular. But not too much. Awe and inspiration cause too much energy and THAT is a sin.
Here, deep within my room, I lie dormant. Doing...nothing. Feeling...nothing. Learning...nothing. Changing clothes...well you get the idea. The ceiling bleeds laziness and the walls are saturated by sloth. Fit, energetic freaks who enter my presence in their dismal quest to bring me 'back to the light' either collapse at the door or are quickly corrupted and fall asleep on the bed. I have never heard the end of the phrase "why don't we do..." because such power radiates from my unmoving being that they always and immediately understand that there is no "we" when the word "do" appears. There is only "you" and “you” will “do”.
This is not an choice for the weak. The seduction of doing 'something' is always strong - testing you, luring you to it's side. To resist means failure. To ignore means failure. To not even realise it is happening is the true sign of a master. The creed is simple - There is no peace, there is only sleep. There is no work, there is only...well there is no ending since no master dared to break the fundamental principles of this faith by sitting down and writing an ending. We don't even make it up as we go along so my kind refuses to go anywhere.
I have dedicated my life to this belief and truly believe – not strongly but the justly path of least requirement – barely and very vaguely that one day, once again, the lazy will rule the galaxy and then...we shall have...sleep. But perhaps the greatest power that comes fr...
P.S : If you expected this treatise to be finished you have learned...nothing. Congratulations. Heathen.
"I have not moved from this chair in 21 hours...this room in five days..this house in the past ten days. Bath? don't make me laugh..."
That's when the nosebleeds and cries for his mother, soap and a deodorant began. Pansy. All these amateurs think they know the power of the Lethargic Side of The Force. Fools. They know nothing.
I have stared into the void and fallen asleep. I have seen the true face of blackness and refused to put the effort of looking away. I have felt the force fill my being and quickly let it out as gas before I became dangerously motivated. Indeed I have totally forgotten what I intended to write after this since memory requires too much action. Still whatever it was it would have spectacular. But not too much. Awe and inspiration cause too much energy and THAT is a sin.
Here, deep within my room, I lie dormant. Doing...nothing. Feeling...nothing. Learning...nothing. Changing clothes...well you get the idea. The ceiling bleeds laziness and the walls are saturated by sloth. Fit, energetic freaks who enter my presence in their dismal quest to bring me 'back to the light' either collapse at the door or are quickly corrupted and fall asleep on the bed. I have never heard the end of the phrase "why don't we do..." because such power radiates from my unmoving being that they always and immediately understand that there is no "we" when the word "do" appears. There is only "you" and “you” will “do”.
This is not an choice for the weak. The seduction of doing 'something' is always strong - testing you, luring you to it's side. To resist means failure. To ignore means failure. To not even realise it is happening is the true sign of a master. The creed is simple - There is no peace, there is only sleep. There is no work, there is only...well there is no ending since no master dared to break the fundamental principles of this faith by sitting down and writing an ending. We don't even make it up as we go along so my kind refuses to go anywhere.
I have dedicated my life to this belief and truly believe – not strongly but the justly path of least requirement – barely and very vaguely that one day, once again, the lazy will rule the galaxy and then...we shall have...sleep. But perhaps the greatest power that comes fr...
P.S : If you expected this treatise to be finished you have learned...nothing. Congratulations. Heathen.
Thursday, 11 February 2010
Two Thrones
There was once two great states – one ruled from a golden throne and one from a silver throne. They had little to do with each other but one day they made a great discovery - a new world. They each took half and agreed to mutual co-operation and co - governance. The greatest nobles from both lands settled in this new world and for a while it was good and trade flourished. The land satisfied all needs and seemed perfect.
But Lady Desires lands were on the border that divided this world in two and ever she coveted what lay beyond. She whispered into golden ears. All our trade is with each other, we are so intimately involved. Would not a union of both crowns be best for all. why not ask for what is obviously right?
The answer was no. While the golden messengers were received with honour by the Silver throne they were told a firm no. there was no need for a such union and besides things are fine this way, are they not?
Though rebuffed, the Golden throne kept up negotiations. After all, how hard can it be to convince the other side of the truth? we are on the right side, aren't we? So the talks went on, sometimes with swords drawn, some times over coffee. Finally a breakthrough after a year - a union was agreed upon. And for a while it was good.
But the Silver throne never intended to keep it's promises. It just wanted to inhabit the new world in peace. Soon a message arrived to the Golden throne. The union was dissolved. Silver had a new co-ruler ( a certain Lord Love) and was willing to fight for its right to have a union without the blessing of the Golden throne.
The golden throne thought for a while and finally took the advice of Earl Revenge. If Silver can have allies so can Gold. The message was sent back with the notice that a fight would be unnecessary as Gold had found a new co-ruler also ( Dame Joseph). If Silver and Gold stayed on their sides of the border who would care?
But Lady Desire had acquired lands on both sides of the border during the long negotiations and now needed to keep the borders open or lose half of her lands. how could she allow that? so the closed borders quickly dissolved into a farce. Of course Gold and Silver knew of the daily transgressions but they turned their heads. So long as Lord Love and Dame Joseph didn't know, what harm could there be?
but news doesn't stay hidden for long and soon both courts began to fill with rumours of secret trysts and a flourishing cross-border black trade. The scandal broke in silver lands first. And action was swift. All of Lady Desires lands in the northern half of the new world were confiscated and the borders were sealed - properly this time. There was much wild demonstrations on both sides, great cries to 'rise to the occasion', many jokes on the stupidity of each side and many claims of who would lose more from all of this ( the other side of course!)
With no cross-border exchange the southern half of the new world lost it's Raison d'être and the land soon de-populated, it's settlements began to be abandoned and the land went back into the wild. A long year of silence was to pass.
Then one day, uncalled and unexpected, a lone silver messenger appeared - ragged and unkempt bearing a wish for the borders to be opened. Both Gold and Silver missed the new world but old issues were not forgotten. Silver wanted a monopoly on the trade between the lands but Gold could not agree to that without a Union. And so the world lay silent, holding it's breath. Soon news came that Lord Lust had quickly replaced Lord Love. Offended at this breach of protocol Gold closed the gates. Once again there was ceremony and much waving of flags and martial tunes. But it was strained. No claims or jokes could be found in all the land this time.
This time it was a golden messenger who appeared in silver court after six long months. He was graciously accepted. Apparently Lord lust had a short career. And for a while it wad good. Gold and Silver once more exchanged toasts and there was much merriment.
But one by one the old advisers lost power in the golden court. Dame Desire, Sir Trust, Duke Nostalgia...all gone. New factions rose and they resented all of this toasting. The new world was ours they said. Its all or nothing they said. Soon men brought news of other lords in the Silver court, of insults to the Golden throne. The toasts stopped coming. The Golden king heard all but seemed unwilling to let go. Finally the news came of golden tradesmen being halted at the border, being forced to wait in line at customs while strangers were breezing through. Was this not enough?
The strongest faction at the golden court – Lord Anger, Duke Jealousy and Dame Ego - decided it indeed was enough. They brought a formal petition to the king. They demanded the closure of the gates, the beheading of Lord Want and Duke Nostalgia and the abdication of the king. A new king would be found - some one from the House of Sane. There was no ceremony this time, no wild crowds, not even a public declaration. In the middle of the night the gates were closed, the locks put into place and the border guards sent home. Who cared?
So the king lost his throne for his land and the new world was abandoned. It lay silent empty while brave golden explorers would find other new worlds, would find new thrones to covet and new unions to desire under a new banner and a new king. In time the old settlements fell into ruin, the shining border roads were lost in the forest and silence descended on the new world. And thus it lays today. Waiting for someone, anyone to claim it once again.
What of the old king? Well no one really knows what happened to him. But rumours say that sometimes, when the nights are especially calm, he seen ambling through the old ruins in the new world. Sometimes stories come that he can be found staring across the borders - dreaming of silver messengers and a golden age. Maybe one day it will come back. Who knows? nobody goes to the new world anymore.
But Lady Desires lands were on the border that divided this world in two and ever she coveted what lay beyond. She whispered into golden ears. All our trade is with each other, we are so intimately involved. Would not a union of both crowns be best for all. why not ask for what is obviously right?
The answer was no. While the golden messengers were received with honour by the Silver throne they were told a firm no. there was no need for a such union and besides things are fine this way, are they not?
Though rebuffed, the Golden throne kept up negotiations. After all, how hard can it be to convince the other side of the truth? we are on the right side, aren't we? So the talks went on, sometimes with swords drawn, some times over coffee. Finally a breakthrough after a year - a union was agreed upon. And for a while it was good.
But the Silver throne never intended to keep it's promises. It just wanted to inhabit the new world in peace. Soon a message arrived to the Golden throne. The union was dissolved. Silver had a new co-ruler ( a certain Lord Love) and was willing to fight for its right to have a union without the blessing of the Golden throne.
The golden throne thought for a while and finally took the advice of Earl Revenge. If Silver can have allies so can Gold. The message was sent back with the notice that a fight would be unnecessary as Gold had found a new co-ruler also ( Dame Joseph). If Silver and Gold stayed on their sides of the border who would care?
But Lady Desire had acquired lands on both sides of the border during the long negotiations and now needed to keep the borders open or lose half of her lands. how could she allow that? so the closed borders quickly dissolved into a farce. Of course Gold and Silver knew of the daily transgressions but they turned their heads. So long as Lord Love and Dame Joseph didn't know, what harm could there be?
but news doesn't stay hidden for long and soon both courts began to fill with rumours of secret trysts and a flourishing cross-border black trade. The scandal broke in silver lands first. And action was swift. All of Lady Desires lands in the northern half of the new world were confiscated and the borders were sealed - properly this time. There was much wild demonstrations on both sides, great cries to 'rise to the occasion', many jokes on the stupidity of each side and many claims of who would lose more from all of this ( the other side of course!)
With no cross-border exchange the southern half of the new world lost it's Raison d'être and the land soon de-populated, it's settlements began to be abandoned and the land went back into the wild. A long year of silence was to pass.
Then one day, uncalled and unexpected, a lone silver messenger appeared - ragged and unkempt bearing a wish for the borders to be opened. Both Gold and Silver missed the new world but old issues were not forgotten. Silver wanted a monopoly on the trade between the lands but Gold could not agree to that without a Union. And so the world lay silent, holding it's breath. Soon news came that Lord Lust had quickly replaced Lord Love. Offended at this breach of protocol Gold closed the gates. Once again there was ceremony and much waving of flags and martial tunes. But it was strained. No claims or jokes could be found in all the land this time.
This time it was a golden messenger who appeared in silver court after six long months. He was graciously accepted. Apparently Lord lust had a short career. And for a while it wad good. Gold and Silver once more exchanged toasts and there was much merriment.
But one by one the old advisers lost power in the golden court. Dame Desire, Sir Trust, Duke Nostalgia...all gone. New factions rose and they resented all of this toasting. The new world was ours they said. Its all or nothing they said. Soon men brought news of other lords in the Silver court, of insults to the Golden throne. The toasts stopped coming. The Golden king heard all but seemed unwilling to let go. Finally the news came of golden tradesmen being halted at the border, being forced to wait in line at customs while strangers were breezing through. Was this not enough?
The strongest faction at the golden court – Lord Anger, Duke Jealousy and Dame Ego - decided it indeed was enough. They brought a formal petition to the king. They demanded the closure of the gates, the beheading of Lord Want and Duke Nostalgia and the abdication of the king. A new king would be found - some one from the House of Sane. There was no ceremony this time, no wild crowds, not even a public declaration. In the middle of the night the gates were closed, the locks put into place and the border guards sent home. Who cared?
So the king lost his throne for his land and the new world was abandoned. It lay silent empty while brave golden explorers would find other new worlds, would find new thrones to covet and new unions to desire under a new banner and a new king. In time the old settlements fell into ruin, the shining border roads were lost in the forest and silence descended on the new world. And thus it lays today. Waiting for someone, anyone to claim it once again.
What of the old king? Well no one really knows what happened to him. But rumours say that sometimes, when the nights are especially calm, he seen ambling through the old ruins in the new world. Sometimes stories come that he can be found staring across the borders - dreaming of silver messengers and a golden age. Maybe one day it will come back. Who knows? nobody goes to the new world anymore.
Friday, 5 February 2010
The Marwadi bedsheet sense
I went shopping with my mother the other day and stumbled upon these awesome bedsheets. They were yellow with black palm trees slashed across one end. They were good, they were right, they were yellow! And incidentally 1700 Rs. On viewing this item in the shopping basket my mother had only one question - why do you need this?
The question took me down a meandering path to the marriage reception of a Marwadi friend. For those of you living under a rock – Marwadi's are a community of businessmen famous for their wealth, acute business sense, ability to make profit out of anything, atrocious taste in colours, clothes and jewellery and above all else - far, far above all else - their refusal to actually spend any of this great wealth they seem to be making all the time.
It was amazing. The bride and groom looked stunning. When I met them words like “opulence” “bedecked” “jewelled” and “oh my fucking god! How much did that cost?” sprang to mind. The stage was exceptionally well decorated in a tastefully muted white - a miracle as far as this community is concerned. There was more variety in food than decency should allow ( eight types of sweets, are you kidding me?). Heck, they were even distributing free popcorn and ice candies outside the hall. The guests were a sight in themselves. Sherwani's that looked like they were made of moon beams. Unbelievably pretty woman in saree's that glittered enough to be seen from space. Men who wore shirts so shiny you could probably spot them in pitch darkness. Everything and everyone was loud and bright. The collective levels of bling-ness and bad taste was enough to power a small nation. For that matter there was enough gold in the place ( men and women, they have no bias in that respect) to probably reduce the national debt significantly. And I was soaking all of this in while a live band crooned old Hindi songs to keep me entertained as I ate enough for my stomach to practically break off, declare independence and form it's own body.
There was not a soul present ( they were all mostly Marwadi) who looked the least concerned about the cost of all of this glitter and seemed even half-way as impressed as I was. This was odd since otherwise all they seem to talk about is how business is bad (it always is), how something I recently purchased could have been gotten for cheaper at a friend's shop ( it always would be) and how there is absolutely NO FUCKING possibility of any extra money to do anything! ( there never is, not even spare change)
But all around me they were spending like it was the end of days. They often behave this way and it took me some time to figure out this strange quirk in their personalities but after close observation I understood the logic. It goes as follows -
If I don't spend just the right amount of money in someone else's shop then they will not make any money and therefore will have no money to spend when they come to my shop and might ask me for credit ( NOOOOOOOOO!!!)
by applying this logic two things were clear -
one - His marriage was grand and good so when he gets invited to a wedding, they (his former guests), will also make their weddings grand and good or else be thrown out of the community for lowering standards.
two- He would most definitely buy those sheets since he or his son might someday want to sell such sheets and it would not be good to set a precedent by not buying them. anyway he would be sleeping on them so they have SOME value.
Therefore if a Marwadi does it so should I, because if any one knows what to do with money it's them. It made perfect sense.
Apparently that was not the case because my mother thought I had lost my marbles but agreed to take the sheets anyway since – and I quote - “You are my only son, If I don't put up with your lunacy, who will?”. Well you can't win them all but at least I got the sheets.
The question took me down a meandering path to the marriage reception of a Marwadi friend. For those of you living under a rock – Marwadi's are a community of businessmen famous for their wealth, acute business sense, ability to make profit out of anything, atrocious taste in colours, clothes and jewellery and above all else - far, far above all else - their refusal to actually spend any of this great wealth they seem to be making all the time.
It was amazing. The bride and groom looked stunning. When I met them words like “opulence” “bedecked” “jewelled” and “oh my fucking god! How much did that cost?” sprang to mind. The stage was exceptionally well decorated in a tastefully muted white - a miracle as far as this community is concerned. There was more variety in food than decency should allow ( eight types of sweets, are you kidding me?). Heck, they were even distributing free popcorn and ice candies outside the hall. The guests were a sight in themselves. Sherwani's that looked like they were made of moon beams. Unbelievably pretty woman in saree's that glittered enough to be seen from space. Men who wore shirts so shiny you could probably spot them in pitch darkness. Everything and everyone was loud and bright. The collective levels of bling-ness and bad taste was enough to power a small nation. For that matter there was enough gold in the place ( men and women, they have no bias in that respect) to probably reduce the national debt significantly. And I was soaking all of this in while a live band crooned old Hindi songs to keep me entertained as I ate enough for my stomach to practically break off, declare independence and form it's own body.
There was not a soul present ( they were all mostly Marwadi) who looked the least concerned about the cost of all of this glitter and seemed even half-way as impressed as I was. This was odd since otherwise all they seem to talk about is how business is bad (it always is), how something I recently purchased could have been gotten for cheaper at a friend's shop ( it always would be) and how there is absolutely NO FUCKING possibility of any extra money to do anything! ( there never is, not even spare change)
But all around me they were spending like it was the end of days. They often behave this way and it took me some time to figure out this strange quirk in their personalities but after close observation I understood the logic. It goes as follows -
If I don't spend just the right amount of money in someone else's shop then they will not make any money and therefore will have no money to spend when they come to my shop and might ask me for credit ( NOOOOOOOOO!!!)
by applying this logic two things were clear -
one - His marriage was grand and good so when he gets invited to a wedding, they (his former guests), will also make their weddings grand and good or else be thrown out of the community for lowering standards.
two- He would most definitely buy those sheets since he or his son might someday want to sell such sheets and it would not be good to set a precedent by not buying them. anyway he would be sleeping on them so they have SOME value.
Therefore if a Marwadi does it so should I, because if any one knows what to do with money it's them. It made perfect sense.
Apparently that was not the case because my mother thought I had lost my marbles but agreed to take the sheets anyway since – and I quote - “You are my only son, If I don't put up with your lunacy, who will?”. Well you can't win them all but at least I got the sheets.
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
16 and James Bond - ish
16 was a good time to be me, at least I thought so. I had the two great experiences that pretty much defined the rest of my life. I finally learned to smoke and I joined a PU college that truly introduced me to the concept of a social life. I loved the first and hated the second and have pretty much stuck to my beliefs for near 7 years now and things are just fine.
the time passed in a literal haze for me. From the gentle beginnings of one smoke a day to the later stages when I got down to the serious and dedicated business of smoking 20 a day and avoiding the rest of the free world, most of my free time was in blue hazes. It was almost as if I was making up for the 16 years that I failed to do take up this activity.
Life was also thrilling. I had the following notions – (a) smaller cigarettes = less smell, (b)so long as I blew the smoke as far away from my body as possible none would be the wiser. So I put a plan into action. Step one – buy a length of pipe. One small trip to a hard ware store and I came back with a five feet long washing machine tube, the kind that is used to pump water into fully automatics. I don't even remember what ludicrous story I invented when my mother saw it but apparently it passed muster because I still have this pipe lying around. Step two - another furtive trip to an out-of-the-way paan walla - in those days I had not a single strand of facial hair unfortunately and used tales of smoking uncles who wanted these since I was too cowardly to say "hand it over, bub" - to get a pack of More Slims ( menthol flavoured). This involved quite an investment since back then a pack of More's cost 86 Rs, a full week's allowance at ten bucks a day.
So every night at around 1 to 3 am I eased into the balcony of my room and smoked while carefully blowing the smoke into the pipe which dangled from the edge. This allowed the smoke to gently waft some ten feet below my flat. I imagined myself to be quite the genius. Of course I was eventually caught in the traditional ways. My mother found the pack of More's in one of her routine cleaning trips and my dad ( at three a.m, the crafty fox) walked right into the balcony and looking thoughtfully at the lit cigarette in his son's hand casually enquired if I was a smoker. No father, my hand accidentally caught fire and I was admiring the embers.
For me the magic snapped after that. Now that my father knew I smoked what else was left? I stopped the whole pipe business and just went to balcony and had a smoke. Stopped the More business too, was just to expensive. The thrill was gone and with it a small part of the magic that was childhood.
Other things happened too. I made new friends, got a girl friend, got kissed, got a job and a dozen other things that were the thrill of the time, including morning shows in Urvashi theatre after bunking college at 9:30 a.m to watch absurdly bad hindi films. But I never felt the need to be James Bond - ish about anything. The culture of “I am what I am and you can either take it or leave it” set too deeply and I don't remember ever feeling the need to hide anything from then on. And that's what I miss about being 16.
And for those of you who are wondering - years later my mother informed me that while blowing smoke ten feet out was a fine concept, the smell on my hair and hands, my clothes and the little bt of ash I almost always accidentally tapped on the floor were apparently the subtle indicators of my night time activities. Still it was a good idea and it was good to be 16.
the time passed in a literal haze for me. From the gentle beginnings of one smoke a day to the later stages when I got down to the serious and dedicated business of smoking 20 a day and avoiding the rest of the free world, most of my free time was in blue hazes. It was almost as if I was making up for the 16 years that I failed to do take up this activity.
Life was also thrilling. I had the following notions – (a) smaller cigarettes = less smell, (b)so long as I blew the smoke as far away from my body as possible none would be the wiser. So I put a plan into action. Step one – buy a length of pipe. One small trip to a hard ware store and I came back with a five feet long washing machine tube, the kind that is used to pump water into fully automatics. I don't even remember what ludicrous story I invented when my mother saw it but apparently it passed muster because I still have this pipe lying around. Step two - another furtive trip to an out-of-the-way paan walla - in those days I had not a single strand of facial hair unfortunately and used tales of smoking uncles who wanted these since I was too cowardly to say "hand it over, bub" - to get a pack of More Slims ( menthol flavoured). This involved quite an investment since back then a pack of More's cost 86 Rs, a full week's allowance at ten bucks a day.
So every night at around 1 to 3 am I eased into the balcony of my room and smoked while carefully blowing the smoke into the pipe which dangled from the edge. This allowed the smoke to gently waft some ten feet below my flat. I imagined myself to be quite the genius. Of course I was eventually caught in the traditional ways. My mother found the pack of More's in one of her routine cleaning trips and my dad ( at three a.m, the crafty fox) walked right into the balcony and looking thoughtfully at the lit cigarette in his son's hand casually enquired if I was a smoker. No father, my hand accidentally caught fire and I was admiring the embers.
For me the magic snapped after that. Now that my father knew I smoked what else was left? I stopped the whole pipe business and just went to balcony and had a smoke. Stopped the More business too, was just to expensive. The thrill was gone and with it a small part of the magic that was childhood.
Other things happened too. I made new friends, got a girl friend, got kissed, got a job and a dozen other things that were the thrill of the time, including morning shows in Urvashi theatre after bunking college at 9:30 a.m to watch absurdly bad hindi films. But I never felt the need to be James Bond - ish about anything. The culture of “I am what I am and you can either take it or leave it” set too deeply and I don't remember ever feeling the need to hide anything from then on. And that's what I miss about being 16.
And for those of you who are wondering - years later my mother informed me that while blowing smoke ten feet out was a fine concept, the smell on my hair and hands, my clothes and the little bt of ash I almost always accidentally tapped on the floor were apparently the subtle indicators of my night time activities. Still it was a good idea and it was good to be 16.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)