The Box of Delight

Although I wish to think of myself as someone with a literary bent of mind, a few days back when my 'Idiot Box' crashed, I found myself fretting, fuming and at a loss for what seemed like a very important part of my life -  mindless entertainment. The following is a tribute to what turns out to be an indispensable fixture in my life....so, read on......

In the past few days, an eerie silence has prevailed over my tiny studio apartment. It has been a silence which resembles the lull that engulfs a battlefield after the battle is long over or the quiescence which is associated with a placid lake on a breeze-less summer day. This silence is solely attributed to the unfortunate event that occurred last Thursday. As I awoke to the persistent chirping of a sparrow on my window sill and habitually reached out for the TV remote, I realized that my television had stopped displaying the arrays of amusing, colourful pictures and varying sounds and was hung on a sickly blue screen which refused to give way even though I broke a few fingers, frantically flicking from one channel to the other. The previous night had been rather rough with the rains lashing out at the city and I presumed that my cable operator would be able to pull off his usual magic and set things straight by changing a damaged cable or two.

So, without worrying much I proceeded with my daily morning chores, making a mental note of calling my cable operator as soon as I reached office. Upon arriving, I indulged in my usual leisurely morning routine of grabbing a cup of Horlicks and ambling languidly to my desk(I hope my Boss isn't reading this :-) ). At last, settling into my seat I decided to make the important call. I was greeted by a rather sullen voice which in my head belonged to a surly old Kannadiga man, bent over an old fashioned CRT monitor, slowly typing out the revenue figures of his small enterprise. In my most cordial tone, I began to explain my predicament, only to be rudely interrupted by a flurry of indecipherable Kannad words flung at me at an alarming speed of probably 100 words per millisecond. After a meaningless five minutes during which I unsuccessfully tried to put across my point, I decided to hang up and visit the Hathway (cable operator) office on my way back home.

By this time, a strange gloom and a premonition of bad news awaiting me, had started to creep in and my usual cheerful disposition was turning grey. The day rolled by and as soon as the clock struck six, I packed my bags and headed towards the Hathway office. By some stroke of luck, I managed to convey my concern to the relevant authorities and after being assured that my little box of delight would resurface from its comatose by the following morning, I returned home with a tiny smile and a hopeful heart. However, the next day my face fell as I again stared at the stubborn blue screen. Needless to say, I drove the entire staff at Hathway crazy over the next 48 hours. They tried all the tricks of their trade to figure out what had gone wrong with the connection, only to conclude by saying : 'Ma'am, we feel that there is a problem with your television. Please stop calling us every day, as you have chewed our brains enough and there isn't anything left for you to chew on further."

To stress upon how devastated I was, I would like to reiterate the importance of television in my life. During my transition from the wild college days to the more organized and rather mechanical days of employment, my faithful little 14 inch television was always by my side. Sitting on its ever changing perches (sometimes a broken chair, sometimes a big suitcase and on luckier days a proper TV trolley), it has been my companion on many a lonesome days and nights, doling out large portions of entertainment of all kinds at the click of a button. Without even realizing, over the past three years I have metamorphosed into an obsessive, compulsive TV addict with a predilection for the remote control which is like a magic wand in my hand. From the gruesomeness of ‘Bones’ and ‘Criminal Minds’ to the drama of reality shows like ‘Big Boss’ and ‘Khatron ke Khiladi’ and from the buffoonery of ‘Friends’ and ‘How I met your mother’ to tear jerking soaps like ‘Brothers and Sisters’, my TV provided it all and I was instantly hooked.

Now that my daily fix of tele-entertainment was being denied, I felt agony similar to perhaps that experienced by someone who has recently undergone a limb amputation and yet continues to feel the urge to scratch a persistent itch on the severed area. I constantly kept reaching for the remote only to be confronted by the annoying whir which accompanied the blue screen. I finally decided to take my ailing television to the local television repair guy who, I hoped against hopes, wasn't a quack. With a heavy heart I entrusted the TV repair guy with the 'light of my life' and dragged myself back home. The next two days were the most difficult as I kept thinking about how I had abandoned my faithful friend and how it was probably facing the solder gun right this minute. To cut a long story short, very soon I received a call from my - 'TV doctor' - who finally declared my TV alive and ready to brighten my life again. I cannot begin to describe my elation the day I brought my bundle of joy back home and plugged it in...Ohhh, the pleasure of experiencing the familiar sights and sounds again....!!!!!!!

Oh these Rains!!!!

In addition to being the 'city of gardens', Bangalore is also a city which is abundantly and sometimes excessively blessed by the God of Rain. Such is the partiality bestowed upon this city that while people across the country are languishing under the wrath of a torrid heat wave, Bangaloreans have the good fortune of cooling off with multiple torrential showers.The monsoons usually evoke innumerable emotions and more often than not the fairer sex is seen gushing and effervescing about the romanticism that rains bring along. May it be Kajol prancing about in the rain, crooning a dreamy love ballad in DDLJ or the uncountable poetries written about the rains by famous poets like Rabindranath Tagore, Emily Dickinson and Thomas Hardy, there is no doubt that monsoons bring a certain degree of exultation with them. Unfortunately, I have never been able to perceive this romanticism and on the contrary have always been quite the spoil sport for most of my friends when it comes to rains. Frolicking in the rain is definitely not my idea of having fun and in fact it makes me rather cranky and sullen. If by some freak chance I get caught in a downpour the first thoughts that race through my mind are those of despair.....despair about the dirty water running down the streets soaking my shoes and socks, about the very many documentaries that I have seen on acid rain (Ok, go ahead laugh at me...but I have a firm belief on the corrosive effect of acid rains), about the muck and dirt floating  in the rain water which runs freely down the streets transmuting them into large open drains which would further on serve as breeding grounds for all kinds of creepy crawly creatures, not to mention the very infamous malaria causing female Anopheles mosquito.

In this very vein, I started my journey one very 'un-fine' rainy Monday morning from my home to the bus stop. The moment I stepped out of the main gate, I was flung into an ocean of dirt running on the street. It had rained incessantly all night and my worst fears were soon going to be affirmed. I mentally congratulated myself on anticipating this and choosing to wear my most jaded and uncared for clothes. My pleasure was however short-lived, as I came across an urchin relieving his bladder in the free flowing ocean of dirt as I picked my way gingerly through the very same. Cursing the wretch under my breath, I continued the seemingly long 10 minute walk to the bus stand. At this juncture, I would like to award a special mention to the very insensitive owners and drivers of four wheelers which constitute sixty percent of traffic on Indian roads. The inmates of these vehicles are protected from the rage of the rains and are usually the ones who ooh and aah at the onset of monsoon. They are so oblivious to the filth outside their metallic cocoons that they fail to fathom the plight of the pedestrians. In this state of unawareness, many a times they are the reason behind the unwarranted and unexpected mud bath accorded to some or the other poor ambler.

I had managed to circumvent the puddles and the occasional cyclist splashing small quantities of water and had finally reached my nemesis: the main road, with its parade of multi wheeler vehicles which resembled mammoths and dinosaurs of varying shapes and sizes. Now, despite the fact that I was in my 'monsoon' attire and was carrying a yellow polka dotted umbrella (special mention because I had bought this umbrella as it looked cheerful and I expected it to magically rub some of its cheer on me), I was particularly wary of these multi wheeler monsters who seemed to be swarming all around me. I was only about 200 meters away from my destination and thoughts that might populate a marathon runner's mind were now populating mine: 'Come on, you can do it!!  You are almost there and look you have managed to reach bone dry'....so on and so forth. As I was mentally conjuring images of a dry and warm me sitting inside the safe womb of my bus, a book in hand and the window tightly shut to the cacophony outside, I was jerked out of my delusion by a gleaming Santro which for no apparent reason was in so much hurry that it did not wish to bypass the huge body of brown water on the road but rather wanted to save one thousandth of a second by driving right through it.

The outcome of this action was a Tsunami like gigantic wave of brown water which crashed right on top of an unsuspecting ‘me’ and drenched me from head to toe. I was not only dripping from top to bottom, I was also smelling like half the garbage in Bangalore. What transpired in my very outraged mind now was beyond comprehension. I wanted to run so fast, maybe like the Roadrunner (the cartoon), catch up with the insolent Santro-er and drown him in the very same brown pond which he had chosen to splash in. What made matters worse was the fact that I saw the Santro-er peek into his rear view mirror and give me such an annoying grin that it took all of my inner strength to stop myself from picking a big jagged stone and smashing the rear window of his gleaming new car. Needless to say, I missed my bus that day as I had to undertake the 10 minute journey back home, clean up, get into another set of rainy day clothes and catch a very expensive auto rickshaw to office.

As expected, I reached office a full one hour late and having missed an important conference call, had to go explain my absence to my grouchy boss. This did not do any good to my already grumpy mood and after listening to my boss rant about my incompetent work attitude and my lack of punctuality I sulked back to my cubicle and slid into my chair in front of the laptop ready to attack the day with as much vehemence as I could muster. Now, for the purpose of setting the context, let me tell you about one particular team member of mine- T, who is the epitome of jollity and incidentally she and her husband are also proud owners of...wait for the punch.......a gleaming SANTRO. So, T sees me sulking in my corner and decides to cheer me up with her prattle and guess what topic she chooses to prattle about....wait for the second punch......'The beauty of RAINS'. That was it.... T was suddenly subjected to a full force verbal assault on how people who live in glass houses should not comment on debatable subjects like 'The effects of Rain' especially when they haven't experienced what it feels like to be on the other side. She was rendered speechless by my tale of woe and could not stop empathizing with me after my catharsis was over and done with.

A few days later, I had the good fortune of hitching a ride with T and her husband V (yes yes I am a big hypocrite!!!). V, who is generally a very vivacious person (competing tooth and nail with his wife for the title of - the most cheerful person on planet Earth) was quite subdued and was driving at snail's pace. Having forgotten my torturous experience in the recent past, I was wondering why V was so dead slow, when suddenly as if having read my mind, V recounted how T had chewed his brain a few days back with an argument about why one should avoid driving through puddles and splashing water on pedestrians as some nut had convinced her of the futility of saving one thousandth of a second and in return becoming recipients of curses flung by these poor souls. I quietly heard V's story, ignored the wink that T threw my way and pretended to know nothing of it. After all, each day is a new day and today was going to be a dry one for me at least.... :-)

Mumbai - The city of dreams

It was my destiny, fate, luck or karma, call it whatever you like, that brought me to Mumbai - a city which horrified me from the very beginning. A city known for almost all the wrong reasons –  riots, floods, crime and its terrifying perpetrator – the underworld. A million other atrocities plague this city which proudly calls itself 'the city of dreams'. More often than not, one comes across swarms of people, mechanically performing their mundane tasks as rituals that ought to be done, without fail, each day. Despite all this, what has started enticing me about this city is the fact that in the folds of what appears to be commonplace and tedious, one finds a plethora of interesting sketches. Every new day presents an opportunity to look for these stories. A dear friend of mine lived through one of these stories and narrated it to me. The minute I heard it, I felt like putting it on paper. So, here goes....

'Another day draws to an end in this painful city'. These were his thoughts as he got into one of the heavily crowded local trains on his way back. After a rather rough day at work he was most certainly not looking forward to another hour and a half of struggle on his ride home. Steering through an ocean of tired and irritated people, he found his way to an empty spot at the far end of the compartment. A little sympathy and a lot of wriggling got him a tiny patch to sit on. With his back to the perforated partition, which separated one pitiful second class compartment  from the other, he was glad he couldn't witness the mayhem in the next compartment.

Settling into his seat, his thoughts now riveted to the good old days back home. The knowledge that in a few days he would bid adieu to all this madness and head back to his peaceful city of Lucknow comforted him immensely. In fact, it was perhaps this very idea that kept him going. He was certain that his days of misery and struggle would end once he left. Just as he was beginning to feel placated by these images, he was jolted out of his reverie as a little finger poked him through one of the holes in the partition. Already irritated and drowning in self pity he turned around, ready to snap at whoever had yanked him out of his peaceful refuge, only to find a cherubic face staring at him bearing a couldn't-care-less grin. He couldn't help but smile at the chubby wretch, who less than a second ago was the cause of his annoyance.

Almost as if it was his right, the naughty little boy stretched out his grubby palm and demanded for alms. He did not beg, he did not plead, he just insolently stood there and yelled for money as if it was his own. But for his clothes and appearance, the boy reminded him of a rich heir, spoilt rotten, rightfully demanding a portion of his legacy. Alas, no one in the near vicinity looked interested in shelling out change from their pockets, which would instead be exchanged for frivolous little things like cigarettes or candy later in the day.

Knowing for sure that he would not get anything from these people, the boy proceeded to pull faces at whoever cared to look and sing bawdy songs in a high pitched voice to annoy the pathetic crowd. Like a pole dancer, he swivelled around the pole at the entrance of the compartment. Despite themselves, most of the commuters were by now quite amused by his antics. At one point the boy hung out of the train holding the pole with one hand, not once bothering about the peril that he was putting himself in. Some people craned their neck to get a good look at him but most of them could only see him waist-up. The silent spectators, completely engrossed, watched the beggar who seemed to enjoy life more than them even though in all probability he didn't have a penny in his pocket, a home to call his own, a family to look out for him or a warm bed to snuggle in at night. He appeared so content wearing rags and asking for alms.

The train screeched to a halt and the man again squeezed his way through innumerable sweaty bodies, clamping his brain and ego shut to all the abuses thrown his way and jumped out on to the platform, pleased immensely by his own acrobatics. Just as the train started to pull out of the station, he glanced back, only to see the same boy who had entertained him throughout the otherwise boring  journey and what he saw got imprinted in his memory forever, the cheerful little boy, with a twinkle in his eye and an abundance of energy was standing on the entrance of the compartment on just one leg.....

Kachroo

Today as I walked back from office I noticed a toy store which has recently established its presence in my already overcrowded, bursting-at-the-seams neighbourhood. Now, even though I am well aware of the fact that Bangalore traffic harbours an unhidden aversion to the nickel-and-dime pedestrian and the slightest negligence (even if it means trying to window shop) is often mete with harsh consequence, I paused for a moment to glance at the brand new store’s shining display window. Looking around I realized that I was not alone. Beside me stood a group of of 6 year old girls who couldn't stop oohing and aahing at the rows of pretty Barbie dolls and fluffy stuffed animals. Amused by the mayhem they were causing, I lingered around a little more, observing their childish prattle, when suddenly a rather nondescript rag doll caught my eye. To set the record straight here (since it is my first post on my new blog :) ) I am not someone who is predisposed to standing on a footpath and reminiscing about long forgotten memories, but somehow the sight of that discarded doll brought forth from the deepest crevice of my brain, a thought, a shadow of a recollection which refused to be buried any longer.

It dates back to an era when I was about the same age as these young girls. Those were the days when we lived in one of the many army cantonments in India, although in my opinion this was a slightly prettier one as it nestled between hills which were almost always topped with snow. The apartments all looked the same and there was a comforting similarity that wrapped itself around the inhabitants like a warm snuggly blanket on a cold winter night. This was also the period when I enjoyed the status of being a single child, at the focal point of my parents' love and attention (although believe me this was not always very enjoyable). Being a very social kid, I always had a whole gang of 'chuddy pals' whom I would happily gallivant with. However, amongst all the pals I had, cousin G was my most favourite. She made an appearance once every few years with her parents who were based in the Middle East. We were roughly the same age and got along like a house on fire. This year however, things were going to change. Little did I know that this year's visit was to bring immense sadistic pleasure to one of us and an equal amount of distress to the other.

The first thing that I noticed when G walked in through the front door was this limp rag doll hanging on her arm. The doll was about 2 feet long and had an over sized face with buttons sewn in as eyes and a couple of stitches with black wool forming a crooked smile. The rest of the body was made of stuffed old socks which contributed to its pitiful appearance. Unlike my own set of precious dolls, all of which had a crown of shiny blonde, brunette or black hair, this specimen which claimed to be a doll had a head full of Medusa-like tresses which were also bits of wool of varying colours sewn onto her head. All in all, this was the ugliest inanimate object that I had ever set my eyes upon. Hard as it is to believe, kids too have a very strong sense of comparison and one-upmanship and even though we might prefer otherwise, these traits aren't reserved for the more conniving and worldly wise adults. I smirked at G's new acquisition and was satisfied with the thought that my doll collection would kick her sad little doll's butt without a fight.

As the days passed by, things turned out to be quite contrary to what I had believed in the beginning. G's doll was not just a mere doll, it was an obsession. G carried the thing everywhere -from the ice cream shop to the park and from the institute to our outing to the zoo. Even though the doll was named 'Kachroo' which literally meant trash, she was a permanent fixture in G's life. This thing which started out to be an annoying nuisance was slowly turning into an enigma. A mystery which I desperately wanted to unravel. But this could happen only if and when I had a chance to lay my hands on the damned thing. Alas, G was violently possessive about Kachroo and the most devious of my plans failed to pry Kachroo from G's clutches. I fought, threw tantrums, tried to poison G with dairy products (I had overheard my parents discussing G's lactose intolerance. Yes yes go ahead judge me...I was quite an evil child then), whined and finally gave up on ever being able to own the world's most beautiful and unattainable doll (who else but - queen Kachroo).

As always, days flew by and now it was time to bid farewell to G and Kachroo. The previous night I had cried myself to sleep at the thought of never being able to see Kachroo again (sometimes I feel that doll was cursed with black magic...remember the movie Child's Play) and I woke up with red rimmed eyes and a very irritable disposition. Such was my grief that I refused to come out and see G off. After her departure, I spent the whole day moping around (my mother rarely gave in to my tantrums and so I had no sympathy from her either). Finally I decided to retreat to my favourite place - under the bed-where I could hide and mope a little more with my thumb firmly stuck in my mouth (I didn't dare reveal this nasty habit in public lest I became the butt of all jokes).As I crawled into the little space, I saw a strange pile already occupying my zone. I reached out and turned it over only to realize that it was nothing but the coveted Kachroo which had fallen off the ledge and mistakenly left behind. In the next few minutes my overjoyed brain concluded that this meant that Kachroo would be mine for the next two years till G returned for her next visit. “Mummmyyyyyy....G Kachroo le jaana bhool gayiiiiiiiiii”........... and there was joy in the world again, birds started to chirp and flowers bloomed to their fullest and brightest self. My day was made. I was later told that G fought, threw tantrums, whined and tried to poison herself all the way back home.