A Modern Day Vanity Fair (2)

Chapter 2: Praise Thy Offspring Syndrome (PTOS)

Have you ever been subjected to the supreme torture of hearing over enthusiastic parents gush about the accomplishments of their offspring? If not, consider yourself a part of a fast diminishing population my friend!

In today's day and age 'praise thy offspring' has become a practice adopted by all sections of society alike. This struck me as an epiphany last night while I was being bored to death by an aunt who seemed to believe that her daughter was the epitome of virtue with the looks of Audrey Hepburn and the brains of Shakuntala Devi. To me this easily qualified as a social disorder. Permit me to take the liberty of coining the acronym PTO syndrome (PTOS) to define this disorder.

As I mulled over this thought, it occurred to me that everyone around me was afflicted by either one of the two variants of PTOS. The first variant can be called 'Saas Bahu' ishness while the second could be known as 'Page 3' ishness. Allow me to explain with examples.

Exhibit 1(Page 3 ishness): Symptoms: Regular use of the following statements- "Our daughter/son is very career oriented", "Why does our daughter have to cook after she gets married, she has a job too you know. She will employ a cook", "Our daughter is so pretty that there is a line of suitors for her but we do not want to rush her into marriage.", "Our son is brilliant at his work, his supervisor just cannot do without him", "Oh what is our son/daughter not good at…they have tried their hands at everything: sports, public speaking, programming etc etc"….

One particular festive weekend I found myself at Mr. and Mrs. 'Page 3's house. To the naked eye it appeared as if they were as close to perfection as anyone could get. A plush bungalow in a suave locality, cushy jobs, a 24/7 on deck maid, a pretty daughter with a decent career and so on. However, as I got an opportunity to spend considerable time with them, I  realized that Mrs. Page 3 was an obsessive compulsive PTOS patient. Her praises were occasionally directed at her own life but a major chunk was directed towards the awesomeness of her daughter. Her monologues ricocheted between her daughter's various qualities with such lightening speed that the poor victim (read me) was left dazed and gasping for breath. In her opinion, her daughter was a demi goddess who had never experienced acne, shyness, bad hair days and other similar growing -up pains. She was born perfect which essentially meant that she always always had perfect skin, shiny hair, best grades in school, lovely friends, perfect clothes, outstanding appraisals at work……..the list was never ending. It was amusing to note that anything and everything that was ever decreed to reflect culture and class had to be aped by her and her daughter  As Cosmopolitan and Femina showcased feminism as the 'hip' new school of thought, Mrs Page 3 deemed it apt to tell me how her daughter was a great champion of women's lib. Similarly since reading as a hobby was synonymous with good pedigree she ensured that wherever her daughter appeared, she appeared with a book in hand  The fact that the daughter would rarely express her opinion during a discussion as she was always too busy thinking about how she looked was never of any importance. So, how does one react when one is an unwilling audience to such rants? Is one expected to grin dumbly and nod in agreement or is one allowed to broach another subject which will not include opportunities to restart the rant?

Exhibit 2 (Saas Bahu ishness):Symptoms: Regular use of the following statements- "Our daughter is so fair that people mistake her for a foreigner", "My son has always been my support, he is such a mature boy", "My daughter's in laws cannot stop praising her for being so cultured and well mannered", "My daughter can cook, clean, shop, manage her career and do everything under the sun with such efficiency"

Meet the typical middle class Indian parents suffering from acute PTOS. Morally upright and many a times uptight, these parents derive pride from the fact that their children are supposedly balanced. In reality, these children are equally conceited and shallow as their Page 3 counterparts. They have grown up hearing their parents fawn over their 'accomplishments despite hardships'. A friend who belongs to this section of society couldn't stop regaling me with stories of her daughter who according to her is very pretty, solely by virtue of the fact that her complexion is milky white. In the same breath she glorified her daughter further by telling me how she can cook perfectly round and fluffy aaloo paranthas while doing stunningly well at her job. All this while the daughter sat right in front of us with an annoying smug expression plastered on her face. The Saas Bahu clan will shower adulations on their children for reasons spanning from a good spouse to an average career. I once heard an aunt whose daughter was as wheatish as wheatish can get, exclaim: "Arey meri ladki phoren jaake kitni gori chitti ho gayi hai!!!! Aap toh use pehchan hi nahi paayenge", leading me to suspect that the girl had resorted to Michael Jackson's solutions for a white skin. Unlike the children of the Page 3 clan, the children of the Saas Bahu clan are not born perfect but according to their parents have braved all hardships and achieved perfection.

If you notice, the underlying theme for symptoms of both variants of PTOS is the same- Praise Thy Offspring. On closer examination the content of the praises may be different yet the conclusion remains the same.


What is it that prompts parents to transform into live advertisements promoting their own children? Is it the constant societal pressure of self branding and acceptance? Or as my husband puts it-"Is it the fact that proving to the world that your offspring are brilliant indirectly reflects your brilliance as well". There is no doubt that children in modern times don't have it easy as at a very young age they are expected to master the art of marketing their skills in order to get accepted at a higher notch in the social order. In a highly competitive environment it is becoming increasingly difficult to find people outside the nuclear family who genuinely appreciate a task well done or a God gifted talent or hard-work while on the other hand it is common to come across people who are forever willing to prick your confidence. I believe this has led to the rise of a new breed of parents who find it necessary to publicly laud their progeny in order to protect and maintain their rather fragile self esteem. Gone are the days when parents were of the opinion that praising yourself or your children in public was crass and uncultured and only resulted in inculcating shallowness and conceit. Confidence was built over a period of time through equal doses of motivation, appreciation and healthy criticism . The poise and self assurance thus built was very difficult to crack and did not need the crutches of public applaud. Then, actions spoke louder than words while now it seems that words have become bolder and way more important than actions.

Pune - A city of memories

The one good thing about my job, apart from the obvious fact that it allows me to afford my grub, is the umpteen travel opportunities that it bestows upon me ever so often. This weekend I packed my bags and prepared myself for a journey through time. I was headed to a city which had acted as the backdrop for one of the liveliest and most exuberant phases of my life. Pune has always been my favourite city, second only to Bhopal which also brings back truckloads of memories. Omnipresent groups of college kids hovering around timeless neighbourhoods and streets are reminiscent of times when I was one of them- hard-pressed for money but with a rich cache of time.

Zipping past various familiar landmarks in Pune, the exhaustion owing to an unexpectedly long flight slowly vapourised as I was transported back to simpler times of studenthood. The rundown Gunjan talkies, Yerwada bridge- still standing tall over a dried up Mula Mutha river, Koregaon park teeming with dread-locked, pot smoking hippies - were just the beginning. The next 48 hours were to bring me face to face with many many more old haunts.

With my mind already fixated on places to revisit, I rushed through the presentation that I was slated to deliver to a bunch of boring corporate types. Feigning a migraine headache, I quickly excused myself from the venue which was luckily right in the heart of the city. First stop on my itinerary was Vohuman Café- a typical Parsi all day breakfast joint which used to be our favourite as it served delectable cheese omelettes and fresh, homemade buns slathered with oodles of delicious Amul Butter at very affordable prices. I found the tiny café parked just where it used to be amidst buildings soaring heavenwards. The old marble top round tables and the brown wrought iron chairs were the same, the cat which we suspected slept in between the loaves of warm bread was still there albeit a little fatter and the board with the menu neatly stenciled on it  was still hanging proudly on the wall. What surprised me the most were the prices which were also the same as they used to be 13 years ago. Recently acquired ‘burrrp’ certificates declaring the cheese omelettes as the best shared the wall space. However, the old Parsi uncle who used to man the billing counter seemed to have been replaced by his younger son. Reading the dismay writ large on my face the son quickly reassured me that his father was still alive and kicking. How many Sunday mornings had I spent here with long lost friends laughing at uncle’s hilarious versions of Hindi expletives, how many classes had I bunked to sit here and relish cups of sweet, milky chai with equally jobless classmates, how many times had we landed here in the wee hours of the day after having sneaked out of the hostel for an all night party. The vows of eternal friendship that were taken over cream plate and toast and the dreams shared over masala bhurji and bournvita came rushing back to me as I devoured my regular order of single cheese omelette and bun butter with chai.

Tearing myself from the coziness that had engulfed me, I bade farewell to Vohuman Café and caught up with a dear friend who was willing to relive old memories with me. We drove through the Cantonment catching glimpses of our hostel and the rundown eateries which were once our source for many unhygienic, yet tasty quick bites. As we hit Koregaon Park, we encountered street vendors selling Osho chappals -jute chappals in a multitude of colours and styles. The original velvet strap now accentuated with beads, sequins and similar fancy add ons were a treat to the eyes.

A vacant spot where the two decade old German Bakery once stood scared me as it emphasized the vulnerability of Indian cities as well as life’s uncertainty. Images of the wooden benches which lined the edges of the erstwhile edifice, thick slices of the ‘Truthful chocolate’ cake at what seemed to be an exorbitant 40 bucks a slice then and the eclectic mix of people from all over the world who crowded the bakery all day long played in front of me like a slideshow.  Pune is the city for food lovers. Chocolate cheese sandwiches at A1 Sandwich cart and Kapila’s double chicken kathi rolls, paranthas at Nandus and Chaitanya, Custard Apple milk shake at Fantasy juice bar and Special Chicken Biryani at Blue Nile, a dessert called Fruit funny at Good Luck Café followed by a tall glass of cold coffee at the road side ‘tapri’ in Deep Bangla Chowk……..you can take a pick from a variety of options. So, if you are a foodie and plan to visit Pune, it would be a good idea to start fasting a few days in advance to brace your stomach for all the food action that it will inadvertently have to brave. A good appetite and guts of steel are all you need and Pune would metamorphose into heaven right in front of your eyes.

A Modern Day Vanity Fair (1)

I come from a family of book lovers - people who literally devour books by the dozen. It is at home that I have always come across books of all kinds - paperback, hardbound, autobiographies, classics, books on history, books on warfare…the list is endless and so when I stumbled upon a well thumbed copy of ‘Vanity Fair’ by William Makepeace Thackeray gathering dust on our rather rickety book shelf, I was not surprised. This, at a time when I was preparing for my impending trip to a far far away land and warnings regarding how lonely one tends to get in a strange country (doled out in large portions by well meaning friends) were still ringing loud in my head, ensured that the battered manuscript found a place in my 'to be shipped' carton. Last week when I finally put down this brilliant piece of work after being at it for almost three weeks, I couldn't help drawing parallels between the characters described in the book and the people I have had to deal with in today’s world. This series is thus a result of this comparison and is dedicated to certain individuals from my everyday life who rarely fail to amaze as well as amuse me with their vanity.

Chapter 1: The General Saahib's daughter

When I ran into a fellow fauji kid on my first day at work in a new city, I felt a surge of relief flood over me. Just so that you know, the fauji-kid club is a tight knit fraternity which nurtures a great sense of camaraderie amongst its members and finding one of my kind in an unknown unfamiliar workplace was a stroke of luck, or so I thought. A rather effusive round of introductions rallied between us in the usual vein - 'Which regiment is your father in, which cantonments have you lived in…Oh, so you must have studied with so and so, which APS did you pass out from….' and on and on we went trying to find as many common threads as possible. As the months rolled by and my interactions with the aforementioned lady became more frequent, I realized (much to my consternation) that she was a compulsive show-off.

Over the next few months, I had the misfortune of enduring her vociferous rants concerning her brilliant brother who had an encyclopedic memory and could spout scientific and historical anecdotes ad infinitum, her super-mom who not only was a university professor with an overly broad minded outlook towards life (she apparently encouraged her daughter to try everything in life including cigarettes, pot, sex etc.) but could also whip up exotic cuisines in a jiffy, shop like a fashionista, design their house along with the architect and fix anything and everything under the sun. As far as Daddy dearest was concerned, there were entire monologues dedicated to him as the charismatic ex army general who could outwit anyone on planet Earth was her absolute favourite. She would bite off your head if you were callous enough to suggest that after retirement Lt. General-Daddy could have transformed into well, a general Daddy and might be relaxing in their multi-roomed mansion possibly spending his retired life playing golf. (Note: Mind you, if you mention the number of rooms in her parents’ house in each conversation, you would qualify for the post of her best buddy). “How could he afford to do that?”, she would screech. After all the world cannot continue to exist without him and his brilliance and so, for the benefit of the world and it's intellectually challenged lesser mortals he had conceded to be on the board of directors for not one, not two but several organisations. While discussing a particularly difficult boss, who happens to be a Senior VP in the 125 year old organization for which we work (imagine how ancient he is), Lady Braggart couldn't stop herself from mentioning how the gentleman in question should not boast about leading a 50 member team in front of her, especially when her own Popsey (father) has commanded 2 lakh Indian troops as a General in the Army. Oh, how my ears bled each day after being subjected to such brutality!!! It was insane how she could chatter on and on about anything remotely related to her.

Her divine self was also nothing less than perfection personified. She had dabbled in everything: all kinds of sports, music, public speaking, dancing…you name it and she had done it. 'We fauji kids can do everything' she opined in public, making me cringe each time the rest of the crowd rolled their eyes at us. I did not want to be blanketed in the same category as her. This is not what I was brought up to believe. There is no doubt that I was always pestered to be an all-rounder but I was also taught softer qualities like humility and modesty. She continued to bore me by regaling stories which invariably ended with her being the toast of the town. Now, something that she was born with was good skin and the looks of a little girl. This was what she used to pull off one 'damsel in distress' act after another to get her work done. I must give her the credit for mastering the art of feigning innocence and helplessness. Many specimen from the male species were ready to slay dragons for her when she batted her eyelashes and spoke in a child-like tenor. Such was her obsession with her trouble free skin that when a lady colleague posed a question about how to treat acne, madam braggart gave a wide eyed, disgusted look making the poor victim conclude that 'pimples' were a revolting disease which struck only the extremely ugly and un-cool people on earth (and maybe the green coloured unattractive aliens from planet gabberdashook).

When Lady Braggart followed me to the far far away land that I spoke about earlier, I was certain that God was trying to punish me for the sins I committed in an earlier life. I was now to be subjected to her inane self-appreciation in a strange foreign accent which she had suddenly acquired during her 2nd week here, perhaps to fit in. This was simply lovely (can you read the exasperation in my voice?). It is during one of these unending monologues of hers that I drifted off and began to wonder what could be the pimples in her life which she was so desperately trying to powder puff ? There were definitely creases which she was trying to smooth by relentlessly trying to prove to the world and herself that her life was perfect.

The answers to my questions hit me one after the other with lightening speed in the next few months. To begin with visiting her house was like visiting the government zoo in India. The place stank!!! Not just that, I challenge you to find one clean surface inside her house to park your backside on and if you do I will give you a standing ovation. Noticing the disdain writ large on my face, she immediately started rambling about how they have always had sahayak bhaiyyas doing all the menial jobs at home and as a result she is not used to doing these chores on her own. It was also a mystery to me why she had the most unhealthy lifestyle and habits even though her father was such a steadfast army man? Aren't people and families of people from the forces supposed to be extremely disciplined in all respects? Her refrigerator offered nothing healthy and I could only spot tins of cheese, cakes of butter, frozen pizza, ice cream and other nightmarish food stashed in it. An hour later as my bladder demanded, I gingerly made my way to her bathroom hoping against hopes not to come across any more horrors. As I surveyed the bathroom, I spotted something that made me sad. There standing tall on her shelf were endless anti hair fall products along with a hair brush jammed with already martyred hair strands. This was the final answer to my questions. I was now privy to a lot of secret holes in her personality that she was trying to gloss over.

I couldn't help feeling sorry for her. Here was a poor soul who would give an arm and a leg to ensure that people outside did not perceive her as a normal human-being with flaws. How I wished she could understand that No one is perfect! The art of being able to laugh at yourself is worth learning as humour is most certainly the best medicine. I hope someday she would be able to let her guard down and enjoy who she already is rather than trying to be little Ms. Perfect. Till then, my advice to all those who are unfortunate enough to be associated with her in one way or another, please buy good quality ear plugs…This would be an investment you wouldn't regret :))

A Tryst with The Floating City

Imagine a city floating on water. Not an island, not a city tormented by floods, just a city which has rivulets instead of streets and boats instead of taxis. A city where buildings are erected on foundations of wood submerged in water. These were the sights that awaited us in Venice. Even though I had read and heard a lot about Venice, I was unable to conjure mental images of a city that sounded so strange at the outset.

As we headed to the mysterious city of Venice from the enchanting city of Florence we found ourselves aboard the Inter City Express yet again. By now, me and Arjun had become seasoned travellers or so we liked to believe and the landscapes which were just as green and beautiful as during our train ride from Rome to Florence, failed to captivate us. It is true that travelling extensively in Europe leads to cessation of fascination with sparkling clean panoramas. I admit that I no longer gaze awe struck at nature and instead almost take it for granted. Once back in Bangalore, I am sure this is the one thing that I will miss sorely.

Enroute, I tried to familiarise myself with the enigma called Venice and this is what I found on the Internet - Venice is the capital of the Veneto region in North East Italy and is in-fact an archipelago of 117 islands resting in the Venetian Lagoon. It goes by many beautiful names like 'The Floating City', 'The City of Canals', 'The City of Masks' - just to name a few. Being an important centre of commerce in the period between the 13th and the 17th century, Venice was one of the wealthiest cities in the world. It is thus no mystery why William Shakespeare chose Venice to serve as a backdrop for his famous play: The Merchant of Venice. However, today, the Venetians make a living primarily out of tourism which is a booming business thanks to the popularity of an element known as ‘elegant decay’ - found in abundance in Venice.

Soon we also found that akin to the city, it's train station was also tiny. The sour looking attendant at the tourist information centre showed little interest in helping us with directions. Despite her indifference, we managed to extract from her details of the public transport system which is largely operated by ACTV. There are several tourist travel cards to choose from depending on the number of days one plans to spend here and like in most European cities, it is an economical option in Venice as well. This allows unlimited use of public transport of all kinds-trams, buses and in this case boats as well. However, since we had exactly 24 hours in Venice, we chose to walk through the city instead. In my opinion the best way to soak up a city is to explore it on foot and so we headed out in search of our hotel.

Now, in India, every 500 meters one encounters a nukkad - street corner with its very own paan-waala, chai waala and grocery store. Similarly, in Venice, every 500 meters offers a canal, a bridge to cross it and an enclosed market place (commonly called Piazza) closely resembling an Indian nukkad bazaar at the other end. Noticing a pretty little bakery in the heart of one such Piazza, I promptly walked in to the jingling of the bells on the door. I was welcomed by a rotund lady who informed me, beaming, that her's was the best bakery in town. The aromas emanating from the interiors of her little establishment corroborated her belief and I couldn't stop myself from savouring a yummy looking cannoli. It was the crunchiest baked delicacy that I have ever had. A glorious filling of sweetened cream cheese, nuts and bits of fruit inside a crisp shell pleased my taste buds immensely.

With the help of our maps and the meagre information we received at the Tourist information centre, we managed to locate our hotel. Just like our experience in Florence, the hotel and our room were in two different locations. As I waited for the hotel concierge to lead us to our room, I felt like a protagonist in an Eastman colour Hindi movie. The villain's henchman (read-the hotel concierge) would lead us through winding alleys and dark by lanes to a room where we were to be kept hostage till our saviours, whoever they were, decided to rescue us. Just when my fertile imagination began to build up the drama further, an ominous looking yet polite young man approached us to take us to our room. Was my imagination coming to life??

Fortunately, no such drama was to colour our trip and like always we dumped our luggage in our room and headed out. Having had our full of the typical 'museum-church-architecture' type of sightseeing, we decided to do something different in Venice and so we took a boat to Lido di Venezia - an 11km stretch of sand in the Adriatic Sea which is also incidentally the venue for the Venice Film festival each year. An hour long ride later, our boat docked and we caught our first glimpse of the island. Lido felt like it was picked straight out of a picture book on beaches. Like any other beach town, it had a refreshingly relaxed atmosphere. Perfectly tanned people could be seen sauntering around and surfboards, sun tan lotion, colourful shirts and matching flip flops were in plenty. The walk from the boat station to the beach was a delight and we enjoyed looking at sea food restaurants painted in vibrant colours and road side stores selling interesting knick knacks.

Unlike most beaches, we found Lido relatively devoid of people. The fresh soft sand was inviting and we danced on it to imaginary music. Seagulls in hundreds circled overhead looking for food. They swooped in on scared little insects scurrying across the sand leaving zig-zag squiggles in their wake. We tread carefully on the stone jetties which stubbornly stood their ground amid lashing waves and watched the indigo blue sea merge with the powder blue sky at the horizon. We stood there almost hypnotised, listening to the strains of 'What a Wonderful World' by Louis Armstrong which drifted in from somewhere. It was a perfect moment and will remain with me for years to come. By the time we tore ourselves from the beach, it was quite late in the evening and we hurried back to grab some dinner.

There is not much that can be said about the food that we ate that night, however, the restaurant that we had chosen did offer us the company of some very interesting people. There was a colourful, lean old man sporting a French beard seated right across our table. He seemed more interested in the young lady whom he was dining with than the food he was eating. His oil-slicked hair and the gold chain dangling from his neck made him look like an Italian gangster. The woman with him looked half his age and was clad in a skimpy little piece of cloth which left very little to imagination. Both of them together could easily pass off as a gangster and his moll. Another strange couple occupied the booth next to us. In this case, both the man and the woman looked middle aged. They ensured by gazing dramatically into each other's eyes that everyone in the room knew how 'into' each other they were. Their gigantic 7 course meal lay neglected on the table as they just picked at it while whispering sweet nothings into each other's ears. The sight of them left me feeling somewhat nauseous.

The boat ride back home was very interesting as we rode through the Grand Canal witnessing a variety of unusual architecture. The inky black water looked formidable and bottom less. The following morning, as we made our way to the airport, we came across several roadside costume shops which made us realize that Venice is not only about the canals, the glass work and the rustic charms. Hundreds of shops displayed ornate masks and costumes along with posters advertising upcoming costume parties and other related events. Masks made of porcelain, cloth, cardboard, plaster of Paris and all other possible materials eerily gazed at us from all around. The choices were limitless and one could choose to dress up in any of the elaborate fashions. Looking at them I was convinced that the next time we visited Venice, we would perhaps masquerade as Count and Countess Dracula at one of these events.

Nothing is strange in Venice. Spotting a solitary blue hand pump in the middle of nowhere or bright green windows on a run-down structure is natural. The crumbling buildings may be in worse condition than the ones we see along local train lines in Mumbai, yet somehow these are said to enhance the elegantly decayed look of the city and add to its charm. Considering the dilapidated state of infrastructure in most cities back home, I am quite certain that they can also qualify for 'beauty owing to elegant decay'. Imagine what that would do to our tourism industry…now, that’s what I call food for thought!!!

The Sunglasses

Summer vacations had finally begun and 15 year old Mala was glad to be one of the few lucky ones amongst her group of friends who would be escaping the sordid Bhopal heat. Her parents had finally decided to take the long overdue vacation to Bangalore and they were all set to spend a glorious summer with the Shettys - her parents’ friends ever since she could remember. Better still was the fact that Anshika, Shetty uncle’s daughter was Mala’s best friend and when they were together, they needed no one else.

Mala stood in front of her tiny wardrobe trying to pick out clothes she could pack so that she had some chance of blending in with the hip Bangalore crowd. She had decided to enjoy herself to the fullest; after all she deserved the break. She had slogged hard for her final exams, as a result of which, not only had she secured first position in her class but Amma had also promised her a grand prize. Although Amma would have preferred to present Mala with a copy of ‘The Great Expectations’ by Charles Dickens, Mala was resolutely determined to acquire a pair of hip sunglasses. ‘Sunglasses are in, Amma. Besides, almost all my friends possess a pair’, she argued. Finally Amma had given in and Mala couldn’t help feeling over the moon.

As the sound of Papa’s loud guffaw drifted in from the living room, shaking her out of her blissful reverie, Mala said a silent prayer. She hoped against hopes that her family would not ‘be themselves’ and embarrass her in Bangalore. Even as she prayed she knew that it was too much to ask for because this year she also had her 26 month old brother - Mohit to cope with. In Mala’s opinion, had there been something like a competition for the ‘World’s most embarrassing family’, her family- Mohit with his stupid baby antics in public, Papa with his loud laugh and Amma with her nose always buried in some book or the other - would have won hands down. “Why couldn’t Amma bother more about how she dressed instead of what she read and why couldn’t Papa understand that his booming voice and resonating laughter could be heard from miles away”, she rued. At last a 24-hour journey later, their train pulled into the crowded Bangalore City Junction. Mala spotted Shetty uncle and Anshika who had come to receive them at the railway station. Exhibiting classic teenage-girl behaviour, Mala and Anshika instantly glued themselves together and bantered all the way home, totally unaware of the rest of the world.

That summer the atmosphere at the Shetty residence was one of gaiety as the families enjoyed each others' company. Over the next few days, the girls indulged in several fun activities together. They participated in swimming competitions at the club house, went to the movies, gossiped, played Uno and other board games and had a great time. True to its reputation, time rolled by quickly. Their vacation was soon approaching an end and the important shopping trip was yet to be made. So, one fine Saturday morning, Anshika and Mala pestered their parents into taking them to MG Road - the hip street which had all the branded stores and all the ‘cool’ people. The day had come when Mala would choose her perfect pair of sunglasses and that too from a fancy big store. Clad in her favourite t-shirt and jeans, Mala hopped from one room to another in an animated delirium.

Once at the store, her excitement knew no bounds as she tried several pairs of sunglasses and finally had her heart set on a very glamorous one. Just looking at them she knew that she had found her sunglasses. Amma and Papa exchanged a look as she and Anshika drooled over this particular sample. In no time the deal was finalized and Mala walked out clutching her beloved sunglasses which were neatly tucked in a pretty black velvet case. Stepping out of the store, Mala entrusted Papa with her precious velvet case as their party of eight headed to a restaurant to celebrate the occasion. Settling down in an unoccupied booth at the restaurant Mala squealed “Papa; can I have my sunglasses please. I cannot stop looking at them!” Papa fumbled from one pocket to another, his expressions changing from pleasant to quizzical to apologetic. Mala had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Papa had managed to lose her brand new sunglasses! Mala could not believe that her happiness was destined to be so short-lived. She gave Papa an accusatory look and promptly burst into tears. Everyone sympathized with her and tried to console her, but no one could really understand her grief - or so Mala thought. Papa stood silently looking at his woebegone daughter and felt just as miserable. He blamed himself for Mala’s misery.

An ice cream and a promise of a new t-shirt later, a semi- mollified Mala headed back home. She knew that she would never forgive Papa. She had been a proud owner of expensive sun glasses for exactly 15 minutes and now they were gone. Her parents could not afford another pair this year and it was all Papa’s fault. “How could he do this to me?” she thought. On the way back, Mala was so dissolved in self pity and anger that she did not realize that ever since the dreadful incident, Papa had vanished. A couple of hours later, Mala had already tucked herself in bed. As she lay there moping, she heard a soft knock on the bedroom door and Papa walked in. Mala was in no mood to face either of her parents, least of all - Papa. “What do you want Papa? Should I give you something else that I like so that you can go ahead and lose that as well?”, she asked in an acerbic tone. Without uttering a word, Papa sat down next to Mala and placed a familiar velvet case in Mala’s tiny hand. ‘ I am sorry betu for causing you so much sorrow’, he said softly.

As it turned out, Papa had gone all the way back to the same store where they had bought the original sunglasses. He had laboriously checked all the available sun glasses along with the sales person and had finally been able to locate another piece of the exact same kind. Delighted, he had quickly made the payment and rushed back home to surprise his little girl. Mala jumped out of bed, gave Papa a quick hug and rushed to Anshika’s room with the new acquisition. Even though in her excitement she had forgotten to thank Papa, he was happy to see his daughter’s elation.

Today, sitting in her beautiful apartment, thousands of miles away from Bhopal and her family, Mala stares at the broken pieces of her favourite sun glasses in pin drop silence. Earlier in the day, her cleaning lady had accidently dropped them from their place on the shelf. Papa isn’t here to replace them for her, just so that he can see her smile again and Amma isn’t here to console her either. Today, there is nothing in the world that she would not be willing to give to be able to curl up in Amma’s lap and listen to her read, to hear Papa’s deep throated chortle or Mohit’s constant banter.

Life is like coffee and our coffee mugs are the jobs we hold, the money we earn and our status in society. These are just tools to hold and contain Life. The type of mug we have does not define or change the quality of life we live. Sometimes by concentrating only on the cup we fail to enjoy the coffee. Savour the coffee, not the mug.—> Courtesy-www.flickspire.com and Amma.

A Roman Holiday

Deriving inspiration from the famous quote 'A rolling stone gathers no moss', we embarked on a journey further south to the ancient city of Rome, capital of Italy and a land of great historical significance. My OCD induced hyper planning had given birth to a small red notebook whose chequered pages were filled down to the last little square with my scrawls…metro train routes, snapshots of what to see in each city, brief historical inputs, dos and don't s……so on and so forth. This notebook is worth a mention as I never believed till then that I was capable of doing such research on a handful of cities. It is hence a very important relic in my ever growing collection of knick knacks from my travel adventures and I am willing to lend it out to people planning their vacation to these cities for a small fee ;-)

The hour and a half flight from Paris to Rome was made slightly more interesting thanks to the chatty old Italian man occupying the seat next to us. As I immersed myself in the French version of a gossip magazine, my fellow-traveller - Arjun -  humoured the old man by indulging in general banter. I later found out that by doing so, Arjun was mentally checking off a point in his own, personal bucket list- talk to a complete stranger from a distant land.

We were in for a surprise as we alighted on Italian soil. As opposed to the cold, rainy countenance of Paris, Rome presented us with a warm, vacation'y' visage. One would think that this warm welcome would have facilitated a harmonious beginning to our 'Roman Holiday', however, us being us, we could not do away with the usual bickering and squabbling. So, we quarrelled all the way to the Roma Termini (the main train station). I am very sure we weren't a pretty sight with me grumpily staring out of the bus window and Arjun resolutely silent, staring straight ahead into infinity. Ironically, if one asks me today what we were arguing about, I will not be able to recollect even though at that instant it seemed like the single most important issue worth standing up for. As the city rolled by us, the cold war continued till we reached the main station; where it then blew right through the roof. I continued to sulk and refused to help Arjun figure out where the Tourist Information centre was and Arjun's frustration continued to soar heavenwards as he kept running into dead ends. After one particularly nasty skirmish with a rather unfriendly shopkeeper, Arjun stormed out of the building determined to find our hotel on his own. What he did not realize was that in his anger fueled haste, he had left me far behind. Certain that Arjun was doing this on purpose and that he was somewhere around the corner deriving sadistic pleasure from my uneasiness, I took my post at the station entrance, determined not to give him the pleasure of seeing me fret. As seconds turned into minutes and every other tall, lanky man in a red t shirt did not turn out to be Arjun, I began to realize that I was really lost.

LOST…the word flashed like a red neon sign in my head. For no apparent reason, images of me being taken to the police station in a blue police car with sirens blaring, started swimming in my head. 'What darned luck' I thought!!!! Imagine getting lost at the age of 27. How ridiculous is that? I am not tiny, well, most certainly not 3 feet kind of tiny, neither am I someone who might blend into the European crowd (I am sure owing to my colour, wild black hair and typical Indian looks, I stand out like a green thumb amongst the predominantly white European populace). Then how did I end up getting lost!!! My annoyance was reaching an all time high as I felt the first drops of tears threatening to tumble down my flushed cheeks. To cut a very long and painful story short, despite the state of dread that I was quickly sinking into, I managed to weave my way through the busy Roma Termini to the store where I had last been together with Arjun. Relief swept all over me as there, amidst all the white, blond general public stood my very own brown skinned, black haired knight in shining armour looking equally panic stricken and scared as me. In that moment all my anger vapourised and I simply wanted to cling on to him and never let go (thoughts of super gluing myself to him crossed my mind).

Having lost precious hours, we rushed to the hotel (which Arjun had somehow managed to locate in the middle of the entire aforementioned fiasco), dumped our luggage and headed out to our first destination- The Colosseum- Rome's most celebrated and popular monument.

The Colosseum stood in all its magnificence across the road in front of the metro station-a piece of history decorating the present modern landscape. It resembled a tiered wedding cake which had been carelessly nibbled at, perhaps by a pesky little kid, so that it now had big chunks missing from random places. A monument which constantly reminds us of how barbaric mankind can be. A monument which tells us a story of a time when royalty meant being able to witness and enjoy heinous acts of violence from the choicest of perches. As if to cleanse this architectural marvel of centuries of sins committed within its edifice, during and after the medieval era it was used as a venue for religious events. Circling the Colosseum, we encountered street performers dressed as Gladiators, stalls groaning under heaps of dime-a- dozen souvenirs and kiosks offering food and drinks to the visitors. Right next to the Colosseum was an arena of Roman ruins. Popularly known as the Roman Forum, this enclosure houses the ruins of the most important government buildings around the main market place. The once grand site is now just a heap of architectural remains which pitifully speak of wealthier times. Standing here, one gets an impression of how the mighty fell despite their strong belief in their own invincibility. In about three hours, I felt I had already had enough of excavation sites. I was longing to see something complete, something without dents and holes, something which did not make me sad.

The perfect antidote to our 'Roman Ruins'-induced sadness was the bright, one hundred percent intact, gigantic and spectacular Trevi fountain. In deep contrast to the tiny avenue where it was located, the Trevi soar majestically above the surrounding buildings. This famous Baroque fountain enjoys the status of a celebrity having been featured in many popular films like 'Three coins in a fountain', 'La dolce vita' and of course the heart warming 'Roman Holiday'. I happened to read somewhere that the bearded, muscular Adonis-like man in the centre of the monument is none other than Neptune, the God of oceans. One can see him riding his shell shaped chariot which is drawn by two well built horses. The sheer strength which the sculpture exudes is unimaginable. An enormous Italian dinner comprising of sea food spaghetti, but of course the Italian pizza, red wine and strawberries with cream for dessert was the perfect final act of Day 1.

Day 2 was packed as we had lots to see in very little time. The Spanish Steps were first on our jam packed itinerary and a 200 meter walk from the metro station brought us face to face with a flight of stairs which would have ordinarily qualified as any other staircase had we not known that we were looking at the widest staircase in Europe. The sun shone mercilessly upon us as we sweated our way up the 138 steps to the Trinità dei Monti church which towers over the Piazza di Spagna. Piazza di Spagna houses one of the many many fountains in Rome and after having seen the mighty Trevi, this seemed like a mite to us. Another Piazza on our list was the Piazza del Popollo which is known for it's symmetrical architecture. The two prominent domes here are mirror images of each other. The sight of these twin domes makes one reflect upon how brilliant the architects of yore were. Also, I guess it was a trend in those times for European conquerors to pillage Egypt and bring back obelisks to decorate their Piazzas back home. The Piazza del Poppolo also showcased such an Obelisk right in the centre.

'When in Rome, visit the Vatican city'- This is my version of the famous saying and we followed it verbatim. In order to avoid long queues, we had booked tickets to the Vatican museums in advance. Unlike the Louvre, the Vatican museum did not offer any thematic trail. This was a bit of a problem as we ended up spending nearly 5 hours inside trying to cover all the 54 galleries. The Gallery of Busts interested me the most as it gave faces to all those characters whom I had read about in school books. As we scratched our heads, in an effort to revive our brain cells, we were only able to recognize the busts of Julius Caesar, Marcus Agrippa and a few more who had once been sketchily described in our NCERT textbooks.

Even though each gallery had some thing of extraordinary beauty to offer, The Sistine Chapel with it's famous Michelangelo frescoes took my breath away. The nine paintings which form the elaborate ceiling fresco depict the various phases of man's relationship with God- The Creation of the World, God's relationship with Mankind and Mankind's Fall from God's Grace. The Last judgement, also painted by Michelangelo on the altar wall, is a fiery depiction of Judgement Day- A day which is experienced by all humanity and based on individual karmas results in attainment of nirvana in heaven or condemnation to the fires and demons of hell. The figures which fascinated me the most were those of Charon and Minos-Judge of the Underworld. The figures looked extremely menacing with their horns and sinister expressions. Minos with the serpent coiled around his body, looked dark and scary.The damned souls were shown being pushed out of the boat by Charon into a sea teeming with awful ogres. On the other hand, the depiction of Heaven is sunny and peaceful. Angels and Saints along with the Almighty seem to reside here. The Sistine chapel's sanctity is maintained by disciples of the Pope ensuring that no one takes pictures, people are appropriately dressed and there is complete silence inside. If I had my way, I would have spent an entire evening admiring the works of Michelangelo but our hectic schedule did not give us the luxury to fritter away time on one item of our To-Do list.

The St. Peter's Basilica guarded by the richly dressed Swiss guards beckoned us as we made our way out of the Sistine Chapel. Living up to it's fame, this church is the mother of all churches. As the name suggests, the church is the final resting place of St. Peter who was one of the 12 apostles of Jesus Christ. Michelangelo's dome, Bernini's Baldacchino and other renowned artists' artwork define the St. Peter's basilica. One can imagine the beauty of a structure brimming with such great art. We were lucky to get an opportunity to attend the Mass and we would like to believe that we left the holy church a little more enlightened.

Exhausted and beat, we managed to reach the last point on our itinerary - The Pantheon just half an hour before it was scheduled to shut down for the day. As luck would have it, we were not only able to feast our eyes upon Raphael's tomb and the coffered ceiling of the structure, but were also entertained by a uniformed brass band playing an impromptu symphony right outside the massive Pantheon. The festivities helped in elevating our tired spirits and as we gorged on traditional Italian spaghetti and wine, we could not help but recapitulate the adventures of the day, impressed by our own stamina.

The beauty of Rome lies in the fact that as opposed to the chic and organized Paris, Rome comes across as disorganized and rustic. The difference is the same as between fine cuisine and comfort food. A certain warmth oozes out of every nook and corner and bidding adieu can be very difficult. However, I have a ray of hope - The 2 cent coin that I flipped into the Trevi fountain will ensure my speedy return to this wonderful city…So, here's hoping!!!