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!!!