A Letter full of Descriptions

Dear Ma, Papa, Pranay,

I wasn’t able to reply to your e-mail yesterday because I was caught up with last minute details before I leave for Austin today. It is nice to know that you all are having a great vacation. I could hear the happiness and excitement in your voices when we spoke on the phone on Wednesday! I am very glad that Pranay is having tons of fun too. To be honest, I had some misgivings about his ‘Goa experience with parents’ but having heard your account my doubts have been put to rest.

It is a gray and gloomy day here in Detroit. A heavy sheet of clouds has completely blocked out every ray of sunshine. The trees are leafless. They stand miserably with their angular branches stretched out towards the sky. Like devout believers they are probably imploring the skies to clear up. I hope someone up there hears them and cleans the dreariness with a few large strokes of a strong broom. The warm sunshine back home in Austin beckons me with arms wide open. Although I will have to wait 12 hours before I get to savour it as I am reaching at 10 in the night.

Last weekend we had a snowstorm and every open surface was suddenly enveloped in a thick blanket of snow. At first the pristine whiteness looked pretty and fairytale-like but soon the snow started turning brown and muddy, especially on the roadsides. Traffic on the freeways became a nightmare. There has also been a slow but evident shift in the general disposition of people. Those who were sprightly during the summer months have become quiet and dull while those who were quiet and dull in the summer months have become outright sullen.

I am super excited today about my 12 day vacation. It is only today that I am realizing how much I have missed home in the past 4 months – both my India home and my Austin home. In the humdrum of everyday it is convenient for the brain to relegate emotions to a remote recess. Only the prospect of meeting loved ones or being separated from them brings emotions like excitement, pain, longing, delight and the likes to surface. I suppose it is one of the many defense mechanisms that the human body has been blessed with to battle all the varied experiences that life throws at it.

Today I get to traverse a shorter distance to be with one of my cherished people. In the coming year I am sure that I will conquer the 8000 mile distance as well to be with the rest of my favourite people. More on my India-craving in my next e-mail to you!! I will Skype call you tomorrow from Austin.

Lots of love,
Preeti

Lootera: An Exquisite Love Story

It is of Benarsi sarees and fedoras, of Murphy radio sets, gramophones and vintage Chevorlet cars, of quiet restrained love, soft emotions and warm sepia shades, of an India in its early years as a free nation. Should you ask me how ‘Lootera’ is different from other love stories in Hindi cinema; I would perhaps tell you that it isn’t. In fine gossamer silk packaging lies an almost ordinary tale.

What does set it apart though is its depiction. Unlike other modern day romances, there is nothing garish or over expressive about Pakhi and Varun’s story. They don’t belong to larger than life, picture perfect families and are not excessively airbrushed. She is an overindulged only-child of a wealthy zamindar while he is a brooding albeit handsome (in a dark ‘Heathcliff’ kind of way) conman. They play their parts as star crossed lovers with oodles of grace and dignity despite the various shades of grey that colour their persona.

Shama, the housemaid and Dev, the best friend contribute their fair share to the story’s realism. There are other characters as well – the indulgent father, the cautious munim, the clever cop and the gang leader of the con-men – who form a cocoon within which love blossoms.

Amidst fishing expeditions and Ramleela enactments in a culturally rich Calcutta and poignant exchanges in a snow clad Dalhousie, one literally feels the peaks and troughs of Pakhi and Varun’s love for each other. With just a play of expressions on their faces and unsaid words reflecting in their eyes, the two protagonists tug at your heartstrings. You want them to find happiness. You wish you could do something to help ease their pain. It is almost as if they are your own.

Intense scenes pregnant with strong emotions are interspersed with slivers of light hearted humour as if to strike a balance of sorts. For instance, when an anguished Varun irritably shoves his revolver in Shama’s hand and quips – ‘rakh lijiye, masala kootne ke kaam aayegi’ or when an iffy Dev tries to explain to a handful of bewildered workers why they are being asked to dig at an excavation site – ‘kyun khodna hai….kyunki zameen hai’.

Laced with old melodies like ’Taqdeer se bigadi hui taqdeer bana le’ and a haunting soundtrack, the movie takes on a bewitching quality. Even though you know that the climax is picked up from O’Henry’s short story- ‘The Last Leaf’, you don’t mind because it blends in so beautifully. And before you know it the two hour twenty minute movie rolls by leaving you in a misty-eyed trance.

With movies like these, it is evident that Indian cinema is capable of churning out tasteful work which pleases the soul. It is no longer a prisoner of stereotypes and has broken the shackles of regression to move ahead towards creative liberation.

Why your money is safer under your mattress than in a Citibank Account

My name is Preeti Sharma. I am just another average 29 year old. I love food, shopping, books, hanging out with my friends and all the other things people my age are fond of. I dream of a comfortable future and I work hard towards securing one. Recently I became a victim of a fraud which took away a part of my faith in humanity and replaced it with hard cynicism. I paid a heavy price for living in this modern age of eBanking. An Internet banking fraud left me devoid of all the savings I had accumulated over the past 6 years (INR 10,49,301.85). The unfortunate incident happened on the 27th of Aug 2013 in the form of 14 fraudulent online transactions within 24 minutes. Luckily I am a compulsive ‘email checker’ and so I caught the 14 auto emails that I had received from Citibank (informing me about the transactions), fairly quickly (within an hour and a half) and immediately reported the issue by calling the Emergency Hotline. However, much to my horror, all my money had been drained out by then.

The bank (Citibank) registered my complaint and an Investigation team was supposedly put on the job to look into the matter. The following day I was told by the bank that they needed me to lodge an FIR at a local police station so that the investigation could be carried out. I was in the US when all this took place and was quite baffled with the bank’s repeated insistence on me personally filing an FIR. They refused to acknowledge the fact that I wasn’t in the country and could not make an emergency trip back because of unavoidable circumstances at work. At this a Citi official had the audacity of suggesting that I lodge a complaint at a precinct in the US. Somehow I got my aunt to file a complaint on my behalf at a police station in Bangalore (although not without a lot of running around). In the meantime, a signed letter to the Bank Manager of Citibank, Bangalore (where my account was maintained)had initiated a flurry of responses from Citibank. I think this sudden interest was also a result of the fact that I had taken my banker aunt and uncle’s advice and forwarded this letter to the Banking Ombudsman and other senior officials in Citibank (CEO-Citibank, Head Customer Care-Citibank etc.). The disputed amount was provisionally credited to my account but since it was frozen, I couldn’t use a penny of it.

Citibank’s Executive Response team based in Mumbai was given the responsibility to keep me informed about the proceedings by speaking to me regularly. At first, these people seemed pretty confident that within a week or so my case will be resolved even though they said that typically an investigation takes 45-50 days. But as days went by with no conclusion in sight, it was evident that the bank was just as stumped as I was about the root cause of such a massive fraud. Over the next 35 days, the frequency of status update calls from the Executive Response team went down to once a week. Each time they spoke to me, I was given the same standard update: a) the merchant has not billed the bank for the disputed amount as yet b) the investigation will take 45-50 days c) if the merchant does not bill the bank within this period, we do not know if the transactions will become null and void d) we cannot give you a fixed answer right now. What infuriated me the most was when these people made oblique comments about how this whole fiasco was in some way my fault. ‘Well, you must have shared your debit card details with someone’, ‘You might have given your debit card to someone’ or ‘Someone must have flicked your card’ – statements like these drove me up the wall. I am an educated individual with a fair amount of experience under my belt and I understand the concept of information security. I most certainly do not go about distributing confidential information about my bank account. As for my card getting flicked , since the said card is of no use to me in the US, it has never left my wallet. And, most sane people will agree with me when I say that if I had lost my wallet, I would have known almost instantly.

Another unbelievable fact that emerged was (the Investigating Officer who was responsible for my case brought this up) that these fraudulent transactions were all unsecured transactions which meant that my Ipin/OTP weren’t used to make these transactions. When I questioned the bank about why such unsecured transactions were allowed in the first place, I got no clear answer except for some vague references to international banking associations which allow unsecure transactions internationally. Which means someone who by some means got their hands on your debit card number, CVV and expiry date – which are all clearly stamped on the card itself – is equipped with enough information to empty out your account. So, the next time you hand over your debit card to the server at that restaurant you frequent, or when you are in a queue at that favourite mall of yours and the person behind you who, guess what, has two eyes and can see your card details when you are swiping your card, or for that matter each time you think your money is safe in your bank account because you have your IPin memorized and not carelessly scrawled somewhere, think twice. That server, that man standing behind you in the queue and for all you know even that devil-minded Citibank employee who has access to your information, can go wild on international websites and bill all the resulting expenses to you. Though it is hard to believe, Citibank WILL allow any Tom, Dick and Harry to bleed you dry and walk away into the horizon with every last new penny of your hard-earned money.

My awful experience prodded me to do a bit of research. What I stumbled upon was enough to blow my mind away. Did you know that US, UK and other developed countries have long established the ‘zero consumer liability clause’ in order to protect customers from the inevitability of Internet banking frauds. This has kept banks in these countries on their toes when it comes to investing in state of the art security measures and keeping them up to date. Each time a customer disputes a transaction, the bank has to reimburse the money immediately and if the stolen money is not traced back and retrieved, the insurance company insuring the bank takes care of the claim and in turn raises the premium charged. On the other hand, even though India, in its hurry to ape the developed countries, introduced Internet banking and all its fancy advantages, it failed to bring along the entire package which included ‘consumer protection’. For some strange reason, India felt it unnecessary to protect the nickel and dime consumers and thought it more prudent to safeguard the big-fat-richie-rich banks instead. It makes me sick to the gut when I think about all those unfortunate people who have fallen prey to similar fraud and have nothing else to fall back on. With no financial resources left, most victims of such fraud give up without a fight and the bank gets away without an iota of regret. I, on the other hand am not going to give up. At least not till I expose all the muck that banks like Citibank in India try to hide under layers of swanky advertising and elaborate but false promises of high customer focus.

The Great Apartment Hunt

I like to believe that I was a gypsy girl in my past life. How am I so certain, you may ask. Well, for starters, the course charted by my almost 30 years of existence is reason enough for me to conclude so. You see, there is a certain migratory behaviour that I find myself falling prey to ever so often. It does not matter at this point if it is because of a personal choice or due to lack of one but a nomadic quality has surely coloured my life aplenty thus far.

And so there was nothing out of ordinary when for the nth time I was informed rather callously by those who sit in heaven on fluffy puffs of cloud writing the story of my life, that I was to move yet again. Now, even though this sudden displacement seemed terribly inconvenient, I was stuck on denying anyone the satisfaction of seeing me befuddled. With what I like to think of as the insouciance of a hardened gypsy, I pulled out my time tested relocation checklist from a hidden cache of valuable odds and ends and set in motion the gargantuan process of relocating.

APARTMENT HUNTING – in big bold letters – the first item on my checklist stared at me defiantly almost as if trying to unnerve me by its sheer magnitude. It brought along with it memories of numerous apartment hunts that I have had the pleasure (or displeasure in some cases) to embark upon. From the chintzy pink/green/scarlet walled rooms of apartments in Hyderabad to the pigeon hole like confines of atrociously priced apartments in Mumbai and Bangalore and from the eerily symmetric homes in Stuttgart to the colossal opulence of houses in Palo Alto, it is quite an array that I have covered in a span of 6 years.

Even though the cities differed, the underlying pattern always stayed the same. Every new apartment hunt entailed long anxiety riddled hours spent over a period of several days scouring promising neighbourhoods. Needless to say, each potential abode I surveyed brought with it a series of experiences. There were grumpy Marathi/Telugu/Kannada spouting landlords looking for ways to extract every last penny of my earnings. There were also sour looking neighbours (especially in Hyderabad) whose laser like gaze burnt into every single girl who came looking for an apartment in their building. If I tried hard, I could almost hear them hissing under their breath ‘You should get married because that's what susheel Indian girls do once they are done pretending to care about studies‘.

While apartment hunting was an adventure in itself, occupying the chosen residences was also quite eventful thanks to several significant characters. For instance, my apartment in Mumbai came with a replica of the 'Adam’s family' posing as neighbours complete with a scary stone eyed granny and a toddler who looked perpetually drugged. The inevitable string of roommates whom I dealt with – some quirky, some fun, some strange, some filthy and some mean - added a pinch of spice. An assortment of house maids – one who offered to cook for me at no extra cost, one who liked sipping her daily cup of tea with me while watching television and one who sported red hair to match her paan stained teeth – brought in a daily dose of drama. And then there were the 'istri wallahs' who piled my crumpled clothes on wooden hand carts and rolled them away to a place from where they returned creaseless and smooth.

As for the apartments themselves, fortunately, in each real estate jungle, I found spaces that resonated with me. In Hyderabad, it was a cozy two bedroom apartment with the most enticing balcony ever. The soft rustle of leaves on an adjoining neem tree and an inviting reading chair made sure that I stole half an hour each day to curl up in my favourite corner with a cup of coffee and a book. In Bangalore, it was a studio apartment – my first stab at living all by myself. A bean bag, a multicoloured checkered rug, a small television and a shelf full of books transformed it into a place I wanted to come back to after a hard day at work.In Stuttgart, Germany it was a one bedroom office-turned-apartment on a hill overlooking the village of Gerlingen. Panoramas of blue skies, red roofed houses and green fields from every window were enough to make me fall in love with the place. The fact that the landlord and his wife - a middle aged couple - spoiled me rotten by sending me home made meals and inviting me ever so often for coffee and cake was an added bonus.

Marriage brought along a movement of larger proportions. As I prepared to put 8000 miles and an ocean between me and my beloved country, I crammed as many memories as I possibly could in two rather massive suitcases. Palo Alto, California was my port of destination and it had in store for me my very first downtown apartment. A 6 month sabbatical from work gave me all the time to enjoy it to my heart’s content. It was here that I took baby steps towards learning how to cook a hearty Indian meal and it was here that once again I had the pleasure of owning, for a brief period, a lovely sun drenched balcony which beckoned me every single second.

One year and 2 cities later, here I am planning yet another relocation.This time it is the once prosperous motor city of Detroit that summons me. Setting aside my fears about the two things Detroit apartments are most infamous for – bed bugs and crime, I began my hunt with great hope and I am happy to report that my positivity paid off . From the 14th of September I shall be a proud tenant of an apartment which seemed to lovingly call out my name as soon as I walked in. Full length glass doors opening onto a patio facing a patch of green grass and then a golf course, lots and lots of shelves in each room for my organizing pleasure and a small lake to be enjoyed on warm summer afternoons swooped me right off my feet. That it is a mile from work and has a functional fitness center and swimming pool is just icing on my already mouthwatering cake.

Uprooting, moving, settling and then uprooting again – is a cycle that I have gone through all my life. It is a way of life so full of unknown adventures and new experiences that over the years I have got addicted to it. As soon as my heart begins to yearn for fresh beginnings, I know that it is time for me to pack my bags, extract my checklist and head out.....

Bits and Pieces

Chapter1 – The Wonder Years

Picture a collection of coins organized in neat rows of plastic sleeves in a passionate numismatist’s (coin collector’s) coin album. Each coin, whether bright and shiny or rusted and lack luster, is irreplaceable. And consequently, each coin is just as dear to the collector as the other. My life thus far has been uncannily similar to the aforesaid album of coins, rich in its collection of myriad moments. I must admit that preserving this album hasn’t been an easy task as a notorious pickpocket called ‘Time’ has tried swooping in and relieving me of my treasure on more than one instance. To chronicle these pieces is therefore the most prudent decision. With my head buzzing with several stories that clamour to share this space, I am attempting today to recapture a time -

1) When summer vacations meant reading books by the dozen and imagining the midnight feasts at St. Claire’s, George’s Kirrin island and it’s infinite mysteries, Heidi’s red faced grandfather serving her fresh cheese, bread and milk for breakfast, David Copperfield’s and Oliver Twist’s dramatic lives, the virtuous yet fun-filled stories of Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy from Little Women and Bobby, Phyllis and Peter from The Railway Children……… my list would never end.

2) When Papa always came home from his evening game of squash and hurled his sweat drenched t-shirt at me, letting out a loud chortle when it landed right on my face. The wet t-shirt sometimes took the form of smelly socks instead, just to add a bit of spice to the daily drama!

3) When mornings always began with Ma emerging all pink and fresh from her morning bath, smelling mildly of Pond’s cold cream (a blue and white jar of which always sat in the bathroom cabinet) and coaxing me lovingly out of bed.

4) When a 4 year old Pranay mutilated lyrics of popular Hindi songs to suit his requirements. ‘Bas ek shaam zulf ki’ became ‘Bas ek shaam wolf ki’ and ‘Kali Kali bahaar ki’ became ‘Kali kali bahaar ti’. His renditions often made us laugh so hard that our sides hurt.

5) When trips to New Market usually meant chhole bhature at ‘Little Hut’ and sundaes or cola-floaters at ‘Top n Town’ while trips to old Bhopal meant bringing back a handi full of aromatic biryani from the ramshackle yet extremely popular 'Medina' dhaba.

6) When hot summer days were made pleasant by sitting in front of a water cooler devouring golden yellow mangoes straight from the refrigerator and cold winter nights were made warm by snuggling in between Ma and Papa under heavy quilts (sometimes with a hot water bottle toasting my feet) watching ‘Oshin’ or ‘Doogie Howser M.D’

7) When a perfect weekend meant starting my day with cartoons on ‘Doordarshan’, a special Sunday brunch, extended play time in the evening with friends, being greeted back home with a tall glass of cold coffee or a warm mug of cocoa (depending on the season) and ending the day with a fun movie on television.

8) When having your own room was a privilege grandly bestowed upon the first born (which was Me) and lying prostrate outside the door, slipping sheets of paper, bits of wood and other odds and ends under the door while whining constantly to be allowed inside was a right stubbornly demanded by the last born (read Pranay)

9) When trips to Bhopal meant Dadi’s time tested bed time tales and Dadaji’s kurta pockets which were famous for their never ending supply of toffees or when trips to Pune meant ransacking Nani’s stockpile of ‘Pan Pasand’ toffees and helping her pluck ripe mangoes off the rows of mango trees in the backyard.

10) When school meant 6 hours of friends and fun, interspersed with lessons.

11) When every day the sun rose to a raucous sound of Pranay’s cries of protest against being woken up early for school as he sat atop the laundry box, dangling his tiny legs. Toothbrush in hand, he would more often than not recline on his perch to catch a few more seconds of shut-eye and end up smearing his pajamas with toothpaste (calling for a larger dose of Ma’s ire).

12) When packing and moving lock, stock and barrel every three years was an understood and expected phenomenon. The minute all our rectangular iron boxes were pulled out from their various hiding places and polished with a fresh coat of black paint, I knew that it would soon be time to say goodbye to my friends, my school, my room and other things I had grown fond of. At the same time it also meant that an exciting fresh start in a brand new place was in the offing.

13) When each time Papa packed his trunk for a long temporary duty to some godforsaken remote hinterland, a small doll of mine or a picture of all of us together or some similar memento found its way in between the neat folds of his olive greens, to remind him of his loved ones back home.

14) When going to a friend’s place for a sleepover was the rarest of rare occurrence and called for lots of excitement, excessive preparation (almost as if I was going to be gone for a month) and a list of dos and don’ts from Ma.

15) When finally I did embark upon a long sleepover of sorts which meant leaving home for the first time to go live in a college hostel, I wanted to bawl like a baby.

                                                                                                                  …………….To be Continued

Magical Coronado

There is something about the ocean that strikes a latent chord in some obscure recess of my brain. It moves me infinitely, makes me want to turn poetic, urges me to relax and bury my feet in the soft folds of sand, wishes for me to turn introspective and infuses in me large doses of strength as it rumbles and gurgles like an indomitable force. With each wave that comes crashing down and sweeps the beach clean, I feel layers of cynicism wash away too. And as the sun rises like a golden orb from the belly of a vast expanse of indigo blue water , I think of all the good things that life has given me and feel immensely special.

What more can I ask for when all of the above comes with a beach town that seems excitingly familiar, perhaps because it is almost a modern day adaptation of Kirrin Bay from my favourite Famous Five series by Enid Blyton. Just like Kirrin Bay, Coronado Island is all about the sun, sand, seashells, starfish, grilled fish, flip flops, straw hats, picnic baskets and yachts. A resort city in San Diego, California, Coronado Island wears a patina of affluence and old world charm gracefully.Cobbled stone streets, souvenir shops with ocean blue interiors bearing pretty names like ‚Treasures from the Heart‘ , people with sunny dispositions enjoying their day off, benches specked with almost life like starfish carved out of stone and the ever present salty mist makes one think of nothing else but the ocean.

The deliciously fresh sounding Orange Avenue which is the main street at Coronado is in fact home to many cozy cafes and breakfast joints that offer a surfeit of options to satiate the hungriest of the hungry beach revelers. Enjoy a hearty breakfast at Cafe 1134 before you set out to explore the hidden treasures on this island. I can tell you from personal experience that the Cortez omelette stuffed with sautéed shrimp, mushrooms, jack cheese, avocado and sour cream will leave you spell bound and as you scrape the last crumbs of fluffy egg from the plate into your mouth, you will feel a warm satisfaction spread within. Wash it all down with a cup of frothy Cappuccino and you are all set for the adventures that await you.

Walking down Orange Avenue, I realize how high this place is on energy. The street is bustling with activity. People in all forms of colourful gear are heading for the beach. In the vicinity, I spot the 125 year old Hotel del Coronado looming large like a giant castle overseeing the island below. Its sparkly white exterior is complimented by brick red turrets standing tall against a cerulean sky. Not unlike most famous historical hotels, Hotel del Coronado also has spooky stories of haunted rooms and spicy anecdotes of scandalous activity that pulls curious tourists towards it. I, on the other hand am not a sucker for ghost spotting and walk past the fairytale-like structure rather briskly. In contrast, the chimerical quality of little shops along the avenue, instantly draws me in like bear to honey. Besides window shopping, I spend time happily sitting on a bench indulging in people watching and lapping up the vibe.

Hours later with my pockets bulging with tiny knick-knacks that I couldn’t resist picking and covered from head to toe in fine sand, I reluctantly decide to go home . Parks along the avenue are bursting with picnicking families. A particular family catches my eye as I am driving by – a strapping young father lies sprawled on his belly while his three children run around him in circles. His wife sits by him resting against a tree trunk thoroughly immersed in a book . Occasionally she looks up and chides an errant child as he tumbles playfully over his father. Their brown picnic basket sits atop a checkered sheet holding unimaginable treats. It is an endearing image, one that belongs in a story book. Years from now I can imagine conjuring this very image each time I think of a perfect Sunday.

If a relaxed weekend with a little bit of shopping, some beach volleyball and sumptuous food thrown in for good measure is what you are looking for, Coronado Island is just the place for you. Sitting on the beach watching the white sail boats bob merrily across the horizon, you might just lose your will to go back to the usual whirlwind of a routine that weekdays demand.

Straight from Papa's Mouth - A Comical Wedding

‘It is a quaint wooden chest with rusty hinges and thick metal clasps to fasten and secure the precious booty inside. Its heavy lid, when yanked, gives way with a mighty groan and reveals with a flourish what hides within. Along with wisps of golden light and sparkly stars, out spills a flurry of parchment paper stained blue by neatly stenciled tales which flutter unrestrained like butterflies in a field’ - this is how I imagine Papa’s coffer of stories. What I attempt to narrate today is one of my favourites, picked with great difficulty from this treasure trove of stories that I have grown up listening to.

10 year old R was bored stiff. The wedding preparations had trudged along for several weeks now and it felt as if no one had any time for the one activity he adored the most- frivolous mischief and games. The house resembled a frenetic bee hive with people buzzing around; feverishly preparing the edifice for Chachaji’s much awaited wedding ceremony. Strings of bright orange marigold ran endlessly along the exposed edges, red and yellow boxes of mouthwatering mithai piled high in the store room and an incessant stream of instructions poured out of Papaji’s mouth as he oversaw the activities like a weathered planner.

Had R been permitted to ransack the boxes of mithai, he would have been contentedly occupied. Gorging on syrupy sweet, butter soft, crumby laddoos from the famous Bahadura Sweets would have kept him engrossed for hours. Alas, this was not to be as he and his three impish brothers were advised in rather ominous tones against pillaging the sweet meats which were meant to be served during the wedding reception. Dragging his feet in a display of exaggerated despondence he made for the playground cooking up elaborate schemes to kill time.

As the sky turned a deep shade of violet, the shehnai waalas arrived dressed in their blue and gold band uniform. The evening air stirred as the first shrill notes of the customary wedding tunes sliced through. Everything seemed to be in order. The mandap was set on the terrace under a canopy of pretty rose buds and giant banana leaves. Panditji had been busily arranging haldi, kumkum, ghee, rice, sandalwood, copper pots and earthen lamps in a semicircle around him. Pink cheeked children (including R and his brothers), freshly scrubbed and dressed in fine clothes of velvet, silk and muslin sat cross legged on the maroon rugs encircling the mandap. They ached to run around and play noisily although under the strict watchful eyes of their parents they had no other choice but to behave themselves.

Soon enough the bride and the groom took their places on the low wooden pedestals set next to the mandap. The bride was a petite girl who looked uncomfortable under the weight of the heavy ornaments adorning her. Wrapped in a rich red and silver Banarsi saree with the edge covering her tiny head, she looked radiant albeit exhausted. Perhaps the strain of the past few days of ceaseless ceremonies had taken its toll on her. Her slight frame made the groom look all the more strong and masculine. He too was eager to get this last obligation done with, for weddings maybe tons of fun for everyone else but for the two people caught in the eye of the storm – the bride and the groom – they can get quite onerous.

Plastic cups of sweet milky chai were handed out as Panditji began the ceremony by reciting chants from the Vedas. This was going to be a long night and the guests were fortifying themselves with deep fried delicacies and chai. R squirmed restlessly from time to time craning his neck to catch a glimpse of what his older brother; S was up to a few rows ahead. ‘Maybe I could annoy S by tickling him with a stray leaf lying on the floor’, he thought gleefully. And thus R began spoiling for a fight. Having devoured a slice of juicy red water melon he proceeded to spurt the seeds on S who at first was amused but then as R persisted, started to get angry. R pulled faces at S instigating him to retaliate despite Papaji’s admonishments. What started out as flippant playfulness was slowly turning into a menace. Just when he thought he had run out of ideas, R’s eyes fell on a copper pot sitting solitarily at arm’s reach. As a final grand gesture against S and Panditji’s soporific soliloquy, R grabbed the copper pot and flung it at S.

Now, what ensued is stuff that great anecdotes are made of. It is stories like these which are narrated over and over again with each version being more colourful and vivid than the previous. Almost as if in slow motion, Papaji, Ammaji and other bewildered guests saw the copper pot flip a few times on its fateful trajectory, miss S (who had ducked) by a whisker and land with a sick thud on the frail bride’s head. The poor girl opened her mouth in a silent gasp and promptly fainted in a heap on the floor. At this point utter chaos had engulfed the arena. The women crouched next to the slumped bride, trying to revive her by sprinkling water on her face while the men including a furious Papaji tried to catch hold of the rabble-rouser who anticipating his doom had bolted like lightening.

One can imagine what was in store for R when he was ambushed and outnumbered. I am told he fought valiantly before giving himself up, trying to thrash and claw his way out. He even threatened to repeat his folly by throwing the copper pot on the people chasing him. Needless to say, Papaji returned to the wedding venue with a sheepish black and blue R in tow. Thankfully, the bride had risen from her blackout and even though she had turned a shade paler, her eyes danced and a shadow of a smile played at the corners of her mouth as she forgave R for his errant deed. It is hard for me to believe that this devilish miscreant whom everyone talks of in every family gathering is now one of the most quiet and docile people I have ever met – he is none other than my father’s older brother Raju Tauji!!! 

Colours

‘Continue 88 miles on I10 N to Houston’ - instructs a tinny female voice emanating from the tiny black GPS on the dashboard. As if on cue, I recline my backrest, stretch my legs and relax. The view from my window is a fine treat for my ever hungry imagination and soon enough on a puffy cloud of day dreams I drift away to a land of my own.

It is a palette of brilliant hues that I am exposed to. Miles and miles of burgeoning farms stretch along the road causing a plethora of shades to bleed into one another. The leafy green of bushes in spring melts into the moss green of fresh carpets of grass. Pools of royal blue, rich pink, pristine white, sunny yellow and deep red - contributed by seasonal wildflowers - shimmer iridescently on the green canvas of nature. The sky hangs low like a blue and white canopy sheltering this exquisite work of art while trees heaving under the weight of flame-like orange blooms add to the cacophony of colours. Estates that remind me of ‘Tara’-the beautiful albeit ill-fated manor from ‘Gone with the Wind’ – circumscribed by white picket fences enticingly roll by. Some boast of beautiful muscular horses galloping like the wind across their vast expanse while others own herds of healthy cattle languidly grazing on stacks of brown hay. If I strain my eyes, I can almost see a young Scarlett O’Hara in a ridiculously extravagant hat riding into the horizon without a care in the world.

To the inherent Indian in me, the 163 mile drive from Austin to Houston looks like an aftermath of Holi – the Indian festival of colours. It is as if the world around me is trying hard to make up for all the years that I haven’t been able to smear yellow, green, blue and red gulaal across its face. I gladly accept the vibrant offering, all the while agreeing wholeheartedly with Mr. Louis Armstrong as his song ‘What a Wonderful World’ fills each crevice in my car and each pore on my skin.

The City of Angels-2

Every piece of landscape in a 3 mile radius around Hollywood screams of glamour, showbiz and drama. Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck beam at us from large posters that hang alongside the winding road . Upscale apartment complexes and palatial estates seem to look down their noses at us as we make our way to Universal Studios. The weather Gods have been kind so far. The sky shines in all its aquamarine blue glory while the yellowish green trees sway merrily in a light summer breeze.

As we pull into the tiered parking lot at Universal, I am amused to note that each parking level has a fun name like Frankenstein, King Kong and Jurassic. There isn’t a shred of doubt remaining that the theme of our day is going to be movies, movies and more movies. The cardinal opening score of Universal Pictures plays repeatedly at the ticketing counter making my spine tingle. Today we are going to treat ourselves like movie stars!

Yet, I feel more like a scared little girl than a movie star as I walk into the eerie confines of the House of Horrors. It is like my worst nightmare coming true. Trust me when I say, you need to possess the heart of a lion to not shriek when an ogre with gruesome pockmarks pounces at you from a dark crevice in the wall. As for me, I whine and howl my way through an awful maze of screeching bats, spooky corners, odious body bags from the movie Coma and repulsive fiends from Frankenstein, The Mummy and the likes. I promise silently that I will never put myself through this again.

The dinosaurs at the Jurassic Park section seem friendlier at first even when they are trying to be mean and obnoxious. The little ones squirt water at us as we cruise along in a boat through a make belief rain forest. Soon enough chaos hits. A livid T-Rex makes a sudden appearance from up above, forcing people in our boat to let out blood curdling screams. With the sound effects, life-like dinosaurs and a final plummet down an 85 feet man made waterfall (which brings my heart to my mouth), it is almost as if we are living the movie.

From the heart of a thick Amazon jungle we are transported to the arid underbelly of an Egyptian desert. The mummies from yore are waiting for us in their rachitic tombs. With great trepidation we descend into one of the dungeons from the movie 'The Mummy' in what looks like a mine cart. It is all pleasant as long as we are gliding past well lit halls bursting with treasure chests, but the going gets tough as soon as our cart starts rallying at break neck speed through darker passages teeming with 3 dimensional images of half rotten mummies screaming obscenities at us. We ricochet between several narrow passageways and are thrown around like rag dolls before narrowly escaping a blood thirsty mummy.

We aren’t done as yet. Metallic monsters from the future beckon us. 'The Transformers' is a ride inspired by the hugely popular sci-fi movie (which goes by the same name) about a battle between robots from outer space. Strapped in a capsule called Evac, we have been informed by a very convincing machine-like voice that our sole purpose on Earth is to save a device called 'AllSpark' from the clutches of evil forces – the Decepticons. Hurtling through simulated streets of New York, I can almost feel the vile Megatron (one of the Decepticons) at my heels. We dodge oncoming vehicles and sidle between other giant robots to keep AllSpark safe. Just when I think we have pulled it off, I feel a nudge and we nose-dive from top of a multistoreyed building. There is a sickening thud and then just as suddenly it is over. The lights turn on and I realize that all this was a 4 dimensional hallucination of sorts. Megatron’s breath on my shoulder was a puff of air ejected from a nozzle on my seat and the spray of street water on my face was regular water from a spout.

The last ride has left us a little disoriented. For a few minutes we stumble around taking in the un-simulated real world. However, it is difficult to come back to reality with Sponge Bob skittering around and the Donkey from Shrek calling out to us from his bakery. Music and food are flowing unbridled. There is a general ambiance of merry making and fun. A caricature artist sketches us with large heads and puny stick like bodies and we laugh at the absurdity of it all.

The exhaustion of the day is now telling on my feet and I cannot wait to get back home. But wait, how can I conclude a trip to Los Angeles without paying homage to Hollywood Boulevard?? So, off we go looking for the famous Walk of Fame which is literally a sidewalk studded with stars. Charlie Chaplin, Mickey Mouse, Bob Hope, Drew Barrymore and over 2400 prominent figures have their names carved on five pointed stars strewn all over a 15 block stretch. And because the real flesh and blood stars are so elusive, Madame Tussaud offers ardent fans her collection of wax substitutes to make do with. Across the street a running tap suspended in thin air, devoid of a pipe connection, floats inexplicably in the 'Ripley’s Believe it or Not' museum window but by now I am too weary to even bother cracking the mystery and move on.

There is more to Hollywood Boulevard than just the Walk of Fame. Every now and then we walk into street artists dressed as characters from popular movies like the pixies from the Disney movies, Batman and Robin from the Batman saga, robots from Transformers and so on. A colossal Chinese Theater looms large in one corner reminding me of the Bruce Lee and Jackie Chang movies my husband loves so much. There is a swarm of energetic people dancing on the sidewalk to the tunes of ‘Gangnam Style‘. Restaurants and watering holes with brightly coloured neon boards try to lure us in but it has just been a very long day of strange sights, sounds and experiences and my 28 year old bones have given up. All I want to do now is crawl into my cozy bed and let waves of sweet sleep sweep me away to a land where I can dream away about my time in the city of angels..