An ode to the Birthday Girl......

There she stood, her eyes framed in a pair of gigantic glasses, wearing a baggy brown t shirt over equally baggy dark brown corduroy trousers and a wide smile stretched across her face. “Hi I am Manisha, you can call me Mini” she bubbled. Hearing her effervesce, I couldn't believe my mother had coerced me into befriending her simply because her parents had moved next door. From the moment we met I knew that the bully inside me could finally be unleashed and let loose on this unsuspecting simpleton. While hatching all the devious plans to trouble her (tricking her into believing that I had original autographs of the entire Indian cricket team, making fun of her low grades in Polynomials and so on),  little did I know then that she was soon to become a permanent and irreplaceably important fixture in my life.

Two very tumultuous years later, Mini and her family moved to another city. This inevitably spelled ‘The End’ for our blow-hot-blow-cold friendship, or so I thought. Owing to the fact that we weren't big on snail mail and also perhaps as neither of us had anything great to exchange, we lost contact and moved on with our lives.

I never imagined that our paths would cross again but as luck would have it, not only did we bump into each other in a new city where we were off to start our lives as college students but we also began a brand new experience of hostel life together. And so, on a very warm night in June of 2002, we found ourselves at our new hostel, shivering at the mere prospect of getting ragged by a bunch of formidable seniors. Since Mini had an elder brother who had gone through his days of ragging a few years back, she had been counseled on how to survive the much feared first month of ragging. With his advice as her mantra, she appeared calmer. ‘Don’t worry Preeti’ she said valiantly, “Just do whatever they ask you to do”. By the time we reached the staircase to hell which was our common room, her pep talk had given me just enough courage to get by. However, I may have sucked all her valor because she suddenly froze on the last step and mumbled “I cannot do this Preeti. They are going to butcher us”. Thus began a cycle of mutual motivation and consolation which was to last for several years to come. Through countless moments of feeling lost in the crowd and agonizing over growing-up pains I found Mini by my side making things a tad bit easier. We got through the night albeit with a painful introduction to the ‘chawanni athanni’ dance and an interaction with the much dreaded Tashi ma’am who was soon to become our nemesis.

An era of life changing endeavours had begun. Each day would bring with it weird experiences which later made for great anecdotes. Be it the time when we were sent to get a dirty movie for the seniors from a nearby movie library and wanting to believe that we were as inconspicuous as possible even with the  helmets and terrorist like scarves tied around our faces-which we refused to take off even when inside the shop (now come on, this was the first time we had laid hands on something as despicable as an X-rated movie let alone having seen one before), or the time when our God awful warden cornered us into almost giving away the seniors in our dorm for having a midnight alcohol party the previous night (Mini’s valour, which made itself evident in flashes, did a guest appearance again that day)or the time when we got into trouble for returning 30 minutes after the hostel in-time, each incident was one of a kind. What was common though among these seemingly diverse events was the fact that Mini and I were always at the epicenter together. Somewhere along the way several nicknames were bestowed upon us like Pinki-Rinki, Pinty-Minty and so on.

The excruciating torture of semester exams became tolerable with Mini being there to share the suffering. Being a part of an ever shrinking bunch of engineering students in the hostel, we were always unfortunate enough to have our exams during those times of the year when the rest of our dorm mates would be free as birds and as a result prone to creating ruckus ad infinitum. Often, one or both of us would succumb to the notorious examination blues. Such times called for desperate stress busting measures - the ‘Friends’ marathon or the 60 buck delectable dinner at our filthy road side Chinese ‘tapri’ (this comprised mountainous portions of vegetable noodles and chilly chicken followed by a single scoop of ice cream split in two). The ‘Friends’ marathon always started with a mutual agreement over watching only one episode but both of us had such wavering will power when it came to studies that we would end up watching an entire season or more only to realize that half the day had gone by (the exam being the next day) and we had barely covered the tip of the iceberg which was our syllabus for the exam. The Chinese tapri on the other hand aside from being just as dirty as any other roadside fast food vending cart, provided us the crucial spirit lifting tasty treats. Braving all fears of jaundice ridden livers and diarrhea ridden guts we would devour the meal as if it was our last meal before being executed.

As we slowly climbed the seniority ladder, we added new experiences and new friends to our kitty. The time we ragged our juniors, the time we sneaked into the common room through the window to watch ‘Sex and the City’ and then scurried out the same way, the time we stayed up all night trying to develop a taste for a terrible concoction of vodka and Milkmaid, the abnormal jubilation we felt after watching ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’, the terrible trauma we went through while watching ‘Kal ho na Ho’, our astonishment when we saw Mini’s hair ablaze as part of an unexpected prank, the unusual strength she exhibited during the ‘Maro-Maro’ fights, the midnight ludo or even the time we waged war against an uber snooty group of girls in the hostel are stories worth a million.  

Today as I try to encapsulate these memories for Mini’s birthday write up I find it difficult to pick only a handful because, cheesy as it may sound, each and every story is just as dear as the other. Times have changed and we all seem to have grown up which means that we now have clouds of mundane worry hovering incessantly over our heads. Yet, thankfully, each time I speak to Mini we embark upon an insane giggle trip which lasts for anything between 15 minutes to an hour. Our inane chatter is so rejuvenating that even on a cloudy day I feel a warm, golden sun shining upon me. She has an ingrained ability to crack me up with her comical stories and antics.  From being my sounding board to being the crazy clown in my life and from being someone whom I can trust my darkest secret with to being my practical touchstone and gossip partner, Mini has always been there during the good and not so good times and I love her for that. Oh and before I forget, I also give her credit for a whole lot of important milestones in my life, the most vital one being pruning my caterpillar shaped eyebrows to a more acceptable earthworm like shape. On her birthday today, I wish her all the giggles, craziness, happiness and love to last her a lifetime and more………Mintyyyyy, have a blast, cannot wait to start a new chapter of our lives in ‘phoren’ land together!!

Happy 4th!!!

I am slightly biased when it comes to India’s two most prominent national festivals. The grandiose of the Republic Day parade beats the vanilla celebrations on Independence Day hollow each year. In a way, I have always perceived Independence Day celebration at home as an impoverished brother of the more ostentatious Republic Day festivity. 

I was highly mistaken when, given this premise, I did not expect much out of the 4th of July celebrations that we were to witness at San Francisco. Even though I was every bit excited about seeing how a country other than my own celebrated their independence, I was slightly blasé about it. As history goes, 236 years ago on this day after a fierce revolution, Americans finally won their freedom from the British. I once read a Chinese proverb “One generation plants the trees and another gets the shade”. Akin to all other wars waged for freedom, the American Revolution was fought by a generation which wanted to ensure that future generations would enjoy the cool shade of a free country.

After a very American 4th of July barbeque brunch with some friends, my husband and I boarded the Cal train to San Francisco. The minute we set foot in SF, we could feel the gaiety in the air. Dressed in their national colours with the national flag painted on their faces, some people overtly displayed their patriotism while others seemed happy in simply buzzing around like bees. The entire mob, engulfed in electrifying energy, seemed to be moving uniformly in one direction. We rightly assumed that they were all off to see the fireworks.

Having joined the aforesaid mob, we found ourselves at Ghirardelli square waiting for the crackers to go off. The steely grey Pacific Ocean instantly came alive with a kaleidoscope of colours as it reflected the bright explosion of each firecracker. In calculated synchrony, coloured formations of bright lights painted the dark canvas of the night sky. Street musicians took this opportunity to croon their favourite true blue American ballads like ‘Miss American Pie’ and ‘Sweet home Alabama’. The roads in San Francisco resembled fun rides at amusement parks which rise and fall at sharp angles rendering their patrons giddy. One such road led us to another vantage point from where we got a brilliant view of the Pacific and the last of the fireworks. As we looked for a place to eat and encountered long queues at each restaurant, it appeared as if the entire city was out partying. The merriment was contagious and all the good cheer made our spirits soar despite the fact that on our way back we got stuck in terrible traffic and missed the last train.

On our way home in a toasty warm cab, I confessed to myself how wrong I was in underestimating the grandeur of this day. In a country where even the smallest of achievements translates into a big party, Independence Day was bound to be the biggest yearly party for the masses. As far as fussing over small achievements goes, I couldn’t help ponder, how this is probably a rare culture in which people rejoice over anything that vaguely resembles triumph. Be it a child’s kindergarten graduation or a pets’ birthday or something as seemingly nugatory as a ‘first date’ anniversary, they all call for a celebration of some kind. Much ado is made over occasions which go unnoticed back in India because of their sheer triviality. Perhaps sitting up and noticing small achievements is important and sometimes making a big deal out of these may be a good idea to stir up that elusive element called fun which we Indians tend to neglect ever so often.

Pranay's Mango tree

Bright yellow mangoes with their characteristic heady aroma and juicy sweetness occupied most of little Pranay's thoughts these days. This was not an out of ordinary occurrence given that Pranay and his family were major mango fanatics. Year after year along with the summer heat a certain mango mania descended upon the Sharma household.

Mummy being the sanest of the lot had realized early on in life that the only way she could deal with her family's crazy love for mangoes was by ensuring that the brown wicker basket adorning the dining table was forever groaning under the weight of several varieties of the coveted fruit. However, despite her best efforts, Pranay who was the youngest in the family, suffered from a nagging apprehension that one day he would come home from school to find an empty wicker basket and no mangoes to sink his teeth in. What with a bully of an elder sister who shared his maniacal love for the fruit, he could well imagine his worst fear coming true any day.

As he sat one day contemplating this terrible consequence a sudden bright idea struck him like a bolt of lightning. What if he planted a mango tree of his own? Then all the mangoes borne by this tree would technically belong to him, thought a jubilant Pranay. Proud of himself for having hatched such a brilliant plan, he quickly approached his sole counsel for all affairs-Mummy.

What ensued was a rather long drawn process with an air of urgency making it resemble a high priority project concerning state security. The best mango of the lot was prudently chosen and sliced. Its oval seed was extracted and washed with utmost care almost as if a new born baby was being cleaned post delivery. After Vishnu Bhaiyya, the sahayak detailed to Papa (who was more a family member than a sahayak), had dug a pit of exact dimensions in the backyard, Pranay placed the dried seed in Mother Earth's womb. The cherished seed now tucked in folds of soft black mud was to be guarded and nurtured by Pranay.

Each day Pranay would eagerly rush back from school to water the seed and feed it manure.This ritual went on for over two months and as each day passed without any trace of the much awaited tiny sprout pushing it's way out of the layer of mud, Pranay's disappointment grew. Finally, no longer able to see him downcast and distraught, Mummy asked Vishnu Bhaiyya to dig out the errant seed so that she could figure out the problem. Vishnu Bhaiyya rummaged through the mud and pryed out a half rotten mango seed studded with nasty worms feeding on it. Mummy looked at the find in dismay. She couldn't help but picture Pranay's crestfallen face when told about the horrible end suffered by his beloved mango seed.

Making up her mind, she rushed Vishnu Bhaiyya to the nearest nursery instructing him to get the tiniest mango sapling available. Vishnu Bhaiyya returned shortly with a 4 feet tall plant which was nowhere close to the tiny sapling that Mummy was expecting. "There were no tiny saplings in any of the nurseries. I checked all the nurseries around this area", he said helplessly. "Pranay will never buy this tale", despaired Mummy.

Guess what..this is what the crazy boy looks like now

 Nevertheless, Mummy and Vishnu Bhaiyya proceeded to place the plant in the exact same location where the erstwhile seed was buried. As soon as Pranay returned, he was welcomed with more than usual exuberance and a tall glass of his favourite mango milk shake. Unsure of what he had done to deserve it, Pranay habitually made way to the backyard to water the mango seed. Mummy and Vishnu Bhaiyya followed him shakily and waited a few steps away as Pranay stood rooted in his place staring at the mango plant which had magically appeared. A soft breeze made the long green and brown leaves of the plant sway. Pranay snapped out of his trance and let out a sharp squeal of joy. "Mummy, look my mango seed has sprouted and has grown so quickly!! I always knew that the manure meals will pay off someday" And just as suddenly Mummy and Vishnu Bhaiyya's grim faces broke into big smiles.

It has been 12 years since then and little Pranay is no longer little. He acts all macho and manly showing off his Elvis like side burns and his toned muscles but there is one thing that brings back the 6 year old boy in him-complete with a toothy grin and dimples. Till this day he firmly believes that the mango seed he had lovingly planted, miraculously grew into a fine looking 4 feet tall plant overnight all because of his love and care.

Santa Claus, the Tooth fairy, Christmas elves and the likes-that is the list which Pranay's mango tree belonged to. It was an innocent child's figment of imagination which proved to him how perfect the world was.
I wish this was something grownups could do as well. It would make each day so much easier to get by, won’t it?

The Auto Rickshaw tales

Autorickshaws are to commuters in developing countries what cabs are to those in the developed countries. At first, they resemble tiny insects trying not to get squished under the large ungainly tyres of other co habitants of Indian roads but beware, do not get fooled by their harmless demeanor. More often than not these bright coloured seemingly innocent three wheeled capsules are operated by greasy haired, roguish Autorickshaw Waale Bhaiyyas who have the ability to ruffle the calmest of feathers. In the past 7 years, especially after me and my beloved Scooty parted ways, I have had the misfortune of availing the services of these strange characters to drive me around the city. There are several categories in which these people can be profiled. Here is an ode to some of my favourite ones  :)

1) The one with the verbal diarrhoea: I would like to confess at this point that I am absolutely not a morning person. In fact I usually try to fight the morning blues by keeping quiet and steering clear of potentially explosive encounters which can bring out the worst in me. So, one typical Monday morning (morning blues accentuated manifold by virtue of the fact that it was a Monday), I scrambled into an ordinary looking autorickshaw driven by a chubby overgrown child like bhaiyya. As soon as the three wheeled contraption whirred to life, the aforementioned man-child fired a volley of questions at me:  "Madam, kaun sa raaste se chalne ka? Left'aa'? Straight'aa'? Aajkal baut baut traffic aane laga hai ma?"…he driveled on in broken Hindi as I felt myself being sucked into a vortex of question marks. I stuck to monosyllabic answers in a desperate attempt to dissuade him from further verbal assault but did my ploy work? No sir, my Auto waale Bhaiyya was determined to use me as a piece of sandpaper to polish the rough edges of his Hindi language.By the time I reached my destination, my head was spinning. Viva exams from my engineering days weren't half as grueling as the past one hour in the autorickshaw from hell. Ever since that fateful day, I say a silent prayer each time I get into an autorickshaw, hoping that I do not have a similar experience again.

2) Schumacher ke bhatije: Now these are the weirdest of all specimen. They like to believe that their green and yellow toy vehicles are just as good or perhaps even better than the Ferraris and Jaguars driven by the likes of Michael Schumacher. They fly over speed breakers, zip through potholes and swerve between lanes to avoid traffic with the dexterity of a cheetah. As the unsuspecting passenger is flung mercilessly from one corner to the other the Auto waale Bhaiyya  races towards an invisible finish line. Maybe it isn't a race, maybe the Auto waale Bhaiyya  has bad memories of a swarm of angry bees chasing him and he just cannot get over the trauma. Whatever be the reason, at the end of the day, yet another poor commuter is left with a mutilated back bone and a fit of nausea.

3) The one with the Tsunami in his mouth: Of all the repugnant people on earth, this one is the worst. The road, to him is a giant wash basin in which he constantly spits. One might wonder from where he gets this unsual quantity of spit in his mouth. I personally believe that it is a disease which causes Tsunami like waves of spit to burst out of the patient's mouth at regular intervals. Much to the horror of the passengers, who may conclude that the poor Auto waale Bhaiyya has tuberculosis or some other ghastly disease, he continues to cough and spit violently while somehow managing to steer the auto rickshaw through traffic. Made popular by Leo di Caprio as Jack in Titanic, spitting while emanating a sharp guttural noise has taken the fancy of many Auto waale Bhaiyyas . I wonder if they also believe that it would help them bag a voluptuous Kate Winslet a.k.a Rose look alike. After several encounters with this variety, my self defence mechanism now includes an ipod and a set of headphones which not only safeguards me from them but also from their 'verbal diarrhoea' cousins.

4) The ugly one: Just when you are about to conclude that all Auto waale Bhaiyyas fall in one of the above three categories only, the most vicious fourth category attacks. Step aside for the expletive spouting devil who exudes a repulsive arrogance and reeks of greed. The first question he asks you when you hail his auto is where exactly do you want to go. If where you want to go is not where he wants to go, he will give you such a dirty look that you would want to evaporate into thin air. In the rare circumstance that he agrees to take you to your destination, he will proceed to run some complex arithmetic in his head which would result in him quoting a ridiculously high fare. Incidentally this figure has nothing to do with the black fare meter installed inside or the actual distance between the start point and the end point. Try haggling only if you are thick skinned enough to stand resolutely as a tide of abuses washes over you. Also, never ever expect him to return the 5/4/3/2 rupee change that he owes you. If you do, he will give you a mean smirk and ride away leaving you standing on the road, palm stretched out, feeling like a beggar. While dealing with this variety, fortify yourself with Glucon D and take deep breaths to keep yourself focused else you might lose the battle. The I-know-the-ACP-so-you-better-get-your-act-together bit usually works wonders with them. However, I do hope that this variety is soon extinct.

5) And finally the good one…I never thought that I would have an opportunity to come face to face with a specimen from this variety but lo and behold just like a specter he appeared in front of me one fine day. His fare meter was perfect, the passenger seat was not broken and I did not have to worry about sliding off each time the auto rickshaw went over a speed breaker, he spoke little but whenever he did he was polite and last but not the least he was perhaps the most well behaved and immaculately dressed Auto waale Bhaiyya  I had ever met. That day there was no blaring music hurting my ears, no hurling on the road and no broken bones after the ride. There wasn't even a photoshopped Karishma/Aishwarya/Sushmita, bearing leech like eyebrows, staring at me from a poster taped to the interior of the auto. This was an auto rickshaw straight from Paradise. Had I died and gone to heaven? When I received the exact change for the 100 rupee note I gave, I couldn't contain myself and blurted out, "Bhaiyya, this has been the best auto ride I have ever had.  Thank you ! ". He beamed at me and rode off into the horizon in search of yet another lucky passenger.

A weekend in Lucknow

Last weekend I travelled to Lucknow….a city famous for its extravagant Nawabs, its cultured populace and its old world charm. Now, contrary to what you may expect, this was not an ordinary vacation with sight seeing as the primary objective. A dear friend's wedding prompted a bunch of us to converge on this quaint city.

As we alighted at Lucknow's Amausi airport, a nip in the air reminded us that we were no longer in warm South India. Inching through the traffic ridden roads of Lucknow on our way to the hotel, we caught our first glimpses of the maze like flyovers lacing the city and the numerous parks dotting it. There was a lingering whiff of politics in the air courtesy the upcoming state elections. Cordoned off statues of the current CM encased in coffin-like wooden boxes and elephant figurines wrapped in cellophane bore testimony to the notoriety of politics in this part of the country.

An exhilarating reunion with friends ensued upon reaching the hotel. A couple of hours later, decked in our finery we were all set to attend the 'nikaah' ceremony. After driving past almost a dozen wedding pandals, a green ticker informed us that we had finally arrived at the desired site. Festooned in pretty pink and powder blue, the venue looked as if it was picked right out of a fairytale. Strings of tiny crystal lights hung from the white tarpaulin overhead enveloping the surroundings in a warm golden glow. Guests in bright attires made for a kaleidoscope of colours which added to the festivity of the evening. Polite bearers carrying trays laden with butter soft kebabs flitted amongst the guests ensuring there was a constant supply of food.

In one half of the venue the bride sat, petite and graceful, as a swarm of photographers engulfed her trying to capture every emotion that flickered in her almond eyes. She looked radiant in a deep red outfit embroidered with gold thread. It would be an oversight on my part and a pity if I do not mention what a fine looking groom my friend made in his off white sherwani and pink 'saafa'. The two looked perfect together and I overheard many a guests echoing the same sentiment. 

As the evening progressed, we witnessed the 'nikaah' being read, the groom taking his oaths and accepting his bride. General merriment and bonhomie followed the formal ceremony. Both sets of proud parents epitomized perfect hosts and couldn't have been more contented. Even in the thick of organizing and arranging things, their politesse and refinement were commendable.

It would be an understatement if I said that food was in abundance. A large tray of simmering galauti kebab, handis brimming with chicken and mutton biryaani, breads of varied types and melt-in-the-mouth rabri beckoned us. By now, we had realized that our flimsy attires were no where close to keeping us warm and fearing death by hypothermia we made our way to the coal sigris which were conveniently placed all around to keep the guests warm. A long day was now drawing to an end and I was looking forward to creeping under a warm blanket with the heater warming my cold toes.

Day 2 brought with it the exciting opportunity of exploring a new city. We bundled into three autorickshaws and made our way to Aminabad which is the heart of old Lucknow. Aminabad stood like a little piece of history in a city which seems to be modernizing at a rapid pace. The remanants of havelis from a bygone era are still occupied by old timers. As I stood there, a flock of pigeons took flight over children indulging in flying kites as the muezzin called for prayer. This was all the more fascinating for me as I rarely get a chance to feast my eyes on such sights in ever rushing cities like Bangalore. It was no surprise when in our female dominated group, shopping won the war of priorities over sight seeing. In the crowded bylanes of Aminabad and Kaiserabad I realised that there was nothing that one could not find here. From hearing aid manufacturers to opticians, from jewellers selling artificial jewellery to merchants selling sequins and gota, each one had a small niche to himself. Chikan kurtas were what we had come looking for and needless to say we found them in profusion. The store keeper manning the shop we entered could have sold an air conditioner to an Eskimo. He was such a smooth talker that in just over an hour he managed to make a massive sale to our unsuspecting group. All the haggling and seeing and deciding had rendered us fatigued and hungry. The famous Tunday kebab outlet was a natural choice for lunch. 'Did the kebabs live up to their reputation?', you would ask me. It would suffice to say that I now agree with the residents of Lucknow when they say that food in Lucknow is simply the best.

A brief cycle rickshaw ride brought us back to the hotel where we once again bedecked ourselves for the Reception. The gaiety from the previous evening had continued and the venue was buzzing with life. The colours around me fascinated me. The bride's brilliant blue lehenga, a friend's rusted orange sari, the bright green grass dipped in dew and the hues of the flowers used for decoration are some of the colours which are etched in my memory and in all probability will stay there forever. A customary round of introductions followed as we met the bride who was soft spoken and lady like. The food was yet again immensely appealing to the palate. I finally partook of the original ‘Shahi Tukda’ (bread soaked in sugar syrup and glazed with cream) which I had been craving for since years and this made my day.

Each time a friend gets married, it feels like an end of an era. This feeling was even more pronounced as we all sat together one last time reliving memories and laughing till our stomachs hurt.

There is so much in the city of Lucknow which I could not explore this time. I intend to someday come back and scout the city with a fine toothed comb for all the hidden treasures that hide in the nukkads and galis. Till that happens, the memories of the tastes, sounds and sights of this beautiful city will serve as reminders of a lovely weekend spent here.

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.