Amsterdam – Of Bicycles and Tulips, Sex and Drugs

Amsterdam is like a mysterious package that materialises one fine morning at your doorstep, kind courtesy a secret admirer. At first, you are sceptical and a tad bit scared to open it but then curiosity gets the better of you. With a slight tug the strings come undone and the flaps swing open. Upon peeking in, you find a deluge of items – some are alluring while others are repugnant. Outwardly discordant elements sit side by side as if they have silently signed a peace treaty. It is strange how pieces of historical and cultural importance like the Anne Frank house and the Van Gogh Museum do not seem to turn up their noses on spectacles of raw carnality at the Rosse Burt (red light district) which brims with kinky sex museums and peep shows. On the contrary, the two snuggle in disconcerting harmony.

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The Dutch capital encompasses two identities. Much like a yin and yang pair, it exhibits an undisguised dichotomy. On an impromptu girls‘trip, I struck up an acquaintance with both facets. By daylight the first mien presents itself – beautiful, unsullied, and pristine. A handful of classic Dutch signatures can be found sprinkled generously all over – a filigree of capillary-like canals, crow-stepped gable roofs atop multi-hued canal houses, beautiful tulips in full bloom, towering windmills feeding power to the city, intricate blue and white Delftware and elegantly painted wooden shoes called clogs. Then there are the ubiquitous bicycles which make the city look like a sea of two-wheeled contraptions. Chained nonchalantly to side rails, ridden breezily on cobbled streets and lying despondently on canal beds – they are everywhere. Coming from a country where bicyclists languish at the bottom-most rung of the food-chain, it is refreshing to see them rule the roost here. 

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Anne Frank 
(picture courtesy Wikipedia)

Amidst all the mayhem of 21^st century routine, on Prinsengracht Street stands an ordinary looking 17^th century structure which in fact houses something extraordinary. In the 500 square feet back house of this building, a 13 year old named Anne Frank and her family hid from Nazi persecution during the dark years of World War 2. Squeezing my way through passages that are a claustrophobic’s worst nightmare, I can only imagine the plight of those who spent 2 years cooped up here. Every page from Anne’s diary comes alive in the sombre confines of the rooms behind the bookcase. Her recordings can be summed as ramblings of an average teenager, yet they stand apart because a shadow of impending doom hangs heavy on each syllable. Even though she wasn’t fortunate enough to survive the war, she unknowingly achieved an elusive state of eternal existence through her journal.

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The setting sun slowly and horrifically transforms a portion of the city (Rosse Burt – the red light district, to be precise) into a giant, seedy, back alley brothel. Through a lacy veil of hashish smoke that descends upon the threadlike lanes, I see the harmless looking bicycles from a few hours ago turn into multi-wheeled, out-of-control beer bikes. Packs of boorish men from all corners of the world crowd around red-rimmed windowpanes and leer sleazily. Curious to know what force of nature can lure men into window shopping, I hone in and find a rather unsavoury answer. Women in all forms of undress strike sultry poses behind each of these shop windows. The tableau they present is both repulsive and pitiful at the same time. 

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How does this image titillate the masses and not make them cringe instead? Is it acceptable to treat another human being, irrespective of gender, as an object on sale? The knowledge that there are government agencies protecting these women from abuse is slightly placatory but it does not make the picture less murky. Adding to the shadiness are dubious characters peddling nefarious articles like tickets to live sex shows and packets of magic mushrooms. Not wanting to be left behind, souvenir shops too try to milk the raunchiness and are stacked with trinkets that conform to the libidinous theme. And sure enough, as the night progresses, their business flourishes.

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Here in Amsterdam, for every Van Gogh museum there is a polar opposite sex museum and for every Anne Frank house there is a ‘House of Sin’. It is for visitors to decide which one is yin and which one is yang for them. As for me, the experience has been a little bit of this and a little bit of that. There was a dash of classic Dutch ‘hygge’* owing to lunches at lovely canal-side cafés, leisurely strolls and shopping for pretty Delftware. On the other hand, to balance it out there was a bitter aftertaste as a consequence of witnessing flesh trade for the first time at such close quarters.

*Hygge: state of cosiness, warmth and relaxation in the company of someone you care about, often involving eating and drinking. (Source: Visit Denmark)

A Bagful of Tales from Pakistan

Zindagi Gulzar Hai

Refreshingly crisp, delightfully spontaneous and astonishingly real – I am talking about a wave of new age Pakistani dramas that have not just inundated You Tube but have also transgressed a hostile Indo-Pak border to make their presence felt on Indian television through Zee Zindagi. I was introduced to Pakistani TV and theatre way back in the early 90s when Papa was posted in Pathankot. Every once in a while, the rustic antennae of our Keltron television caught wayward Pak TV signals, thereby bringing shows like ‘Tanhaiyaan’ and ‘Bakra Kishton Pe’ to our living room. Most of these shows were comedies and boasted of immensely entertaining characters like Qabacha who’d within seconds have us in stitches. With the advent of cable television though, Pak TV faded into oblivion as a plethora of paid channels crept into our lives. 

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Cable television soon relegated Doordarshan to a dusty corner too and along with it went the age of meaningful Indian serials like Udaan and Fauji. A decade of disappointment later, I wrote off daily soaps altogether as mindless tales of convoluted family politics which did not deserve my time. Sadly, even the ones that started out with their heart in the right place (Baalika Vadhu etc.) inadvertently spiralled down the beaten path in search of TRPs. The fast emerging off-beat branch of Hindi cinema seemed to suit my sensibilities better and so I stuck to it. Films like Highway, Queen, Maqbool and Gangs of Wasseypur caught my attention and soon I almost forgot that channels like Star Plus, Zee TV and Colours even existed. Meanwhile, the absurdity of what was being dished out in the name of television dramas in the subcontinent reached new heights with each passing year.

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A few weeks back, while exploring the virtual alleys and by-lanes of YouTube, I accidentally stumbled upon a Pakistani drama called ‘Zindagi Gulzaar Hai’. On a sudden nostalgic whim I watched the first episode and was instantly hooked. Within days I devoured the entire 26-episode series and was hungry for more. Upon hunting I unearthed other gems like Durr-e-Shahwar, Behadd-A short film, Kankar etc. What was riveting about these stories was how they drew generously from real life, almost mimicking it perfectly. In contrast, their inane Indian counterparts  often fail at feigning to be even powder puffed doppelgängers of commonplace lives. Blending everyday banalities with appropriate doses of drama can result in an extraordinary representation of life as-is and this is exactly what these shows prove. The casualness of dining table banter between a close knit family in Zindagi Gulzaar Hai (ZGH) or the biting awkwardness of a newly-wed bride in Durr-e-Shahwar or the trials and tribulations of a single, working mother in Behadd are not far removed from our own experiences.

Durr-e-Shahwar

The characters are just as relatable because they are not slotted callously in black and white boxes. No one is pure evil like the infamous Kamolika from the show ‘Kasauti Zindagi Ki’  and no one is 100 percent angelic like Tulsi from yet another Ekta Kapoor venture ‘Kyunki Saas...’. Instead, every role is a concoction of good, bad and ugly shades which are conspicuously fanned out in front of the audience. Some of these shades are possibly more pronounced than others but then doesn’t this hold true for real people as well? For instance, Zaroon from ZGH may at first glance look like the most eligible bachelor owing to his Adonis-like looks, substantial grey matter and a deep pocketed family. Unravel him further and you find a troubled man who isn’t easy to live with - thanks to a stubborn male chauvinistic streak. Kashaf (again from ZGH), on the other hand, comes across as a bitter young woman who scorns the affluent. But secretly, she almost envies them and wishes the chasm between her and them was not as wide.

These stories are of people who seem to be battling the same dilemmas as us. Kashaf’s insecurities about her lack-lustre wardrobe and plain Jane looks and her undeterred determination to tip the scales of life in her own favour with the help of her razor-sharp intellect and stellar grades - are all easy to believe emotions.  Masooma’s (Behadd) acute sense of responsibility towards her daughter, which frequently borders on obsession especially after her husband’s death, speaks to us in words we understand. Shahwar’s slow and painful metamorphoses from a cosseted, over-indulged, soft hearted damsel into a woman who is worldly-wise, parsimonious and inured is perhaps one that many have gone through themselves. What’s more, these characters even look like us as opposed to the overly made up, caricature-like actors that Balaji Telefilms and the likes have been parading in front of us since time immemorial.

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Coupled with dialogues delivered flawlessly in honey sweet Urdu, melodious soundtracks and stunning performances, these dramas are a complete package. From the looks of it, that day isn't too far when these offerings from across the border will pose as serious competition to the queen bee of Indian daily soaps - Ekta Kapoor - and her repertoire of far-fetched, never ending sagas!

A Desi in Pardes

A little over 2 years back I moved lock, stock and barrel to a new country, a world and a half away from my motherland. At the time, the fairy dust sprinkled idea of new beginnings made the transition feel like a barrel of fun. I felt like Alice in Wonderland as I wittingly jumped into the rabbit hole with all intentions of embracing every new experience that awaited me behind each locked door. And embrace I did! From the newness of married life to the unfamiliarity of the environs to the deliciousness of possessing a profusion of time – I accepted it all with arms wide open. As I took baby steps at finding my bearings, each day slipped by as smooth as butter silk, leaving me slightly wiser about the laws of the land. Yet, at the end of each day, just before going to bed, I felt a tug at my heartstrings. A tug so faint that at first it was quite easy for me to ignore it or conveniently place the blame for it on what I had eaten for dinner that day. I did not want to give it any credence especially for the fear of being labelled ‘soft and sentimental’ as opposed to ‘rough and tough’. 

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While ‘Time’ lived up to its reputation of being a fast runner and days amalgamated into each other in a blur of sorts, the aforementioned tug took on a life of its own and grew into a more pronounced ache. Stubborn as I am, I still refused to acknowledge this strange feeling and callously dismissed it as one of the many quirks that an average human body exhibits. Then one day, after the usual Sunday morning Skype call with my folks, Arjun expressed a desire for a plateful of über greasy, yet super tasty Chole Bhature (a type of deep fried Indian street-food). Thankfully, California provides an array of options to pick from, to satisfy a mid-morning hankering of this kind. Within minutes we settled upon a typical roadside, ‘Sardaarji’-owned dhaaba called ‘Lovely Sweets’ that had been highly recommended by Arjun’s advisor. Getting dressed, I thought to myself, ‘Back in India I would rarely eat Chole Bhature. In fact I remember screwing up my nose at the thought of devouring such oily fare. Then why am I so excited about it today?’ There was only one way to find out.

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Inside the run-down little dhaaba, I breathed deeply the smell of desi food and took in the sights of a miniature India right in the heart of a foreign land. It was like an exotic brown island in the middle of a sea of white frothy waves. The Hindi that I could hear other patrons speak was music to my ears, even in its slightly convoluted, accented form. Like magic, the ache within subsided almost as if I had taken a pain killer. That’s when an epiphany struck me hard. What had surfaced in the form of physical discomfiture was actually a craving for a sense of belonging. I longed for those aspects of life back home that had seemed usual and mundane. To call a shopkeeper ‘Bhaiyya’ and haggle away to glory or yell my lungs out at a bothersome ‘Autowallah’ or hear a cacophony of car horns on the road or devour a variety of flavourful mangoes by the dozen or speak in a strange medley of Hindi and English and still be understood by all and sundry - these were the sort of things I had grown up doing and was thus feeling odd without. As absurd as it may sound, the chaotic vibrancy of my country had trumped over the mechanical predictability of the ‘land of plenty’, at least for a short while.

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I do not know how many days, months or even years it would take for this yearning to fade away. In the jigsaw puzzle that this new country is, will I ever fit in perfectly like a piece that is an integral part? It might be difficult owing to a conglomeration of several small reasons like the fact that I need a rather difficult-to-procure work-permit to be employable here or that sometimes I do not understand the tone of speech and mannerisms of people or that I speak with a different cadence which they find difficult to comprehend at times or that my British influenced English pronunciations amuse them.....I can go on with a laundry list of dissimilarities. Despite all this, I must say that I have been fortunate enough to make friends here who look beyond these petty differences and even though we have disparate backgrounds, they remind me very much of my friends back home especially when we get together and giggle away about silly little things. On the other hand, no matter how many years I spend here, India will always be the country where my roots are safely entrenched. It will forever be the country where my heart resides. That my tongue still salivates for a ghee soaked motichoor laddoo or that I always know which new Hindi movies I want to watch and when are they releasing goes to prove that you can take Preeti out of her des but you cannot take the desi-ness out of Preeti!

Des - country 

Pardes - foreign land 

Chole Bhature - a type of deep fried Indian bread with chick-peas in gravy

dhaaba - roadside restaurants found on highways in India and Pakistan

ghee - clarified butter

motichoor laddoo - Indian dessert 
desi -  is a Hindi term for the people, cultures, and products of the Indian subcontinent

Ma – The sun around which my world revolves

My earliest memories of my mother are of zipping through the streets of Secunderabad, perched precariously behind her on a shiny black moped (a cross breed between a scooter and a bicycle, popular in India) as she whisked me back from preschool each day. Those were the days when Papa was away on an assignment to Sri Lanka with IPKF and Pranay wasn’t conceived even in our wildest imaginations. To me, even at that age, Ma was a bag full of mixed experiences. Like most mothers she too transmuted from one form to another in the blink of an eyelid – from a whack wielding discipliner to a magic spinning storyteller to a tasty treats whipping culinarian to a mollycoddling soother to a stern instruction giver. And since it was just the two of us together and there was no one else to share it with, I got a taste of each version in abundance.

She was always warm and indulgent while reading aloud a chapter from my favourite books like ‘Heidi’ and ‘Lady and the Tramp’. Her eyes danced in excitement as the colourful stories unfurled. Sitting cross legged on the dining table, hanging on every word that came out of her mouth, my imagination took flights of fantasy. I would find myself hopping and skipping with Heidi and Peter amidst snow capped peaks in the Alps or trudging miserably alongside David Copperfield on his way to Dover from London or slurping a strand of spaghetti from the same bowl as Lady and Tramp. Then, as the evening wore off and the dreaded ‘study-hour’ approached, Ma became all tough and no-nonsense. With my long hair oiled and neatly braided in two thick rope-like plaits, I worked through my daily arithmetic exercises, science projects, poetry recitation and other homework under Ma’s percipient gaze.  

Note to Ma – Books will forever be my most trustworthy companions thanks to you. 

Summer vacations with Ma were always a treat. I remember one time when she caught me covetously ogling at a pretty dolls’ house featured in a popular children’s magazine. The lavish structure had a red tiled sloping roof and beautiful interiors with real wood armoires crammed full of tiny clothes, carved bed heads, mini stainless steel pots and pans, glass crockery etc. Obviously the price to be paid to own it was commensurate with all its fanciness. So, instead of giving in to my childish pipe dream, Ma sold me the idea of actually attempting to build a dolls’ house of my own. After rummaging through various knick-knacks in the store room, she unearthed a large cardboard carton which served as the frame for my house. Piece by piece we imagined and created a resplendent multi-storey structure with a small brick coloured chimney sticking out at the top, vibrantly upholstered furniture made of various odds and ends and walls covered in wallpaper made out of eclectic scraps of leftover fabric. Having enjoyed each hour of hard work that went into building it, it was no surprise that the dolls’ house became my most prized possession and occupied the best spot in my room. 

Note to Ma – Thank you for teaching me the pointlessness of extravagance and the joy of imagining and creating something out of nothing. 

The layered trifle puddings, spongy chocolate cakes, creamy rabri and other heavenly preparations that materialized from Ma’s kitchen were also quite the rage in our household. Despite being employed full time almost throughout, it was a miracle how Ma never fell short of time for conjuring such marvels. Especially on cold winter evenings when all of us curled in our favourite spots reading silently, these delicacies vanished with surprising speed. Of course, when Pranay wiggled his way into the family, the speed quadrupled. Ma’s biggest bone of contention was and probably still is the fact that whenever she peers into the refrigerator, she invariably finds at least one empty pudding bowl licked clean or a cake box relieved of its contents or a crumpled foil sans the chocolate fudge that it previously held. The futility of empty containers in the refrigerator exasperates her beyond measure. 

Note to Ma - But Ma, that’s just our way of showing how much your lip-smacking goodies are appreciated!

I must admit that as a teenager I wasn’t particularly Ms. Goody-two-shoes. Then too Ma had a multitude of plots and ploys that she used every now and then to wheedle me into doing the right things. In the process she became the recipient of many a nasty retorts from a belligerent me. If those retorts hurt her, she never made it evident. On the contrary, she’d casually brush them off and stalk away giving me the impression that she did not care much for my temper tantrums. It was her way or the highway. For instance, if I ever threw a fit over what she’d made for lunch, I’d be calmly told to leave the table at the cost of going without lunch. In a show of defiance, I would go huffing and puffing to my room and sulk there. A few hours later, with the proverbial rats doing a little jig in my stomach, I would slink into the kitchen hoping to ransack the larder which usually held treasure troves of cookies, chips and other quick bites. Alas, Ma was a seasoned player at this game. I was more often than not greeted by a big fat lock on the pantry. My plateful of food from lunch was found laid out neatly on the table with Ma quietly sitting and reading beside it. With no other choice, I would eat my own words and devour the food that I had originally turned up my nose on. 

Note to Ma – Thank you for showing me all the tricks of the trade. I will now use them gleefully on my kids-to-be.

From an assortment of tools in her tool box, she has always managed to cleverly extricate just the right one to counteract each one of my multifarious dispositions. If I ache she soothes, if I am unnecessarily stubborn she cajoles, if I make a mistake she reads me the riot act, if I show traces of false haughtiness she shows me a mirror and if I need her even in the middle of the night for an impromptu cooking lesson she is there without a hint of annoyance. If nothing else, just speaking to her makes most problems look like small potatoes. In fact, I will let you in on a little secret - arguing and fighting with her is also quite cathartic and has had therapeutic effects in the past. After all these years, I have finally accepted that she has an ingrained savoir faire to deal with me. 

Ma, Amma, Ammi, Ammoo, Mum – multiple names for a multifaceted person whom I love to bits and wouldn’t know what to do without. On her 56^th birthday, I hope she knows that she is the sun around which at least three people in this world revolve.