Misadventures of the weekend

Why does it always happen that the worst laid plans tend to be the best ones? Okay, that’s an exaggeration (I work in the advertising business, can you blame me?). But honestly, the last 2 days have been a whirlwind of on the-spot plans and rushing around from one place to another. And, I have enjoyed every moment of it. Well, almost.

It all started when we realized that we had a long weekend coming up – 4 days away from work sounded like an idea that begged to be exploited. And, boy were we ready to. We all wanted to take off somewhere. I, for one, had been craving to run out of this city for quite some time now. So, we started throwing ideas around – Goa, matheran, lonavla, nashik. As more people got involved, the options thrown out got proportionately bizarre and grandiose.

After much talk and no action, all our plans fell flat. As if the universe was laughing at us, none of us were able to get the Friday of that week (the only working day of the long weekend) off for various reasons. Undaunted, we decided that plan or not, we were going off somewhere, dammit.

On Friday, all the interested parties showed up with a backpack – location unknown. We didn’t even have a place to stay once we reached - wherever we were planning to reach. I am so aware, that this sounds like the most ridiculous idea ever. Hey, we were heady guys and gals – to many, even an excursion to my house was more or less like a trip because I lived so far away (that was our last last last resort in case we ended staying cooped in Mumbai – a weekend at my place). Thankfully, around lunch, I pulled names of some resorts/lodges in Murud Janjira and started calling just about each one on that list. An, what do you know? We got lucky and actually found a place – a decent one, with clean toilets that flushed promptly and check this out, beds – mattress, pillow and blanket ke saath!

So, there we were with a place but no way to get there. Enter Mumbai’s public transport system. Post work, we rushed to the closest bus station and got onto an Asiad to Murud. It isn’t the classiest thing ever – even a Greyhound ride is a limo in front of these ancient roaring things but we had to make do. Besides, we were so excited that we were finally making this trip that our excitement colored everything in beautiful, sun shiny colors.

Transport proved to be a logistical nightmare with 3 different groups on the trip – one that got on the bus, one that was to meet the bus on a transit stop en route and a third group that decided to ride on the motorbike from Bombay. Needless to say, we were on the phones constantly coordinating. The rains and lack of network weren’t much help at that end, one constantly lashing at us and the other constantly giving up on us. Grrr!

We landed at Murud after 7 long hours of painful journey – asses hurting, mentally exhausted and sleep deprived. The dark circles under my eyes were darker than the pitch black of the idyllic rural hamlet. But I can tell you, our faces lit up on seeing the care-taker of our lodge when he came to pick us up. Even though this trip could not have been more ill-planned, it was filled with joy, excitement, spontaneity and adrenaline that even the best laid out adventure could not have measured up to.

Damn, it feels good to be a maverick!

Anyone have any good news?

Take my newspaper. Just take it. And, I am going to throw my TV away too, in case anyone’s interested. For it seems that there is nothing other than bad news these days. No, make that shockingly awful news. Not just the boo-hoo types. But the ones that make you sit up and say, “Dude, wtf?!”

I mean what has happened to the standards of journalism here? News channels seem to have made it their “bidness” to create sensational stories from utter rubbish and spew it on the hypnotised public. Even worse, the newly educated, suddenly Benji-spending middle class of India is devouring the crap being dished out in equal fervor. Every night that I have sought to update myself on the news, I have been subjected to “Tabaahi ki roshni” or “Sai Baba ka adbhut chamatkar” or headlines of similar ilk which is nothing but hyperbole for a solar eclipse or a supposedly alive eye of Sai Baba(this reminds me of the similar hype that was created when it was found that Ganesha idols drank milk..remember the insane and insipid coverage of that, anyone?). I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry when I saw the story about the Oriental mummy who had been asleep for thousands of years and had now been disturbed from his hellish slumber. That was a PR plug for a movie – “The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor.” Lovely.

Did I miss the time machine that transported us back to the Jazz Journalism era or what? Why the need for all the hyperbole? Is the public psyche of India so retarded that we actually appreciate these banalities made into grandiose episodes like some Bollywood movie? Or do news channels have the false belief that by repeatedly telecasting their buffoonery they will hammer it into our heads? It’s a battle of repetition versus retardation and it seems that latter is taking a clear lead.

I certainly don’t buy that there is no worthwhile news to be covered that stations has to resort to this chicanery. There is plenty of sensational happenings everyday – stampedes, bomb blasts, famine, flood – take your pick. While scion of India shining, the Nano project is whacked around among political factions like a ping pong ball, and hundreds are trampled in narrow alleyways of a temple, stations are licking their nibs and scribbling down lines and plots that could send Ekta Kapoor’s writers scrambling for the hills. Shockingly, these are the very stations that are high in TRPs ratings and channels that still hold onto some fragment of journalistic integrity rank at the bottom of the ratings.

Don’t even get me started on the newspapers. Gossip is the new frontier that newspapers have boldly gone where they hadn’t gone before. As if all the aunties that have ever fed the grapevine have suddenly been wiped out in one fell swoop, tabloids in Bombay are crammed with one gossip story after another and faithfully taken over their role. A loves B, B was at a rave, X,Y and Z were there too, that’s when Z decided to make fun of C, an ex of A, A was rather upset, bla bla bla…I can feel my brain cells dying from lack of stimulation as I read the morning news. My intelligence screams in pain at this attack of insipid happenings about people who live so well-off that nothing can ever harm them, and whose lives would be no different if people like you or me who have to read about them popped off tomorrow.

The only thing I do look forward in the news is the Sunday editorial – thank you God for Bachi, Jug and the likes who still have a sane head on their shoulders and are not afraid to call a solar eclipse just that. A freaking eclipse.

P.S: I am not kidding about the good news part – please do share if you have any. I am all ears to hear something positive happening in someone’s life.

Visiting the Big Guy

For the uninitiated, around this time of the year, Mumbai dons a happy, nay, jubilant face for 10 days. The reason being the celebration of the birth of our beloved God, Ganesha. The story goes that Marathas (Shivaji maharaja et al.) celebrated this festival. Later, during the British Raj, Lokmanya Tilak, a popular Maharashtrian freedom fighter reinstated this festival to promote a stronger community feeling among the people of Maharashtra. The venue of festivities also provided an apt location for speeches to agitate throngs of Indians, a tradition that is still carried out to this day in the chawl where Tilak first celebrated Ganesh Chathurthi.

Not a doubt, this is what we Maharashtrians look forward to – it’s our Christmas if you will and Ganesha our Big Guy, Jesus like. Except Ganesha has the head of an elephant (the mythological intricacies behind Ganesha will take up a whole book, let alone a post).

This year was rather special to me, as for the first time in four years, I was able to participate in all-out festivities instead of the demure puja at home that would not disturb my American neighbors. The city was dazzling with lights stretching on for kilometers and throngs of people lined up over many more kilometers to seek darshan at some famous sites that hosted massive celebrations of the Elephant God’s arrival.

I was more than enthusiastic about visiting the most talked about site – Lalbaug, whose idol is well-known as Lalbaug cha Raja( the king of Lalbaug). As luck would have it, this was the 75^th year of the Raja which meant that more than the normal amount of devotees showed up to take His blessings. So much so that some devotees waited for nearly 24 hours. As I read these news reports and watched the devotee line snaking its way all the way from Lalbaug to J.J, my enthusiasm was dampened by a fair measure. Somehow, I was certain that my impatience would outrun my devotion. Not all was lost, I sought blessings at another site – the Ram Mandir in Wadala also hosted a beautiful celebration and their Ganesha was decorated with real gold! And, the line was way shorter too.

When I got to Ram Mandir today, there was a queue. Of course. There was police force. Of course. But there were also many small businesses that had sprouted up. As we waited in line, stalls were lined on the side of the road selling pickles, religious offerings, food etc. But what caught my eye was the line of beggars right in front of stalls – they were handling the task of managing shoes (In Hindu tradition, one always seeks blessings barefeet). For a nominal amount, one could simply entrust their shoes to a beggar and remember which one they had handed them over to. Mind you, the temple itself had its own shoe stowaway spaces but they were choc-a-bloc – some even had 5 pairs of shoes stuffed in them!

As the line crawled into the temple (yup, we were lined out on the road amidst taxis and buses), I noticed so many contradictions. Poor children sat on the ground beseeching you to leave your shoes with them (a girl as young as 3 called out to me as her mother was attending to another “customer”) while women dressed in saris sat within the temple, weaving garlands from rose petals, asters and young white buds of mogra. On one hand, priests were scraping out coconuts and tossing the shells into large jute bins, while on the other, babies were wailing for their mother’s milk. On one hand, there were men and women dressed in fine silks, elaborate brocades and glittering jewellery while on the other, some devotees were dressed in white dhotis and the jhanva(thread of cotton strung across the torso), the rest of their body bare. Yet, none of this mattered in front of beloved Ganesha. Strange how God sees no difference in the devotion of a philanderer and a philistine, and yet we are so quick to judge – always evaluating, even as we stand to take blessings of a divine being who looks upon all as equal.

When we entered the prayer room, I was blown away by the deity – there was a massive idol of Lord Ganesha, the Vighnaharta (remover of obstacles), son of Parvati, the benevolent and magnificent God! He was bathed in soft golden light and richly decorated in gems – gold, rubies, diamond studded jewellery. And all of this from donations of devotees, mind you! There were large, many tiered lamps on either side of him, burning dimly or perhaps it was Ganesha’s sheer presence that diffused their radiance. Perhaps words cannot fully describe the effect it had on me which is why I shall refrain from attempting an explanation too.

The darshan itself was a comedy of errors of sorts. There were priests constantly ushering us to keep moving and I was so busy trying to take pictures that I didn’t even realize when the darshan was over. All of a sudden, I found myself outside again, squinting in the sunlight, amidst more throngs of people AND without having bowed my head or touched Ganesha’s feet! I scratched my head for a second and realized in shock and mild fear that I might have to stand in line all over again. So I turned around and went back from where I had just been sent out in my daze-y disposition and begged the priest to let me back in.

I told him about how I had not visited in nearly four years, how I was offering prayers not just from me but from my entire family that didn’t live in India anymore, how it would be a tragedy to let a bhakt leave without having expressed her bhakti. I am not certain if he bought my story or just got tired of hearing me bawling on and on. Either which way, he let me in! I was the happiest person as I touched the Vighnaharta’s feet and prayed for…

well, you never tell your prayers to anyone or they won’t come true!

Of Dad’s departure. And the maid’s too…

It’s been a manic past few weeks. What with huge festivals back to back and Daddy wrapping things up before he heads out of the country and my maid leaving, I feel like a headless chicken running helter-skelter.

So, yea, my Daddy is heading out to join me mum and bro. And, it’s been crazy trying to take over the reins of the house from him. Firstly, my dad is one of the conservative types. He used to his set ways, and likes other people to follow them as well. This is fine by me, except that how I work when he isn’t around really shouldn’t bother him. Ha! Some days I am just so naïve!

There’s been many a power struggle that I have had to fight – most of them with my Dad emerging victorious. Not that I am not aggressive and won’t stand up for myself. I just figured once he’s gone, he can’t really make me dance to his tunes anyways.

The second frustrating thing with my Dad leaving is that he has this faith – and, it’s deep-rooted too, that as soon as he is gone, the house will fall apart. As if he is the glue holding together the cardboard of the walls of our home. I have to admit, he has been an immense support in my re-acclimatization to India and when I started working in Far Away Land. But this has been going to far. Any day, the lock is somewhere other than its location (oh yea, we have a set place for the locks, the keys, the calendar, post it notes….), it’s a certain sign to my Dad that house will be in ramshackles when he returns.

I have also been having lessons on the weekends – the everything-I-need-to-know-when he’s-gone kind. So, in the last two weeks, I have had a crash course on where to get milk, groceries, vegetables, an alternative location to get milk, groceries and vegetables, where to stack the newspapers, who to call to dispose aforementioned stack, the investments in each family member’s name, which bank accounts are where, insurance policies, as well as locations of laundry, photo studio, stationery depot. And, let’s not forget the processes on boiling milk(which I knew), steaming rice and dal(which I knew) and the contact numbers for the gaswalla, telephonewalla, electricitywalla and dhobi walla. It was enough to make me go walla-walla.

It’s all very endearing and I love the bonding time before he’s off, but sometimes I wish he was off already. I get exhausted reassuring him that everything will be fine – apparently, in his world, I never lived in the United States for a good 4 years all by myself! He still thinks I am the 10 year old, frock(with red sash) wearing little girl with fountain ponytails that he would push on the cycle or pull down when she climbed too high up on those giraffes in the park!

And, just as Dad was settling down with some semblance of security that I would (as I have been constantly telling him) not burn the house down in his absence, our maid decided she was going to quit. It all happened so fast, I didn’t know what to say to her.

There I was sitting and drinking my morning tea, shaking the grogginess out of my eyes, heck, my entire body. The maid was diagonally opposite me, wiping the floor, when she suddenly looks up at me and says, “I won’t be coming from tomorrow.” At first, I was waiting for her to finish – I thought she was saying, she’s off to her village, and will be back in 10 days or something like that. But no. There she was actually quitting. I was in shock and barely could speak. Who would sweep? An mop? And dust? An the utensils – I was not sticking my hand into those cream smeared milk vessels – I still feel like vomiting when I see the cream floating on top of the milk. Shudder.

When I did manage to blurt out, “Why are you leaving”(the caffeine was taking its time to work on me that day), she offered a garble of excuses one after the other – something about her husband not wanting her to go to the village because she can’t afford it. Like I said, it was plain gobble-di-gook to me. And, to top it all the cheek of woman to say she wouldn’t wipe down the furniture because she had handed in her notice. She was quitting the next day, not that day I reminded her. She just blinked at me. *blink blink* Sometimes I really wondered if she was daft or so damn sly as to act daft to get out of work. When I talked about the situation to an aunt in the colony she cluck-clucked about the “hired help these days” – professionalism is a tall order to expect, reliability even taller, and there are very few who are amazingly good at both, my aunt told. She proceeded to regale me with her experiences with the help for some 45 minutes – as if I wasn’t having enough lessons swimming in my head already.

After the maid left, I sort of resigned myself to the idea that I’d have to cook, clean and the whole sha-bang all over again. Dad though, was in a tizzy. If he was feebler, he might have had a spike in his blood pressure. He was positively livid about how she could quit, what an inopportune timing it was, that he wouldn’t pay her goddamit. But, after he calmed down, Dad just right-hoed and set about finding a new maid – one who would not hand in her hat and leave me in the lurch. And what do you know the glue that he is, he did find one.

Joy! Our home’s natural order has been restored. We have someone to clean the cream crust on the milk vessels! My Daddy is once again the brave hero who would save his little girl when she had climbed too high up and didn’t know how to get down.

God, I am gonna miss him when he leaves.