The original Sin

I loved you. I really did. You guys must be laughing at me behind my back about how stupid I am, how blind I am about you. Laugh when I tell you this you were the only one I loved...you are the only one I love....from beginning to end...from start to finish....I told you many times but you didn't believe it...but tonight you will...don't ever change it..Amen!

FREE BREAKFAST!!

The NRI Chachas – Part 1

I have met numerous NRI chachas  over the last thirty-five years. The famous ones you read about in the papers, those that are business tycoons, or famous academics and such. The infamous ones you also hear about, those that imbibe too much alcohol,  or become con artists and so on.

In this series, I will write about the strange, the quirky, and the funny ones. The stories are mainly true.

Kamal babu had an attitude. He was an important man, an established academic with an elevated cholesterol level. He worried a lot, about his research, about his cholesterol, about his prospects for advancement, about his money and so forth. As a result, other people that were not academics or medical professionals or financial advisors  were pretty much invisible to him.

We  were  traveling in different directions, but our paths crossed in London. It turned out we will both be in London for three days, so we decided to share a hotel room.

London hotels are expensive -  this one was pretty basic, a musty room in a house that looked like about two hundred years old, but close to the Tube rail  and free breakfast!  And an attached  bathroom that was so small that you will need to contort yourself into yoga positions to be able to take a shower. And all this for about $140 per day!

“What a deal! At least we have free breakfast” Kamal said.

Indeed!

On our first morning, I woke up before him, successfully took a shower while twisting my body like a jilebi, and went to the basement for the free breakfast.

Instead of  a sumptuous buffet, I found a small kitchen area stacked with several types of bread, instant coffee and teabags, and cornflakes and other cereals. Oh yes, they had fruit juices too.

This certainly was no Hilton. But wait, as I approached the kitchen counter, a guy that looked very Hispanic hurried out with a shopping bag in his hand.

“I will be back shortly. I need to get some supplies, sorry” He said as he exited through the back door of the hotel.

Apparently, his supply of cornflakes was  running low!

Undaunted, I approached the counter.

The Spanish guy had left  his wife/gf in charge at the kitchen.

The Senora was curvy, indeed very curvy, with a pretty face as well.  Unfortunately, she spoke no English whatsoever.

 I decided to venture beyond the dining area, entering the kitchen.

“No!” Senora exclaimed, followed by Spanish instructions obviously meant for me to stay out of  the kitchen.

I gave her a big smile, grabbed some bread, put two slices in the toaster, and put some water in the microwave. In front of the lady’s disapproving eyes, I got some cereal and milk as well, and made some crappy instant coffee – hey it was free!

Toast, cornflakes, and coffee, just like I have at home , except I have brewed coffee that tastes a lot better. But Senora was eye candy, enhancing the beauty of the kitchen area. I kept on smiling at her as I ate my breakfast. She frowned at first, then broke into a big smile. Couldn’t resist my charm, you see.

I went for a little walk after breakfast, the sun was shining in London, apparently a rare occurrence!

Twenty minutes later, in cheerful spirits, back in the hotel room, I met a furious Kamal Sahib. He was fuming!

“Did you eat breakfast?” He asked.

“yes” I said.

“There was a woman in the kitchen that was weird. I asked her for some lightly toasted wheat bread, some green tea, and bran flakes with skim milk. I need to watch my cholesterol, you see. She kept on speaking  gibberish to me and gave me some bad instant coffee”. Kamal was mad!

“That’s because she does not speak English, my friend. Her husband is in charge, he went to get some supplies, is probably back by now. He speaks English. The coffee is crap though.” I agreed.

“How did you eat breakfast?” Kamal asked me.

“ I made my own. You do not have a be a trained chef to make toast”. I was a little sarcastic.

“Well, I went back upstairs and complained bitterly to the manager. Look”, he brandished the hotel’s list of amenities in front of my eyes, “It says “free breakfast””!

“Now, now, that’s overkill. You should have waited for a few minutes, or made your own tea.” I said

“I was upset. Now I am hungry too” Kamal babu  persisted.

Suddenly, there was a big commotion outside  in the corridor.

We both went outside.

The main hotel entrance was visible from where we were standing.

“Get out of here! I have put up with you long enough!” The hotel manager,  apparently from the Middle East, and evidently with a big temper, was in the process of sacking the Spaniard!

“Please, sir! It would never happen again” , was the Spaniard’s meek response.

The manager was unforgiving. So we witnessed the sorry spectacle of  Senor, sniffling,  while holding two shopping bags full of cornflakes and such. Senora was bawling now, her curves heaving, with large teardrops  distorting her pretty face. Soon, they exited the premises, jobless, but with a couple of week’s supply of breakfast items.  

Kamal  babu, while self-absorbed, was not  devoid of compassion altogether. He was embarrassed -  he terminated two poor people’s  livelihood  for some silly  toast.

Did he ask for a discount from the manager for  not having free breakfast? I don’t know,  I didn’t.

We did not mention this much in the next two days.

Did this incident change our NRI chacha’s attitude? Did he become more charismatic, noticing the common people that surround us in our powerful strides towards success?

Hmmmmm……. Fat chance!

Discrimination, American Style!

Discrimination, American Style

Now, this is a serious matter, and I am not  going to do justice to this, I know. No profound insights  here, just my own experience .

To start with, there are racist people all over the world – just read comments on videos on Youtube, or comments on news items filled in with racial hatred and bigotry.  I never met them in person, thank God.

As a nation, United States has made monumental strides in race relations. We have elected Obama as President.  That’s huge!

However, in India,  shades of darkness or fairness  of skin continue to be relevant  even today.

An  old Indian lady who I love dearly says, “Obama is alright I guess, but Michelle looks kind of uncivilized.”

“How  so?” I ask.

“Well, she looks kind of like my maid, in fact she is darker. She walks like her too” the lady chuckles.

I casually inform her that Michelle Obama has a Law degree from Yale University. The old lady apologizes immediately for her casual remark. No harm done.

The old lady is my mom.

So, is it  perception that  leads to behavior that  is sometimes funny, sometimes not so funny, sometimes infuriatingly insulting?

I can’t answer that, but ,without further ado,  here are  snippets from the last three and a half decades:

Roofer?

In the mid nineties, I was in my “fitness mode”,  cropped hair, a hard body (well, sort of), I hardly looked professorial.  I was in a bar with some male friends, we were not in a predatory “let’s hit on the girls” mood  at all. However, an attractive woman, clearly in her thirties and obviously not a college student, was sitting nearby and I struck up a conversation with her. While we were making small talk, I noticed she was staring  at me with a somewhat  amused look. She kept on smirking for while.  Suddenly, she came clean

“Hey I know you!” she blurted out.

“Really!” I have never seen her before!

“I fixed my roof this summer and you were on the roofing crew! I remember you!”

I laughed.

Repairing roofs  of American houses requires walking on sloped, slanted surfaces, with buckets of hot tar and other seriously dangerous equipment.  This is also done usually in the middle of summer on dry days when the temperatures can reach 30 -38 centigrade.

One of the most arduous, dangerous and low-paid jobs in America, the roofing crew almost entirely consists of uneducated Mexican immigrants, many of them illegal. However, many of these young men are in great physical shape and some have close cropped hair as well.

I tried the truth. “Actually, I am a college professor.”

She laughed heartily for about 30 seconds. I guess the alcohol was getting to her.

“That’s a good one, Jose”, she said, still giggling, “did you think you can pull this off?  College prof, hahaha, good one, hahaha” she continued laughing.

I knew this was a lost cause.

“Hahaha” I laughed sheepishly as well, and managed to leave the scene in a few minutes.

I found this funny, primarily because I had better social options at that time (seriously!). If I was really  trying to befriend her, this would  be a bummer!

Thief?

In the mid-eighties, married and with a three-year old son, we went to Yellowstone National Park for the first time. The park is huge, many  people do not know it’s about the size of the state of West Bengal, or bigger than the entire state of Punjab. We stayed in the Signal Mountain Lodge, in a cabin by  a beautiful lake for about four or five days and absolutely loved it. But we left the park on a sour note.

Checking out of the hotel, I was standing in line after two people, my wife and son were sitting nearby  on a couch  in the hotel lobby. The hotel management, the guests, the young employees were all white – it was vanilla country!

Two people before me paid their bills with   credit cards. In those ancient times, credit card machines only accepted small transactions, about 50 dollars at most. Higher amounts had to be authorized by a phone call. For the people ahead of me things went without a glitch. The reception lady made the phone call and   gave them a receipt.

The lady at the reception started frowning as I  presented my credit card. She called for authorization for the amount charged and had a surprised look on her face when it was accepted.. Undaunted, she opened a little blue book. I knew what it was – it was a printed  list of stolen credit cards! My card was not in her book.  But wait, she was not done yet. She turned around and called the local police station to  find if my credit card was on their computerized updated list of stolen cards! Still not convinced, she excused herself and went inside, and I am guessing called the FBI and such for further enquiry. A roomful of people were staring at me and my family. What were they thinking? “Dirty Indian cheats at work again!” Who knows!

 I stood there blushing, angry, and helpless.

To cut a long story short,   my card was  finally accepted, and we left  without  leaving any major tip at the restaurant  inside  the hotel where we ate lunch. I  paid there in cash.

This incident was not funny!

To be fair, this happened a long time ago and if you visit Signal Mountain lodge today, which is still a beautiful resort, you will encounter nothing like this.

Student?

I was  on an interdepartmental committee, where we were evaluating  performance of numerous junior faculty.  One of them drew our attention. Professor Bozo (I intend to call him that),  fortunately not in our department, was seriously berated by his own colleagues, primarily for the  low quality of his research. We were in the process of submitting our final report.

Since I was still in my fitness era, I frequented the showers in the faculty locker room, where I met Professor Bozo through some common friends. Although not much of a researcher, Bozo maintained a strict exercise regimen.

One day at the end of the semester, after a strenuous racquetball game followed by a shower, I was slowly getting  dressed.  Bozo was  around, so he decided to chat.

“How is the end of the semester going for you?” he asked.

“Fine. I am getting  ready to give my exams” I said.

“How many exams are you going to take? Bozo asks

“Excuse me?” I said “I was talking about giving exams, not TAKING  them”

“That’s nice. You do both -  give exams and take exams. Lots of our teaching assistants do that”. Bozo was undaunted.

“I don’t take exams  any more” I said wryly at this point.

“Of course”, Bozo’s eyes lit up “ You finished all your courses and  you are writing your PH.D. thesis. That’s very nice.”

Well, at that point of time, I had finished my PH.D. thesis about fifteen years prior to that. I was about forty-five years old. And, I was physically in the faculty locker room where students were not allowed.

Hmmmmm.. .. How did I vote in the interdepartmental evaluation committee which met  about  three days after this incident?  I will not answer this question for fear of self-incrimination.

On reflection, I think Bozo may have had poor eyesight. He could only see the blurred outline of  my toned hard body (hahaha)  and assumed I was a  young foreign student.  Or  maybe he was gay and was trying to flatter me.

This was a little bit funny, a little bit insulting. But I had the last laugh, I guess!

So there you  have it! I will write of more of these little incidents in a few days.

Meanwhile,  it would take some time  before the old lady in India would stop comparing her maid to Michelle Obama, and the young woman in America would consider   socializing  with an alleged roofer!

Discrimination: Elephants and the Smart Blonde!

As some  people have commented favorably on my previous blog on Discrimination,  I am eager to present you with the next installment.

The discriminating elephants :

The elephants do not discriminate against people, usually. Or do they?

This is about Rakesh, our erstwhile tour guide for  an air-conditioned sightseeing tour from Delhi to Jaipur and a few other places in between. The year was 1982, when these tours were expensive by Indian standards.  There were  about five affluent Indians,  three young American women traveling together, two other Europeans, an older Japanese gentleman, and three NRI’s including me and  my wife.

Today, NRI’s are pretty much indistinguishable from the locals. But back then, in  import-starved India, there were no “phoreign goods”. Thus an expensive camera, nice athletic shoes, a flashy wristwatch (yes we wore  them back then!)  even a stainless steel flask, or   other things that we used casually  were not available locally. So you could easily tell the NRI’s apart.

Our guide Rakesh told us he had a Master’s degree in history. He spoke very good English and was very congenial, funny as well.

Until we arrived at Amber Fort.  The tour had arranged for three elephants to show us around.

Rakesh rounded up the five Indians and put them on the first elephant.

Next, he gathered  all the white people, including the three American women.

 But wait, one of the three women was black, very dark indeed.

“Please wait for the next one” he told the black girl. But clearly there was enough room on the second elephant!

On the last elephant, the remaining people were loaded -the NRI’s, the Japanese gentleman, and the black girl!

This happened so fast that it took the young woman some time to figure out what’s going on.

She was very upset once she saw what was going on, so were her friends on the other elephant. They did not say anything, but we all noticed their angry demeanor, the flared nostrils, the curled lips and flushed faces.

Rakesh was no fool. At the conclusion of the elephant episode, he went into hiding. Sat next to the driver in the bus, facing the road instead of facing us as  he was doing before. Spoke on the mike and avoided all eye contacts with everyone. No more Mr. Congeniality. His assistant,  who was a menial employee and spoke only broken English, accompanied us at the other sites, Rakesh stayed in the bus. The girls didn’t get a chance to confront   Rakesh, I bet they sure wanted to!

 I guess  one elephant was designated “whites only”! The elephant didn’t know, but Rakesh did.  

They gave you a job! That’s nice!

 The blonde was from East Europe, but she went to a small college in a small town in America. Spoke excellent English, was mostly  Americanized. I guess she had only seen American-born faculty.

She got admitted to our small Ph.D. program. Our chairperson was pushing for  serious collegial cordiality, so he arranged for a welcome party for the  students in his house. He told his wife to cook a lot and told all the faculty to mingle,  mingle hard,  so we can restore the aforementioned collegiality.

I went to mingle, with Alex in tow. He was writing his thesis with me, followed me everywhere.

After Alex made some small talk with the blonde,  I introduced myself.

“What’s happening?” I said

She looked me up and down and turned around halfway,  just like women do in  a bar to avoid unwanted strangers.

“What are you doing here?” She asked me point blank.

“Hey! I  work here” I said, then stated my name. I thought she had seen my name on the faculty roster. Apparently not!

With a wry, sardonic smile, she looked directly at me and said sweetly,

“That’s nice, they gave you a job! Good for you!”

And turned around, obviously not wanting to mess with the riffraff any more.

I tried again. “I am on the faculty here”

“Whatever!”  She muttered under her breath, loud enough for me to hear, and brusquely walked away.

Alex, who was watching this encounter, saved my day. He was laughing his ass off!

“What was all that? Did she think I was hitting on her? I asked him.

“Yup, she was pretty much clueless. “They gave you a job! That’s nice! “ Hahaha! I will remember that line.” He could not stop laughing!

In a few months, she was enrolled in my graduate class. This incident was never mentioned.  She basically looked at her notebook all the time, never asked me any questions. She was bright.  She got a well-deserved A in the course.

Years later, like at present,  Blondie has finished her education and is married to a person who lives  in my town. I actually know her husband, and  have met them  both in social gatherings. 

Sometime last year, in a picnic, I casually told  her “Hey, Alex was asking about you. Shoot him an e-mail sometime.”

“Alex who?” She asked right away.

“Alex Preston, the tall guy that was about two years ahead of you in grad school. Don’t you remember him?

Blondie frowned a little bit.

“You know, I seriously do not remember any  Alex Preston. I don’t think I ever met him.”

“Seriously now”, I said “You guys overlap about two years. It was a small department, I am almost sure I have seen you talking to Alex. You probably met him at the first welcome party we had for the students”.

Alex was six feet five, it was hard to miss him!

“You know what?” She smiled. “It has been a long time. I do not remember most people from school”.

“I will give your e-mail to Alex” I said “so that you guys can get back in touch again!”

“OK” she smiled again, a little worried now.

I told you Blondie was smart!

Hey, I still like blondes, in fact I like women in general!

This incident did not put me in therapy. Some other women almost did! But that’s another blog!

Bribes are necessary!

The issue of corruption and bribes has been discussed in detail on this site and perhaps beaten to death. I will not add my two cents here, for two reasons, one I am a gujju and I believe in taking Two Dollars rather than giiving two cents and two because I have nothing new to add or say that has not already been said. Instead I am going to present some scenarios.
Husband & Wife
Our friend Chalu Chaman started watching the news, one time his wife caught him chatting with some woman and revoked his internet rights, he had no other choice but to watch TV, initially he kept watching music videos and kept drooling at Item girls but soon his wife Bijli - gave him the current and poor guy was banned from watching movies, serials and especially music videos. He was not happy about that but like most men he was too afraid to speak against her, he did complain that TV was boring but she suggested he start watching the news and learning a thing or two about the world.
The whole Anna Hazare and the corruption issue was picking steam when he started watching news and that peeked his interest, he followed the news closely and after couple of days he made up a plan. All he could talk about was life without bribes and corruption and Bijli could notice that he was a changed man.
The next week was a big day in Bijli's life, it was her 40th Birthday, she had thrown a big surprise party for Chaman when he turned 40 a few months ago and she was really looking foward to a party followed by gifts and a vacation to some romantic place. Chaman had a knack of coming up with surprises and she couldn't wait to turn 40, although deep inside one part of her was not looking forward to crossing that threshold. She was afriad of getting old and being less desirable to her husband and other men.
The night before her birthday she went to bed at her normal time but waited until 12 AM knowing Chaman would start the celebration at midnight., the clock turned 12 but all she could hear was his snores. She got mad and fell asleep, oh well there is always tomorrow she said to herself. The next day came and went, all she got was a "Happy Birthday Darling" from Chaman, he teased "Since you turned 40 you should change your name from Bijli to Roshni, you are no longer a lightning but merely light". She ignored him and waited until 12 AM that night and when she still did not get her gifts she got mad.
"Saale Chaman I throw a big party for you and you don't even give me one gift?"
""That is because of my new resolution"
"What? To not gifts? To not make your loved ones feel appreciated?"
"To not give or take bribes"
"I am talking about me, your wife, how can you bribe your own wife?"
"Well if I give you something you will feel good about yourself, at the same time you will have different feelings for me, perhaps you will treat me better, perhaps you would cook my favorite meal, less nagging perhaps or even better perhaps a favor in bed?"
"Please!!! Buddhe youand your dirty thoughts are sleeping alone in the sofa starting today"
"I shall accept that, it is better to accept what you deserve that get what you don't deserve through deceit and bribes."
"A gift is not a bribe, it is a form of love, a show of appreciation"
"Anything given with an expectation of reward is a bribe. Anything given that changes the feelings, attitude and behavior of the receiver is a bribe. Hence no gift for you dear Bijli"
"Give me the gift, I will not change my behavior, I will keep nagging you, I will keep thinking you are an ass"
"Dear Wife you have enlightened me, before I used to be on Facebook and useless chat sites for hours and had no moral values, now thanks to you I am a changed man and charity begins at home so you are the first one to taste my no bribe lifestyle, now go to sleep darling"
                        ===========
Bribes and Blogging
RQ - Reco Queen had one mission in life, to get all her blogs in the most commented and recommended section. She would send notes to everyone asking them to read her blogs.
MK _ Maska King preyed on women like RQ, in exchange of  nice comments and recommendations he would get their email address and friend them on Facebook and chat with them for hours.
One day he received a note from RQ "Dear CC
I have posted a love story, please read the story at your convenience and provide your valuable feedback."
Like our friend Chaman, Maska had a change of heart
"Dear RQ
Thank you for your email. I regret to inform you that I no longer wish to engage in this barter. I will read your blog but will refrain from posting comments or recommending it. The reason is simple, if I do that you will feel obligated to to so on my blog and to chat with me on Facebook. I want my blog to do well on its merit and I suggest that you too put trust in your blog and stop sending mails to other members. In fact I want you to start practicing this right away and to help you get started I am going to write a blog "An open letter to RQ's mail receipiant's" whre I will request all of them not to comment of recommend your blog.
I know at this moment this seems harsh but this is for your own good. If you create multiple ID's I will expose that as well. The hits, comments and recommendations will drop initially but this will push you to work harder on your writing, if you do the same to others they will stop communicating with you outside of this site, which in turn will give you more time to concentrate on your writing.  In the long run this will benefit you. I am sending an email to the site administrator asking them to change my handle from Maska King to Sacha King."
Do you think this will happen in real life? :-)

Ingliss - As She Is Badly Spocken

“Sir, I want picassu”

I was stunned. Has art appreciation become so widespread in rural India that a labourer wants a Picasso to adorn his living room? What have I done? Employ a connoisseur of art do mundane work of weeding in my farm?

“The thorny plants will have to be uprooted. For that I need a picassu” he continued.

I heaved a sigh of relief as it dawned on my “Inglissless-brain” that he is asking for a pick-axe! This was soon after I bought this place and there were many other instances of the language being murdered. As I became wiser, I learnt that “Ashly” is Aster, “beenju” is beans and “battery samy” is actually Betaraya Swamy. The last one could be termed reverse murder!

A country bumpkin or a bunch of bumpkins ‘murdering’ English may be swallowed with a pinch of salt but when educated urban citizens do that, one needs more like a fistful of salt. A colleague who went abroad to visit a similar organization was talking about how information about the institution is made available to the public at the foyer itself. “They have kept taps”. Stunned silence. This is the first time we were hearing information flowing out of taps! Turned out that he was talking about “tapes” which the public can view then and there.

Worse is when a teacher commits such folly. A chemistry demonstrator dictating experiment procedure suddenly boomed “Taste the gas”. I almost puked because, he was talking about hydrogen sulphide and to the uninitiated I must declare that this gas is the foulest smelling thing on earth. The man wanted to say “test” but the lack of the short vowel in Hindi made him convert the ‘test’ to ‘taste’ but I wish he had done that to a gas other than hydrogen sulphide. My innocent but worried query made the entire class burst out in laughter but only invited a stony glare from the demonstrator.

‘Ingliss’ guides often wield cruel knives. From “air-condison trees” to 7^th century “dembles”, I have witnessed quite a few murders but what takes the cake is this. In the wonderful bird sanctuary at Bharatpur, rickshaw drivers double as guides. I saw three birds swooping at high speed close to the water surface and I asked my sardar guide what bird that was. “Leevar Turn” he said. Thinking that he must have been in the military earlier and that this is his version of “about turn”, I looked around and blinked. Lee Var Tun. He repeated, virtually sitting on every syllable. I looked blank. Eyes are said to be windows to the soul. On that day his eyes clearly revealed what his soul thought about my ingliss. Back home, Salim Ali’s guide finally solved the riddle – River Tern.

In my smoking days, I was often corrected by the shop-keeper to the pronunciation of Gold Flake. They always say it as “Flak” as though I deserve flak for smoking. Recently, the man at Sony service centre kept saying that the lens “blak” (block) needs to be changed. I wanted to scream that my lens is not black. Google might want to close shop if they hear a software cum hardware engineer who assembled my PC pronounce it as “Goog lee”. Noodles might want to hang themselves a la Tom & Jerry cartoon if they hear a waiter announce grandly that they have “Vigitable Nood Less” on the menu. The ego of any language will be punctured if they see the word mis-spelt in as many ways as possible – punchar, puncher, pancher not to mention “Punchur Shop” If one gets vegetables in a vegetable shop or groceries in a grocery shop, does  one get puncher in a 'puncher shop'?!

My headmaster who was also my English teacher dubbed the language as “shameless”; nevertheless he made me repeat the word ‘film’ ten times as he insisted that the ‘l’ and ‘m’ should not have any gap between them – a tough task for a twelve-year old who had just transited from a rural Tamil medium school.  Will he turn and twist in his grave if he hears “sitate bank” or “gruntee” (guarantee) or “kaapi”(coffee) or “varald”(world) ?

Throw in vernacular idiosyncrasies like the rounding of the “O” by the Mallu and we can have more fun. “There was a bomb scare. Police came with dogs” Try repeating this sentence with every ‘o’ rounded to the full as one would say "both". Daniel Jones would wince and would never have classified diphthongs. A colleague was commenting about the difficulty a Bong has in pronouncing ‘v’ and how they say it as ‘b’ to which the boss responded vehemently – “no, no, no problem” and proceeded to write the two letters and grandly declared “This is b and this is b”!!! The whole department laughed but the boss didn’t know why. But imagine a neighbour’s consternation when a visitor commented “Bhy don’t you bhitewash your balls. They are so dirty!”

 

 

M.F. Hussain—A Layman’s Brooding!

 I am no artist. So I am not in a position to write about art or artists. But M. F. Hussain’s death abroad has kicked so much of controversy I can’t control the temptation of my two pence

  Before his exile I thought, “Hussain is a  famous artist  who is a bit crazy.”  He had watched  Madhuri’s movie 67 times and was inspired to a make a movie with her.  All the fans of Madhuri (me too) had seen sound logic in that and was convinced that the man  has got real eye for beauty. But being a non-artist,   my curiosity of Hussain’s art  ended there .

 Next time, I became aware when the nude Goddesses  painted by  Hussain made headlines. A part of me was sad. I could not help thinking why all geniuses find artistic inspiration in un-clothing the  Hindu Goddesses   whom we  worship as  sacred.

 Yes, I know my  feelings would be defeated by the  logic. There were  Khajuraho  sculptures , konark statues created by  none other than  the Hindus. But that was a time very different from now. Now,  anybody with the faintest  knowledge of politics would know that doing things like that  will be  planting a seed of  violence in communally tensed country.

One of   my liberal friends told me” To save our secularism, we must not be  afraid of violence.”

 “Then why did GOI banned  Satanic Verses?

 My liberal friend had given the example of Gandhiji.  He said  during communal violence  Gandhiji always scolded  the Hindus but never  did the same to Muslims. When someone had asked him about the discriminatory behaviour , Gandhi said he appealed  to Hindus always because by nature they were ‘more tolerant.’ The other party would not have  listened  to him.

 My friend told me may be Hussin knew even  some of the  ‘more tolerant sect”  would bay for his blood.   . But the rest will  discuss his art and finally will understand his creative genius.  Alas! This calculation has gone slightly wrong. Anyway – I never saw any of  nude paintings.

 Last I became aware of him when   he was in discussion about the Nationality issue. At the terminal years of life  he had changed  Nationality. But this time I reasoned it out myself from my own experience.     Seeing  old  politicians and celebrities , I know once a person  crosses 80, he becomes a bit irresponsible.

 Since his/ her subconscious knows – the days  are not many—they want to have all the attention. As   there are few peaks to climb, calculation goes to the wind and real nature  takes over. Then comes the irresponsible comments and chronic complaints like “ world has not  given  my due.” Last few days his action  seemed to be mere tantrums- for getting attention.

But was he a   Bad man?  I have no idea. Vaidyanthan puspagiri has reproduced N Ram’s  analysis in his blog. Reading it had touched me. It painted the picture of a man desperate to   share his loneliness with a friend.

 But it was friend’s memoir, who knew the man- behind the  veil of  great artist.

 To me, who knows him through a newspaper only,  only one impression will last; “ A famous artist with a weakness;  to hog limelight- at any cost.”

Illish-maacch and Chicago Cops – a Fishy Tale!

You folks may not be aware of it but 1992 was a life-changing, monumental year for all of us Bengalis living abroad. Before 1992, we were merely  another group of NRI’s - trudging along, making money, raising kids, disagreeing with spouses and such.

Then came 1992, and  a golden opportunity opened up to transform ourselves from a group of mere generic NRI’s to a cackle of the happiest people in the entire universe!

Now that you are totally clueless about this, let’s give you a little background.

The Japanese, who eat tons of sushi, were always obsessed about freshness of their fish. They are the ones that developed the technique of flash-freezing fish right on the fishing boats.  Frozen instantly, the fish retain their original taste.

Our friends in  Bangladesh adopted this technology and  decided to  start selling flash-frozen Illish and other delicious fish. The premiere was in 1992, in a handful of  selected big cities in America.

We lived  in a little town about five hundred miles south of Chicago.

 As the Bangladeshis embarked on this monumental fishy endeavor, the local press, the national press, and world press totally ignored them.

 Fortunately for us, a little blurb appeared in India abroad, read by a few, and resulted in an  avalanche of excitement throughout North America. Saliva drooled from our lips as we picked up the phone.

“Boleesh ki? Paddar illish? Sottee? Tatka?  Yaarki koreesh na!

Liberally translated, this was one  Bengali exclaiming to another “ Really,  fresh  illish from Padma (Ganga becomes Padma in Bangladesh), are you serious?”

We had a great plan. Four of us left at 6 am on a Saturday morning, intending to drive continuously by taking turns. We will arrive at Chicago at around 6 pm or so, pack our cooler with a ton of frozen illish and drive back continuously, getting back sometime Sunday morning. The cooler was packed with high-tech “lab ice” –it would keep the fish frozen for many hours.

Like any sound plan, things went wrong. The van broke down in the middle of nowhere. By the time it was fixed, it was around 8 pm Saturday evening. We figured we would continue driving to Chicago, getting there around 8:30 or so in the morning.

We got to the Devon Street area in Chicago  around 5 am in the morning, much  earlier,  partly because of our miscalculation and partly  because there was very little traffic on Chicago highways during early morning. It was still pitch dark.

The store opened  at 9 am.

There was no point going to a motel for four hours. Some restaurants appeared to be open for breakfast. But  we could not possibly spend four  hours in a restaurant.

 Binoy suggested that we go to three separate restaurants, and spend about an hour at each of them, and then wait in front of the store until it opens. His suggestion was summarily dismissed as childish and needlessly expensive.

 At Chinmoy’s suggestion, we found a half-empty parking lot right next to a gas station close to Devon street, parked our van and  promptly fell asleep.

This was a very bad idea..

I woke up, startled at a clicking noise. As I opened my eyes, there was this barrel of a gun pointed at my face. Just like in the movies! Except this was  a real gun and I was not watching TV!

A harsh voice announced crisply

“Put your hands up and slowly walk out of the vehicle , now, please”.

There were six cops with  their guns pointed at our heads,  and a snarling German Shepherd dog. I have never been so scared in my life.  They immediately separated us and started asking questions.

 Of course, we perfectly fit the profile of drug dealers, making deliveries in the early morning  hours.  

I was the lucky one. I got to sit in the passenger seat of the police car with the dog. The bitch (excuse my profanity, she was  one) was fortunately separated from us, behind heavy steel mesh in the back seat. The cop politely questioned me  for about twenty minutes. Every five minutes, he will leave the vehicle to confer with his colleagues. At that point,   the b**ch would start  howling  at the top her voice, her paws on the mesh,  her saliva hitting  my body.  I could see her fangs and smell canine morning breath. Only the very durable steel mesh saved my life that day!.

 Then the cop would return,  politely tell the dog, “Shut up, Susan”, and  Susan would immediately pretend to fall asleep. Questioning by the cop will resume again, followed by another round of vicious barking.    The cycle repeated itself three or four times. Susan was the wrong name for her, of course.  Cujo (or Saalee)   fit her a lot better.

The cops absolutely refused to believe that we came from five hundred miles away to buy fish (and I kind of don’t blame them).

 They questioned us about our past and present, , searched our van from top to bottom, patted us down, searched our personal items,  checked our ID’s, crosschecked our ID”S with their office computers, and finally, disdainfully, let us go.

One of them  contemptuously  told us at the end “Sir, this was not a very smart thing to do. You could have been robbed by local criminals, or assaulted or even killed  by real drug dealers.  You are lucky that we spotted you first.  Next time you come to buy fish here, please arrive during normal business hours.”

 No kidding!

There were still two hours left before the store opened. We went to a breakfast place, and crashed with our shaken bodies and souls.  Fortunately none of us needed to change our underpants, although I came pretty close owing to my encounter with lovely Susan .

The drive back was routine. I did my three hours of driving first and then went to the back seat, fell asleep  soundly,  hugging the cooler full of fish.

No, we were not selfish. Everyone was invited to the ensuing illish-fest, where Jhal, jhol, mustard-illish, sour-illish, steamed illish and even fried illish roe  flowed freely. (If  are not a Bengali,  wondering what these are, you could probably find  pics  on the internet!)  And we had a story to tell as well.

In a couple of years, almost all Indian stores started carrying illish  and other fish in their freezer. Today, no matter where you are in America, you can get this stuff pretty easy.

But we were the pioneers!  We beat everyone else by two years!

I still wake up at night dreaming about Susan, though. Can’t get her out of my mind!

The Winsome Brahmin Critters!

Years ago, I befriended a feisty, liberal American woman. She was a strong defender of human rights, women’s rights, animal rights, and a champion of  many other  important social issues.. Very cute,  but very opinionated. My own views were not much different from hers, but my debating capabilities were limited, nor was I nearly as strident as she was.

She was always testing me, trying to get me in trouble.

One evening, she dropped a bombshell.

“Hey, what if your son turns out to be gay?”

I tried the obvious.

“No way, he is about ten years old, he already checks out girls. He won’t be gay, I am sure”

She was persistent

“His orientation is not properly developed yet, he may very well turn out to be gay. How would you handle it?”

I thought for a while. Divorced about five years before I met her, my only son’s welfare was a touchy subject for me.  Hmmm…, dealing with this required some advanced strategic maneuvers.  I  finally said,

“Frankly, I will  be devastated.”

“Really?” She did not expect this reaction.

“You would not understand. This is kind of complicated. Please listen carefully:

My great-great grandfather was a Sanskrit scholar, a  pundit, a priest,  a man of letters indeed. He lived in a small village but  obviously had critters that were of  A++ grade, if not better.”

“Critters?” She was frowning.

“Yeah.  Some men have high grade critters, others don’t. It is as simple as that”. I stated my case.

“So, this is about your ancestors’ …ummm… critters?” She was incredulous at this point.

“Of course. No ordinary critters, madam, they were pure Brahmin critters, the best of the best.  His eldest son, my great grandfather,  was the first  in his family to have gone to college. He actually moved to Kolkata to work. Unfortunately, he passed away at a very young age. However, he obviously carried the high grade critters and passed them on to my grandfather, his only son.

My grandfather, bearer of these high grade critters, was raised by my great grandmother , a young widow. What a magnificent lady she was. Her goal, obviously, was to cherish my grandpa, so that the high grade critters may flourish.

 In time, my grandpa grew up to be a successful attorney, and got married to my grandma and had nine beautiful children. See what these high grade critters can do if given half  a chance?

However, the high grade critters were only passed on to my father, the eldest son, who, while leading an exemplary life, passed the aforementioned critters to me, his eldest son.”

“So it is the eldest son who inherits them? What about the other male children?” She was inquisitive.

“They don’t get the real stuff. Not a chance. This is a Hindu thing. But the geneticists all over the world have proved this beyond any doubt.” I cleared this up.

“Really?” She was skeptical

“Of course. Read the research. Do you know, Chenghis Khan, the infamous Mongol emperor, had about a thousand children?”

“He and his army also killed  millions of  people and raped and killed women and small children.  Why is this relevant?” She was annoyed.

“Awww, the poor fellow didn’t know about women’s  rights. In fact he had no idea that anyone else besides him had any rights whatsoever. But, notice the incredible success rate of  his critters. Remarkable, isn’t it?”

“ I see. So what did you do with the exemplary critters? Did you have a thousand children? At least  nine children like your grandpa? She was taunting me at this point.

“My critters wanted to, for sure. However, there were other constraints, like financial limitations, my ex-spouse’s lack of total devotion to the critters and such. However, I did manage to pass them on to my exemplary progeny.

Now if he turns out to be gay, I can not expect  him to pass on the exemplary critters. Gay men occasionally have children, but it is relatively rare. This would be the end of the line, I guess. A monumental loss to mankind in general and a devastating blow to my ancestors, indeed.”

I noticed she was smiling at this point,

“You are pulling my leg, aren’t you?” She asked.

“No, I am dead serious” I tried to keep a straight face.

“You are funny. A funny Hindu guy”  I noticed that she has lost her aggression at this point and had a broad smile on her face.

Our conversation, after that,  turned to more pleasant topics.

The critters won this one!

ABCD : A Vanishing Breed!

The ABCD phenomenon started in the 70’s and kind of petered out by the early  years of 2000.

We don’t see True ABCD’s anymore. While someone could apply for a research grant to delve into the  causes of their apparent disappearance, I will refrain from speculation in this regard.

In the 80’s and 90’s, America was teeming with ABCD’s.  Indeed, that was the golden age of ABCD’s

Some Desi’s loved them.

“See,  they are the true descendants of Mother India”, they would point to a nerdy 25-year old accountant touching the feet of some old geezer in a Hindu temple. “What cultural awareness! What spontaneous show of respect! And he was born and brought up right here  in America. Bravo betha, bravo!

Most of us that hardly go  to the temples and such   would hear about this young man and wonder about his true status.

 Skeptics like me would follow him around for days, finding him on a Saturday morning in a Bhagawat-Gita reading class, trying to hit on the priest’s toothy teenage daughter.

 The same Saturday evening, he  would furtively drive  fifty miles to a topless bar in another town,  drinking coke there,   not beer, because mom would smell alcohol on his breath and disapprove. He would ogle at the strippers but decline any lapdances because that  would cost too much money.

 Now the skeptic would smile broadly – that’s an aasli ABCD – a true specimen right there!

Alright, alright, I just made that one up.  I never actually met such an accountant,  he  was merely   the prototype. But some others that I did meet definitely qualified for a true ABCD status. 

ABCDs in love

Imran is the first one that comes to mind. He went to the college where I teach, had a serious American girlfriend, but broke up with her because his  parents would not approve of her.   

Next, he went  on a nationwide mate search through classified ads, matchmaking agencies  and such. (hey, there was no  serious internet in mid nineties!)

As luck would have it, he hooked up with Asha, a Bengali girl in Dallas. The lovebirds  cooed over long distance phone calls for a while.  His parents grudgingly agreed to a match with a hindu girl, while her parents viciously objected to a muslim boy, so Imran went to Dallas where they eloped and started living together.

Pretty normal stuff up to here, but it gets weird after this.

Imran called me  two weeks  after he eloped.

“Things are very weird,  Pronto”

“Really?”

“We found a nice apartment, and I wanted to get married right away. But Asha says we should get married only after both of us find good jobs, so that we are financially secure”

“Have you found a job yet?”

“I found a job as a bank teller, pays the bills for now, but it will take a while before I  get a real job. Asha is still looking, but not very seriously.”

“A little strange, yes.” I said

“But listen, meanwhile, our relationship is purely platonic, Asha wants to wait until we actually get married. She said she loves me more than anything else, though! Tell me, what should I do?”

“Hmmmm.. .., run away, scram!” I said “This is not gonna work”.

Obviously, Imran could not abandon the love of his life. Two weeks later, Asha’s parents found out where she lived. They came to visit, and Asha’s mom started sobbing

“Come back home, little girl!” she kept on crying.

A teary Asha went back home.

Incredibly, the fiasco continued for the next six months.

 Asha continued writing long passionate letters to Imran about how   much she loves him and how she is gonna leave her parents soon to be with him.

Imran kind of went crazy. His parents finally sent him home to  Hyderabad , their home town, for recuperation and a forced negotiated marriage. I have no idea what happened to Asha.

  ABCD ^ ^N

Sita’s parents came from Medinpur, a rural district in West Bengal, way  back  late 1950’s and settled in Chicago. Sita lived   in Chicago since she was born.   An old-fashioned negotiated marriage hooked her up with my friend’s brother, Chhote, who migrated from India in late seventies.  I first went to visit them in the late eighties, five years after they were married. An hour after I arrived, I took Chhote aside

“Hey, why is Sita speaking like that? She was born here, wasn’t she?”

“You mean the thick Bengali Accent? Her parents taught her to speak with all Indians like that. It’s a sign of respect, apparently.”

“You are kidding me, right? Heck, she’s  got  this perfect. She even said deenar taybool  back there. Wow! Did you ever tell her that some people may actually be offended?

Chhote smiled, “like a hundred times.”

When we went back inside, she was talking to her colleague on the phone, a school teacher, in impeccable American English.

It was early evening. Soon, she showered, put on a clean sari and sequestered herself in the puja room for the next three hours

Chhote shrugged. “She does puja every evening for three hours, very religious you know”.

We had a late dinner, and she excused herself immediately. She was a very conscientious teacher in the Chicago public schools, worked till late at night preparing lesson plans and such.

“What about weekends? Do you get to spend any  time with her?

Chhote shrugged again. He was shrugging a lot.

“Yes,  every Saturday,  we drive out of town, to find a new temple, or a new Hare Krishna group, or some other religious gathering.  The whole day is spent on prayers, bhajans and such. The praasad  that I eat is usually pretty good though. And Sundays, she has special puja followed by lesson plans, homework-grading and all that.

“And she is only thirty years old!  Well, at least you are eating well every Saturday. ” I said

Chhote laughed. He had a lot of patience.

For two days I listened to Sita speaking  to me in the most comical Bengali accent . I left very baffled, to say the least.

Now, apart from professional and religious pursuits, young married  couples  also engage in some other pleasant  activities,  enthusiastically endorsed by all sorts of Hindu Gods, that usually result  in the expansion of a nuclear family.

I never dared  ask  Chhote and Sita about this part of  their married life.

Their childless marriage ended in a divorce after ten years. Like I said, Chhote had a lot of patience.

Well, these are the true ABCD’s. I met many others over the years as well.

So, to the hordes of self-proclaimed ABCD men and women  of today, I have this message:

-          You guys don’t stand a chance!  You have been smoked already!.

-           You are merely  a group  of fairly well-adjusted children  of  professional Indian folks that migrated here during the last twenty –five years.  

-          Sorry kids, you are not the true ABCD’s

However, should your profile fit the prototype of the  accountant above, shoot me an e-mail.

I will first post a retraction of this blog, and then meet you in a  bar where you prefer to drink coke.

I will buy you a coke and will gladly pay for a dance or two as well!