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Bold weaves in the board room

The laptop’s affair with the 6 yards

I am a saree lover, and I believe that it’s a garment that embodies feminity… power, poise, sensuousness, dignity, grace and a whole lot of other attributes.

I wrote this piece over a decade ago…it is relevant today, too…and will remain forever.

She breezes through the reception. Heads turn at the white brilliance that swishes past. The Narayanpet falls in soft folds as her feet stride briskly. The wide vegetable-dyed parrot green border is pinned as a narrow pleat on her squared shoulders. The black ikkat blouse gathers a slender neck within its high collar. At the nape of the neck sits a neat pile of coiled hair.

She glances at the end of the ikkat sleeve at the golden-strapped watch on her right wrist. In time, as always, she smiles to herself. In her left hand, she holds the red and beige block printed laptop bag, bought directly from the traditional artisans of Kutch.

Someone holds the door open and she enters the board room to a rousing welcome.

Meet today’s Indian corporate woman. She is feminine. She is vibrant. She is discerning. She is different.

We have come a long way from the time the saree was scoffed at as a ridiculous companion to the laptop. Laptops demanded a smart business suit. Well, that was what the invisible and faceless authors of corporate dress codes propagated. Fusion Indian wear comprising a shirt kurta worn over narrow pants, although a compromise, was permissible. But a saree even of the crispiest cotton was scowled upon. The saree has had her share of socialite outings and continues to make headlines at Cannes or anywhere else. Cross-border political dialogues and international conventions have unfolded in the presence of the home-grown weave. Not a single who’s who of the world worthy of her 140 characters has visited the land of the saree and not draped one for the shutterbugs.

Yet strangely, the attire was not allowed to hold her own with the Dells, the HPs, and the Macbooks of the world. Voices of dissent strangled her at her raw yarn and mocked at what they teased to be her traditional outlook. With the quiet confidence that can only come from a robust centuries-old track record, she waited in the wings of the great Indian Corporate Circus. She watched as the Ring Master went ballistic in convincing people to conform. She lost count of the “shoulds” and the “shouldn’ts” he spewed at the hypnotised masses. And then one day, at the next show of the great Indian Corporate Circus, a woman walked down the aisle. Her Kalamkari with its intricate craftsmanship was difficult to ignore. The royal blue of the coarse weave lent her an air of majesty. Heads turned and gasps escaped helpless lips. “Who is she? Who is she?” voices queried around the arena. She glided down the aisle and stood in full view of the others. That’s when they saw it. Without doubt it was a laptop bag she was holding in her hand. She curtsied briefly and turned to face the Ring Master now desperately trying to pull back his fallen jaw.

RUNNING FOR COVER

Today, laptop bags are running for cover. Block prints, Dabu prints, Ikkat and Patola prints are the trending laptop bag exteriors. They are smart, convenient, feminine and professionally efficient, just like their saree-clad owners. Crisp Kanchi cottons are vying with the very supple and amenable Khadis for corporate presence. The rich handloom weave today makes a delectable companion to any laptop worth its chip. Corporate corridors are bustling with the hushed hues of the Mangalgiri and the Bengal Tant.

So, India Inc is witnessing a full-bodied affair brewing between the luscious drape and the drab laptop. It may take a while for everyone to realise it because this is a relationship that runs into several layers. Meanwhile, you can be kind enough to play cupid. Pull out that Sambhalpuri from your closet, pair it with your Lenovo and waltz into the meeting. If your prospects don’t soar, it’s time to get a new laptop.

The other side

The other side is a compilation of my short stories that present the ‘other’ perspective.

The shoe that took me places

The shoe lay turned on its side in the middle of the road. Vehicles swerved to its right and left to avoid crushing it. The road was a busy one, and traffic slowed down as vehicles approached the lone shoe, and steered themselves clear of it. My car, too, cautiously avoided it.

The shoe stayed in my mind forever. Without warning, randomly at unpredictable times during the day, the shoe pushed its way through stacks of memories to the top of my mind. I remember how it lay on its side, the red stains on it open to the sky. It was a shoe that fitted the right foot of its owner. The shoe did not reveal the gender of its owner, yet it revealed a lot more.

The shoe was there by accident. I mean, due to an accident. The owner was dashing across the road to get to the other side. They were evidently not quick enough. An oncoming vehicle had screeched to a halt, but a tad late. The impact had thrown the person a furlong away, but not before dislodging the shoe off a foot, leaving the shoe to play the important role of narrating the horrific incident.

The shoe lay alone in the middle of a busy road where life criss-crossed at a frenetic pace. The stains on its body revealed the extent of injury. It lay abandoned by the body to which it belonged. There was no trace of the body. It was obvious that the accident had happened a while ago, and the body, that is how usually dead people are referred to, with only one shoe was lying on a cold hospital table, waiting to be identified by its kin.

The shoe on the road was the perfect identification. It was a canvas shoe with a thick rubber sole. Perhaps a jogger on their morning routine? When they do not return home, the family would be frantic. Maybe they lived alone, and no one will know for a long time.

Perhaps a lover on their way to a rendezvous? The heartbreak would be deep and lasting.

Perhaps someone who had just received bad news and was on their way to help their distraught friend? How will the friend now cope with another devastating news?  

Perhaps it was this…or perhaps it was that? Who is to know?

The red stains told a tale of their own. Of pain. Of hurt. Of a life that had bled.

A few minutes after my car swerved away from the shoe and dropped me off at work, a shrill whistle stood out amongst the cacophony of traffic.

The policeman crossed over to the other side and walked towards a bedraggled woman sitting with her back leaning against a huge sack.

“Hey you!” he addressed her.

She looked up at him, startled.

“You’ve created a mess in the middle of the road, and you sit here innocently?” he shouted poking her with his baton.

“What?” she said rising to her feet and turning towards the road.

“See what you’ve dropped there,” the policeman said pointing his baton to the shoe.

“Oh, sir, my sack is torn. It must have fallen off.”

“Now don’t just stand there giving excuses. Go pick it up!”

He blew the whistle again, and gestured to the vehicles to stop.

The woman limped to the middle of the road, and picked up the shoe.

The traffic resumed as she made her way back.

“Now move away from here with your sack, and dare you drop anything else,” the policeman warned.

“She nodded, and wiped her paan-stained lips against the shoe.

“You rag pickers are a nuisance,” he muttered turning away from her.

Wine, anyone?

It was my first visit to the winery, and my first ‘formal’ wine-tasting experience.

“There are four S’s to wine drinking,” the winery tour guide pompously told my friends and me.

“Seeing, Swirling, Smelling and Sipping,” he continued with an air of authority.

He demonstrated, “First, pick up the glass of wine. Then see the wine, Swirl the wine, Smell the wine, and then Sip the wine.”

I watched amusedly.

Then, it was my turn.

I held the stem of the glass in which the ruby red liquid was poured. I looked into the glass and inhaled deeply.

“No!” Mr Guide shouted. “Swirl first,” he said.

“Oh, sorry,” I said unapologetically.

“Let’s start again,” he said through a forced smile.

I was on a vacation in the hills and this winery visit was nothing more than a pit stop for me. I am a person who carries a poetess, a writer, a romantic, and a dreamer in her heart. The mountains, mists, and Mohabbat make up the purpose of my life. And all these thrive in an unstructured ecosystem.

Not some prescribed protocol for drinking wine.

Just to be polite, I picked up my glass again. The ruby red liquid winked at me. I swirled the wine, closed my eyes. Imagining myself sitting by the river bank overlooking verdant mountains, I took the glass to my parched lips.

“No! No!” the guide’s voice rudely burst my bubble of bliss.

“You didn’t see it, you didn’t smell it…”

“PODA!” I said, in my loudest Tamil. “This is wine. Red wine. Drink. Feel. Repeat,” I said, taking a swig. And, I practised exactly what I preached.

Drink. Feel. Repeat.

Wine ho ya dine, hum toh aise hai bhaiyya!

Vocal about local

experts-green-flag-mumbai-local-with-30-capacityVocal about local

Mumbaikars are on the verge of getting vocal about local.

Kab shuru hoga?

There are two types of people in Mumbai. The ‘local’ and the angrez ke aulad who are the “oh I haven’t stepped into a local train even once in my life” poor things.

It’s close to two months and the local trains in Mumbai are off track. This portends bad tidings for a city that rises in the morning to the assuring sound of the train hurtling down the track fencing our residences, and sleeps only when the ek chalis ki last local pulls into its last stop.

Come, let us relive our local sentiments.

If every city in the country were to have its own signature song, Mumbai would claim copyright on:

Gaadi bula rahi hai,

Seeti baja rahi hai…

The pedigreed Mumbaikar witnesses life at close quarters from where he stands in the local train, at vantage point, between the thighs of the seated passengers.  No one complains because everyone is equally touched, unless of course, you rub them the wrong way.  If you’ve always wondered why most Mumbaikars are pathetic at the game of musical chairs, the answer lies in the local train compartment.  In the game, you need to be alert and grab the closest vacant chair.  But as local train passengers, we reserve our seats in advance, politely. “Aap Dadar utaroge? Mujhe seat dena.” From then on, it’s a ride of sweet anticipation until Dadar. After that, the seat is yours until your destination arrives, and the polite voice that booked your seat earlier fills the warm void you leave behind.  If you grab a seat out of turn, your co-passengers will ensure you reach your destination, spiritually your final, even before the train enters the platform.

No, Mumbaikars are not ruthless. On the contrary, the habit of commuting by the local automatically moulds us to become hearty and magnanimous. While we ourselves are perched on one leg, in a compartment that breathes as one big lung, we confidently call out with stretched hand to an aspiring on-boarder on the platform, “Aaja, aaja, bohot jagah hai,” and pull him up to kissing distance.

The bursting insides of an Asangaon-bound local is a veritable class for Communication skills, especially if you’ve enrolled from Dadar, a blurry spectacle of a sea of humans morphing into an alien race with shared limbs and a common mission. As a two-decade long trainer in Business Communication, I can swear by the effectiveness of the Mumbai local in showcasing the four styles of Communication.

The Director is the no-nonsense baritone that says, “Hey, andar sarak”, and repeats it at least four times, each time lowering the pitch and sharpening the delivery.

The Expresser gets pushed and shoved around, but continues to narrate his story to his accomplice over a sea of pates, “phir maloom, kya hua…”

You can spot the Thinker with your eyes closed. He’s the one who theorises. “Aap 20 degree iss taraf ghoom jaaoge, toh hum dono aaraam se khade ho sakte hain.”

Misfortune befalls him if the guy to whom this deduction is being discoursed is the Director. In such a case, be prepared for some succulent vocabulary-building exercise.

That’s when the Harmoniser’s shaky plea struggles to rise over the din. “Bhai saab, rehene do. Sab ko takleef ho rahi hai. Jhagada Jhagadi mat karo, Gandhiji ko yaad karo…”

The true Mumbaikar has grown into a fully-functional adult only because of the lessons learnt in the “there’s room for all” heart of the local.  It’s been two months, the heart has not beaten even once. TV channels can shout their throats hoarse about COVID recovery rates, and on-line delivery of liquor. Smokescreen in the form of relief packages can be stuffed in our faces.

For the rest of the country, ‘local’ is a mere word. For the Mumbaikar, it’s a feeling. Our local is languishing in the yard, and we are deeply saddened.

The Mumbaikar’s patience is smouldering. So don’t blame us if we carry out the instruction, and become vocal about local.

Tab tak, aap bhavano ko samjho.

Retirement Blues: Why Does the Older Generation Resist Giving Up Work?

Corona times are also times of quiet reflection, especially about the future.  Here’s a piece I wrote last year. Little did I realise then that its time will come sooner than later.

Retirement Blues: Why Does the Older Generation Resist Giving Up Work?

Zoom Zoom Zoom Baba!

 

Yeh cheez Mein Jo Maza Hai

Maza Yeh Kuch Naya Naya Hai

Yeh Dil Ko Aaj Kya Hua Hai

Ke Jhoomta Hi Ja Raha Hai

 

Zoom Zoom Zoom Baba

Zoom Zoom Zoom Baba

Zoom Zoom Zoom Baba O O Oooo

Zoom – the new fad in India. The four letter word has taken our lives by storm. It has done what neither Skype nor Facetime could ever do.

Corona has triggered many things in its wake, and ingenuity is its favourite offspring. Every Indian with a decent Wi-Fi connection at home has latched on to the Zoom bandwagon. Techie or not, irrespective of class, creed, colour, gender, status…everyone has hopped on.

Zoom is the most popular hangout. Local club meetings, office meetings, free webinars, paid webinars…everything happens here.

Families under lockdown are zooming in to share recipes, show off culinary accomplishments, and even witnessing weddings! The last I heard, a distraught family attended a funeral of their loved one sitting around a laptop in their living room.

With Jugaad as our middle names, we know how to squeeze the last drop out of an opportunity. A free Zoom call is valid for 40 minutes. Bingo! That’s good enough. If the call drops after that, we log in again, a new link, a new password and another 40 minutes to boot.

However, not all of us are tech savvy. Presentability is suspect. On a recent Zoom meeting, two of the participants were oblivious to the fact that they were quite the eyesores in their sleeveless vests. When they realised it, they began to frantically fiddle with the video option on their screens. Too late, images had already been captured in the minds of the others.

To mute or unmute, is the next big challenge. Before the dilemma is sorted, background embarrassments have touched the wrong decibel notes.

While the world battles the virus, and privacy issues with Zoom, we could care less about the latter. Multinational companies are playing safe and have a strict mandate against the use of Zoom.

But the Indian social life is upbeat with Zoom. For a society that hinges its values on an attitude of ‘privacy ki aisi ki taisi’ and one that does not squirm when after bumping into a recently married woman in the elevator, asks, “good news kab de rahe ho?”, Zoom’s privacy issues are trivial if anything.

Recently, my extended family had a fun evening of Antakshari. The folks in Pune started with the mandatory, “baithe, baithe kya karein…”  The Surat duo took over promptly. While the Boston gang hemmed and hawed over the letter, the rest of the family began the notorious countdown… “tik-tik one, tik-tik two…”

If hackers intruded, all they would have laid their hands on was a bunch of out-of-tune, boisterous singers belting out Kishore and Asha numbers like there was no tomorrow.

For all you know, given the kind of ‘unprivate’ culture that we are, we are quite likely to welcome the hackers into the party insisting “k se gao, k se gao”.

There’s more. Our lingo is so beautifully amenable to our ever evolving lifestyles. Last evening, my mother-in-law while talking to my son on the phone, insisted that the next time he should “Zoom pe aao, beta”.  As soon as the call concluded, she turned to my husband and asked if he could “mere phone pe Zoom karke de sakta hai?”

Skype, WebEx…and others of their ilk are intensely disturbed…

Dil Zoom Zoom kare, ghabraaye.

Mamu hoga tera baap!

Salute to our Mumbai police

Mamu! Pandu! In my Mumbai lexicon, Mamu is someone you can fool easily into believing what you say. Pandu is almost the same – easy to trick.  Many other memes have been attributed to the police force over the years. Our movie depictions of the police force have only helped in adding to the disparaging impressions that we carry of them. Of course, over the last decade, we have become fans of movies glorifying the honest and the righteous officer.  Movies no longer project super cops battling hundreds of goons single-handedly. We see mature characterisations – ACP Ajay Singh Rathod of Sarfarosh, for example.

 While movies are attempting to bring about a re-scripting of our impressions of the police, the Covid-19 virus has successfully managed to showcase to society the mettle
our police is made of.

This piece is a gratitude-laden salute to the Mumbai police who are out there risking their lives as we sit home, safe and secure.

Celluloid projections of the police are but broad-brush strokes, and often presented as caricatures. But, the image of the policeman is not a total figment of imagination. Much of it is grounded in the everyday experience of the citizen.

Policemen have made for some of the most memorable protagonists of Indian cinema.

I have seen the rude, aggressive, honest cop, the corrupt cop, and the flamboyant hero cop.  The pendulum of my memories of police portrayals in movies swings from Havaldar Ratan Singh (Sanjeev Kumar) in Manoranjan, an innocent cop on foot patrol in a notorious red light area, to IG Meera Deshpande (Tabu) in Drishyam.

My first indelible impression of an honest, courageous police officer is of Inspector Vijay Khanna (Amitabh Bachchan) kicking the chair on which Sher Khan (Pran) is about to perch himself, and saying, “Jab tak baithne ko na kaha jaaye sharafat se khade raho … yeh police station hai … tumhare baap ka ghar nahi”.  

The pendulum lingers doubtfully on the buffoonery of Chulbul Pandey (Salman Khan) mouthing dialogues that set my eyes rolling off their sockets. But, the award for the most comical representation of a man in uniform goes to Asrani in Sholay and his “Hum angrezon ke zamaane ke jailor hai!”

I have a hazy memory of Akshay Kumar as a police inspector (I do not recollect the name of the movie). The dialogue has stuck for reasons I cannot fathom – “sarkar ne yeh danda hum ko daandiya khelne ke liye nahi diya hai.”

I have laughed my guts out at the absurdity of some of the police characters in our movies. I have walked out of movie halls, tch-ing tch-ing the state of affairs concerning the khaki donning custodians of law. Once in a while, when news of a courageous officer on duty flashes on the TV screen, it makes but a small dent in the deeply rooted negative perception of the entire police force.

Today, in these unusual times, as we sit safely in our homes, the men in khaki are out there, round the clock, guarding, preventing, scolding, beating, begging, and pleading social distancing violators (and there are quite a few of these IQ-deficient violators). Their families wait longingly, fervent prayers on their sealed lips. Even when they do go home after a thankless day of work, they cannot pick up their kids or hold their partners in an embrace that they so badly need. They cannot sit with the family and enjoy a hearty meal. They sit away, usually outside their homes, and eat alone. They live in constant fear.

I recollect Hussain Zaidi’s book Class of 83 that explored the negative perception attached to the police and looked at the encounter specialists of Mumbai police who were active during the 1980s and 90s.

“There’s a certain police psychology we should all know about. They get nervous, sometimes they get scared in public. They are as human as we are, the khaki uniform doesn’t make them all-powerful or all-potent,” he said in an interview.

They are as human as you and I are. They have fears, too. It’s easy for Shafi Inamdar to wax eloquent in Takkar and say, “Police na kisise mohabbat karti hai, na nafrat karti hai … hum sirf duty karte hai.”

Jis din police ki vardi ka saath pakda … us din darr ka saath chod diya,” Om Puri said in Agneepath.  Valiant words written by a gifted wordsmith, delivered by an astute actor essaying the role of a policeman.

Nothing can be farther from reality.

Closer to ground zero would be the words espoused by John Abraham in Force 2. “Gut feeling, aggression, common sense … yeh hai Mumbai police ka kaam karne ka tareeka.”

Gut feeling. I was moved beyond words, when I watched a video clip of policemen dropping to their knees and pleading to a bunch of violators who were out on their motorbikes for a romp around town during the lockdown. Such action is definitely not in the police rule-book. Only desperation drives these policemen to act thus.  After healthcare workers, if there’s anyone else directly in the path of this virulent virus, it is our police force.

I can go on and on about the trials and tribulations of the police force during this pandemic. My blood boils in anger at the violators who are only making life even more difficult for them. My heart goes out to the police and their families. Going forward, if I hear anyone ridicule the saviour in Khaki, I will not be responsible for what follows next…

Aata majhi satakli.

What I miss the most about Ganpati

He has gone, and has left behind a deep sense of emptiness. As a true blood Mumbaikar of 30 years, I have amalgamated the celebratory culture and spirit of the city. How will I not?

For eleven days, the nondescript residential society where I live transformed into a glittering performance arena.  The cars lining both sides of the main road in the society made way for a huge mandap. At the far end, in an enclosure, sat the reigning deity in whose honour, the performances were offered.  Each day of the festival was a bonanza waiting to be unwrapped, and you could not miss the heightened anticipation in the Lord’s merciful eyes.

The loudspeaker, every now and then, interrupted Salman Khan’s aaj doob jaun teri aankhon ke ocean mein, to urge residents to come down from their homes to grab the best seats in the house.

On day one, when the curtains went up to Lata Mangeshkar’s signature “Sukh karta, dukh harta”, piety hung heavily in the air. The fleeting solemnity was soon replaced by thumping music that announced the start of the revelry. As always, the itinerary started with performances by children. Cute little cherubs were shoved onto the stage by eager beavers in the guise of parents. Watching the performers, who have barely transitioned from monosyllables, mouth precocious patriotic spiel, was moving – to the mother, who stood in the corner of the stage, dabbing her tears of joy. Fathers had been strictly instructed to wield the camera.

The high point of the festivity was when not one, but a dozen Sri Devis descended on the stage holding up their right arms to mere haathon mein nau nau choodiyan. I recognised the aunty in the flaming red ghagra. Every morning, without fail, she sprinkles me with water as I step out under the plants in her balcony to make my way to the car.  That evening had the largest turnout of spectators. Seats were taken early, leaving the rest to take vantage positions from where they stood and watched the greatest show on earth.

Next to arrive on the stage were all the bathroom singers of the society. Each year, this is their day of reckoning. I could now put a face to the mein zindagi ka saath nibha tha chalagaya, that makes me rush through my shower each morning. One after the other, they belted out their favourite numbers. Since the occasion was religious (you forgot?), the audience refrained from cursing out aloud. After all, isn’t tolerance one of Lord Ganesha’s virtues? He leads by example. He hears more than double the decibel we hear, given the size of his ears, and yet, he tolerates.

The 11-day festivity had something for everyone. A case in point is the “thread the needle” contest. The bunch of senior citizens who claims all the benches in the garden in the evenings was enticed by the promise of gifts to participate. They sat on chairs, their eyes peering through spectacles, their fingers barely able to hold the thread and needle in place. The organisers of the contest stood over them cheering vociferously, and then a prize was announced for the one who brought the thread the closest to the needle.  Camouflaged sadism. I was beaming because the winner was my mother-in-law.

The Healthy Baby Contest was a private affair that had been given a public platform. All eyes were on the mothers holding the flailing limbs. Wails resounded in the mandap, as the judges (the friendly neighbourhood lawyer, doctor, and teacher) made the delicate decision. It’s always a make or break situation for them – neighbourly courtesies and civility from the next day onwards hinge precariously on the judgements they proclaim that evening. Many friendships have been sacrificed at the altar of the healthy baby contest at Ganpati mandaps.

On the eve of his departure, was the grand finale. An event that the Lord had been waiting for with bated breath – the Fashion show and the accompanying swag. This year, the theme was “Jodi No. 1.”  It was for couples to take part. It was for couples above 40 years of age. The toe-tapping Jalwa from Fashion boomed in the background as the couples stepped onto the make-shift ramp. The first man and woman were residents of the flat above mine. They were renowned for not paying their society dues since the last five years. I did not clap for them.

On the evening of the 11th day, the Lord was bid farewell. He was paraded haltingly. The two-minute distance from the mandap to the main gate was covered in 2 hours to the accompaniment of the zingat song and the likes of tera dhyan kidhar hai, yeh tera hero idhar hai. Frenzied dancers surrounded him. It was almost as if the cavalcade was making one last-ditch attempt to impress him with their talent, just in case he had missed the point in the last eleven days.

And then at the final adieu was the promise of more…pudhchya varshi laukar ya!

It’s two days since he has left. The society is steeped in stony silence. We go about our sad lives, grieving the return to mediocrity. The dancers have shed off their talent, and stuffed it up in the attic. The bathroom singers are back.

pic courtesy: Google images

When books sorted us

 

img_0372The long-pending task of sorting out our bookshelf turned into a therapy session of sorts, where instead of my husband (a process-driven, task-oriented man) and me (haphazard and always wearing my heart on my sleeve), sorting out the books, the books sorted us.

The morning cuppa this morning is a little different from the other mornings’. We are not looking out of the window, or reading out the COVID-19 stats from our phone screens. We are both looking at the expansive 20-foot long bookshelf that runs along the longest wall of our living room.

The bookshelf was introduced to the family five years ago after a long and tedious discussion with a carpenter whose first and lasting impression of us was of a crazy couple fussing over a row of wooden planks. When the bookshelf was new and untouched, we spent hours deciding which books go where. We lovingly stacked them by titles and by genres. The paperbacked ones were distinctly placed away from the hard-bounds. Friends such as Shakespeare and Shaw were a shelf above the nodding acquaintances – Saki, Gabriel Garcia Marquee.  Bringing up the rear were the strangers – soon to be friends.  We had painstakingly created labels for quick reference. I stand corrected – my husband had painstakingly created the labels on his laptop, printed them on coloured labels and stuck them neatly on the shelves. He ensured that the books were stacked in the ascending order of the height of their spines. As someone has said, “A bookshelf is as particular to its owner as are his or her clothes; a personality is stamped on a library just as a shoe is shaped to the foot.

When the benevolent carpenter, who had come over to collect the balance payment, offered to help by picking up a random stack of books from the floor and pushing them into the first available free plank, he invited the wrath of my husband, and left home murmuring under his breath.

“You should not have shouted at him,” I said. “It was so rude.”

“I don’t care,” hubby said, pulling down the sinfully placed stack.

Since then, several books have been pulled out, new books have been wedged into the spaces in between. Many books, for lack of space, have been lying stacked on their sides, one on top of the other. Knick-knacks and souvenirs from our numerous travels have been pushed along the ledge of the planks. In short, the bookshelf was a total mess.

Right after tea, we get started. I start first, by pulling out the books from here and there.  Hubby has gone in to the study to fetch his laptop. When he returns, he is furious.

“Wait! Wait!” he yells. Let’s follow a pattern.”

Patterns are his thing, the lack of them, mine. The past twenty-five years of our married life were spent in patterning our future along a severe timeline. On the achievement of every goal, there was another one taking shape in the horizon. There was always something to work towards, to look forward to. I loved the dizzying frenzy of moving from one milestone to another. A couple on the go – that’s what we were known as in our social circles.  If you thought life was all about work and no play, you have another think coming! Our annual vacations were plenty and not too far apart. It was all planned to happen – two overseas vacations, two domestic. To everyone’s awe and envy, we stuck to the routine for years.

Until a few years ago, when my soul demanded a slowdown. I could not continue to live against my grain anymore. I was getting tired of the time-bound routines. The patterned life knocked the wind out of me.  Hubby slowly got accustomed to my disdain for routine. He slackened a bit on the planning and the patterning. But, when it became cumbersome for him, we decided to do things differently in our own spaces. He did his thing, and I mine. Often, we did the same things, differently. I began to live in the moment, and he happily planned his moment.

So, it is no surprise to either of us that today while he pores over his MS Excel sheet to understand the category of books on the shelves, I sit cross-legged in the middle of the piles of books and begin flipping pages. My pleasure comes from simply being in the midst of mellifluous words and provocative imagery. The books sit around me each vying for my attention.  To Kill a Mocking Bird sits atop an Ignited Mind, while Sapiens shares floor space with Growing Up Bin Laden.  I open Wuthering Heights to a random page: “He wanted all to lie in an ecstasy of peace; I wanted all to sparkle and dance in a glorious jubilee. I said his heaven would be only half alive; and he said mine would be drunk: I said I should fall asleep in his; and he said he could not breathe in mine.”

I look up from the page, and turn my dreamy eyes on my husband. His spectacles are perched on his nose and his fingers tap away on the keyboard of his laptop. Obviously, he is oblivious to the magic around him. But I do know that he is an ardent book lover, much more than I am.

“Listen,” I say.

I read out to him the passage from Wuthering Heights. I have his complete attention.

“Wow!” he says before returning his gaze to the screen in front of him.

A few minutes later, he says, “Listen to this.”

I look up from the book in my hand.  His laptop is placed on the floor away from him. A book has taken its place on his lap. He chuckles as he reads out.

 “You could never convince a monkey to give you a banana by promising him limitless bananas after death in monkey heaven.”

For the next ten minutes, Yuval Noah Harari sits in the midst of our ponderous discussion on his acclaimed opus – Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind.

Soon, the scene in our living room has a makeover. Hubby sits with his back against the bookshelf, flipping through a book. I sit beside him, in the exact same manner, thumbing through a book. The only thing that punctuates the silence is one of us reading out a piece from the book in our hands. Or, when he lovingly asks, “some wine?”

By the time morning morphs into noon and after, we have met the very-tongue-in-cheek Jerry Pinto, the indefatigable P.G. Wodehouse, and the erudite Ram Charan.  Erma Bombeck keeps us in splits with her misadventures. Before we know it, we are as full-spirited as the full-bodied Shiraz we have not yet opened, and our bookshelf is bare.

Such is the magic spun by books – two distinctly disparate individuals could find intense commonality. In the words of Joyce Carol Oates, “reading is the sole means by which we slip, involuntarily, often helplessly, into another’s skin, another’s voice, another’s soul.

We cast a glance at the books sprawled around us, and burst out laughing.  Within half an hour, the books are back on the shelves – some on their sides, others pushed into place in random order. The short ones and the tall ones stand next to each other in asymmetrical beauty. The knick-knacks hold the unruly books in place.

As I close the book on a wonderful day, there is only wish in my heart – May our shelves always overflow with books!

Pic courtesy: Google images

 

 

 

 

Schadenfreude – owner’s fall. Neighbour’s glee.

Tharoor has hit the head of the nail, verbatim. This time, his weapon of dissertation is Schadenfreude. Schadenfreude was born in Germany – the country of pinpoint precision. Schaden means damage or harm. Freude means joy or pleasure. Harm-Pleasure.  It means the malicious pleasure we derive from the bad things that happen to others, after they have caused us harm. Tharoor introduced us to the word while expressing his support to Chidambaram in his little escapade.

Tharoor’s usage has only helped to showcase the wide spread prevalence of Schadenfreude in Indian politics. Indian politics is a business that thrives on Schadenfreude.

Tamil Nadu’s political circus performers are known to trapeze back and forth on the swings of revenge.  When the reigning chief ministers, Karunanidhi and Jayalalitha took turns at being the ringmasters, they let loose their Schadenfreude. When Jayalalitha was queen, she summoned Karunanidhi literally by the scruff of his collar and banished him to imprisonment. He languished there, plotting his move.  Har raat ki subah hoti hai, he kept chanting to himself (of course, in the Tamizh version). And rightly, when Amma’s term ended, and Karunanidhi took the reins in his restless hands, he pulled the shots. Amma went to prison to contemplate on her revenge. Schadenfreude with a Tamizh makkal twist!

Schadenfreude has also been the winning formula for celluloid blockbusters of the ‘70s.

It is the same Schadenfreude that was the single biggest contributor to the path breaking success of Bollywood’s legendary Sholay. Had Gabbar not nursed his Schadenfreude when in prison, he would not have demanded Thakur’s haath the instant he was released. And then Thakur would not have crafted the rest of the narrative with Jai and Veeru, and given us a devilish feast that we gorge on over and over again.

Wikipedia, the global guru, says: Schadenfreude is a complex emotion, where rather than feeling sympathy towards someone’s misfortune, it evokes joyful feelings that take pleasure from watching someone fail. This emotion is displayed more in children than adults; however, adults also experience Schadenfreude, though generally concealed.

I contest the last line of the Wikipedia definition. Adults generally conceal their Schadenfreude orientations? No. it’s blatant, out there for everyone to see it.

When Chidambaram was in control, he hammered Amit Shah. Amit Shah, bid his time, all the time, building on the propensity of his Schadenfreude. And when the time was ripe, he struck, and how. Now, many in the Congress, who knew the inside story are on cloud 9, their Schadenfreude dancing merrily.

Turned on its head, Schadenfreude becomes even more relatable, as envy.  It is the reason we are unhappy when good things happen to others.  Dost first aajaaye toh zyada dukh hota hai, said one of Raju Hirani’s 3 idiots. Nothing can be closer to the truth.

Owner’s fall. Neighbour’s glee.

Why this kolaveri di?

There’s psychological research that has discovered three driving forces behind Schadenfreude: aggression, rivalry, and justice. Underlining all three is the sense of low self-esteem. The level of self-esteem influences the frequency and intensity of Schadenfreude.  Someone with low self-esteem is insecure and anyone more successful poses a threat to them. Seeing this successful person fall, can be extremely comforting.

Another dimension is when you are not alone in your troubles. Aha, the comfort in numbers. Well, knowing that your neighbour is worse off is not such an unpleasant thing, after all.

Of the three forces, I find justice to be more amusing. When something bad happens to someone who has hurt us, we look heavenward and say, “divine justice”. In truth, it’s our Schadenfreude doing a quick victory jig.

As Julie Mulhern quotes in The Deep End, “(About a woman’s funeral) Do you remember the part in The Wizard of Oz when the witch is dead and the Munchkins start singing? Think that kind of happiness. I swear every woman there was ready to break into song. Maybe a few of the men, too.”

The Japanese have a saying: “The misfortune of others tastes like honey.” The French speak of joie maligne, a diabolical delight in other people’s suffering.

According to a report in The Guardian, a study in Würzburg in Germany carried out in 2015 found that football fans smiled more quickly and broadly when their rival team missed a penalty, than when their own team scored. “To see others suffer does one good,” wrote the philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche. “This is a hard saying, but a mighty, human, all-too-human principle.”

The British claimed that there is no English word for Schadenfreude because that feeling does not exist amongst them. How wrong. Here’s evidence. “For what do we live but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?” proclaimed Mr Bennet in that most quintessentially English of novels, Pride and Prejudice.

As a race, humans enjoy the failures of others. It’s a human thing. As someone has said, Schadenfreude is wickedly nutritious.  It is the sweet joys of Schadenfreude that bind society together.

When we could not find a name for it in the Queen’s language, we turned to Schadenfreude, er…, to Tharoor.

 

pic courtesy: India Today images

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