Friday, November 24, 2006

Nuns in a Brothel

One of the most hilarious – and clever – definitions of serendipity I’ve come across wasn’t in a dictionary. I forget where I read it but, at my age, I can be excused for the occasional bout of amnesia, I guess.

Serendipity, it said, is like looking for a needle in a haystack and finding the farmer’s daughter instead!

And there must have been a hundred different moments when you’ve been serendipitous but perhaps not realised it. From the Sunday morning rummage that reveals a long-forgotten photograph of college friends to the salary slip that surprisingly shows a reversal of last month’s tax deduction (wishful thinking perhaps but so what!) we’ve all had deliciously wonderful reasons to rejoice.

Now consider just the opposite. When a cold shower of reality strikes you… like the wit who made up ‘chandni raat, haathon mein haath… saamne khada ladki ka baap!’ Or when the harried, hen-pecked husband steals a beer with his colleagues at a makeshift bar in the parking lot only to be caught in the glare of headlights as his wife unexpectedly turns up to pick him up from work! Poor soul. Un-cheers?

I haven’t found a word for these horrendous moments yet but the closest analogy I have come across – again my memory fails me and I must remember to do something about it before I tie myself up in knots – is the headline you see above… nuns in a brothel.

Was it Summer of 42 where a group of adolescent boys discovering their manhood also discover a teacher – or perhaps a preacher? Doesn’t matter really ’cause I think you know what I mean.

They say serendipity also has its origins in the old name for Sri Lanka – seren dwip. and in the fact that some sailor navigating his way to India via the stars stumbled on this gem of an island instead.

If this very sailor came to any of our Indian cities today, he might even contribute to the ‘nuns in a brothel’ community. The mosquitoes that plague Delhi’s posh golf courses despite its pretensions to be a world-class capital getting a makeover for the 2010 Commonwealth Games give this ancient Mughal bastion the same feeling one gets at bumping into Shahnaz Husain. One look at this peddler of beauty trying valiantly to reverse time is enough to remind you of that immortal line ‘khandhaar bata rahein hai ki imarat buland thi.’ Look at Bombay and the human road dividers in Mahim late at night – almost tempting the night-riding Salmans or Alistairs to dispatch them into another life. Some cities manage to look filthier at night and, Queen’s Necklace not withstanding, Mumbai must be high on the list of cops-in-a-dance-bar syndrome.

You could also call it the Ash-as-Umrao Jaan condition. Some film rag writes that Rekha is upset at Ash claiming the title of being Umrao. Will someone please tell our desi Zsa Zsa that she needn’t worry? Ash is only living up to her nickname and consigning her future to the very powder she uses to make an already plasticky face look even more dumb.

But I’ve meandered away from where we started, haven’t I?

Mama-ji at the maikhana, pundits at the races, boss walking into the restaurant just as you’re asking his secretary about whose place you two could head for, the toddler tottering into the bedroom at the point when Richard Gere is taking off Julia Roberts’ clothes… there are a million such moments in everyone’s lives.

At such points when the clock seems to have stopped dead in its tracks, you will probably focus on the nuns and rue what could be but won’t. Or pull yourself out of the situation and marvel at the sheer irony of it. And laugh your head off to defuse the toofan in the teacup.

To moments like these and to the farmer’s daughter as well… Cheers!

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Twenty Plenty

Everyone I know hates flying. If there’s anything more they hate, it’s the delays that are a part of daily life at airports today. (Ask me! I'm experiencing yet another of the infamous delays that Delhi airport is known for.)

Actually, on the other hand, I am skull over stilettos in love with flights. But what really turns me on is the inevitable delayed-flight announcement that gets my co-passengers groaning.

What’s wrong with me? Actually, what’s wrong with you, huh!

Don’t you just love the time you can spend with yourself alone without being lonely? The best place to let the weary mind wander is not on a mountain-top or a quiet beach. It’s the busy, plasticky, characterless airports. No one knows you (hopefully), no one’s gonna come up to you and ask for a light or directions to the loo. And no one’s gonna offer you a drink either – at least not in the security holds of India’s domestic airports yet.

Enjoy this time, my friend. Pull out that book you’ve been hiding inside the laptop bag over the last nine trips. Don’t touch the laptop though, that mistress you lug around Betaal-like. Can’t do without it, can’t get rid of it either. Plug in the i-Pod’s chatter-obliviating earphones into your aural orifices (where else!). Find yourself the cornermost seat you can get – or, buttocks-permitting, perch yourself on to the window-sill overlooking the runways and tell the world to go jump. Relish the next 45 minutes because you won’t get it again – till your boss wants you to fly again (bless him!).

Don’t get distracted by the mother trying hopelessly to curb her children from running up and down the terminal and messing up shiny new clothes bought especially for this their first flight to nana-ji’s home. Don’t let the cooing newly-copulated couple all dressed in bangles and a matching purse and salwar-kameez set (the bride’s, not the groom’s) steal your concentration. Immerse yourself in Neil Diamond or Gulzar or Rabbi Shergill or whatever it takes to get your nostalgia going. And rediscover the rewards of reading, of words that conjure up images long forgotten. Trust me, you need nothing and no one at this point; no guilt either – this time belongs to you. Not to your office, your spouse, son… no one.

At some point, your flight will be announced. Relieved passengers will scramble to board the bus, almost as though being the first ensures that the flight will take off. You should stay where you are, pretend it isn’t your flight they’ve called. But stop reading and take the earplugs off for a minute. If you have a God above, pray hard and ask Him for that one passenger who will invariably hold up an already-delayed flight either because he’s snoring off last night’s whisky in some corner or stuck in the restroom while his bowels evacuate his backside of the prawn masala curry his greed couldn’t refuse.

Hope like hell because the only thing that beats a delayed flight is another 20 minutes waiting on the aircraft. 20 minutes to pause before you dash off again in pursuit of you know not what.

Below the Belt

Maybe it’s time to remix the old phrase to ‘Waist not, want not’. Actually, not maybe, but definitely. And, for once, this isn’t about the female waist struggling to slip into a size smaller, skin-smooching skirt. This one’s about the good ole male waist…

Or, to be sartorially accurate, his belt. Yeah, that inch-wide cummerbund that’s meant to hold up his sagging trousers. Like most things around us, the belt too has morphed into realms of utility far beyond its original purpose. Like its other cousin, the shoe.

History has it that the shoe was originally meant to cover the hunter’s bare feet and protect him. Today, the more supple the shoe, the farther it is from protection, the more it is valued. Women, they say, will willingly suffer the agony of squeezed (almost amputated) toes to wriggle into tiny pieces of leathery lingerie for their feet just in case some hunk does look at them from top to toe.

If the belt was meant to hold up trousers once, it’s multi-tasking today. But, then, aren’t we all? If the ‘over the shoulder boulder holder’ has evolved from discreetly supporting drooping breasts to being brazenly displayed from under contrastingly-coloured spaghetti-strapped tops (beau peep, R.I.P.) why should the belt remain where it was?

Today, a man has to carry a few essentials that go beyond what’s already in the belt’s third cousin, the wallet. There’s his mobile phone – or phones depending on whether he’s a tycoon or a terrorist – plus his Blackberry plus an MP3 player plus a digital camera (on vacation, at least) plus a belt-pouch for some essential chewies, passport et al plus the case for his designer glares. That’s five items already looped into the belt – get the idea?

However, there’s just one problem: while we busybodies sweat to lose flab by sitting at desks for 14 hours and then running on stationary belts in air-conditioned gyms, the very waists we work on end up bulging in the oddest ways. Did you ever see Clint Eastwood look weird with holsters on either side tucked into his belt?

I mean, two attachments around the belt are just about all it can take. But five? Have a life, guys! And don’t get withdrawal symptoms just because the man ahead of you in the queue at security check is holding up everyone while he gingerly takes off his belt and places his prized jewels in a plastic tray for everyone to ogle at. When did you last see an intelligent, beautiful lady eyeing a man’s digital assets? If it’s just a man thing and you’re not a lisping film director showcasing a particular superstar in every one of his films, then why load yourself, darling?

Rest assured, my friend, the action is always below the belt. Or, at best, above it. Not around it.

And don’t waste another moment wondering. Get going on those abs, tighten the belt another notch and you won’t be left wanting.

(First written October 18, 2006; waiting patiently to be published since)

Goaaaaaaaaaaal!

Every Sunday, a motley crowd gathers at the Shri Ram School campus in Aravali, Gurgaon, to encourage their sons to dribble, head and kick. And, most of all, to win. It is, after all, a competitive world that's getting more competitive by the day, isn't it?

At this school football league match being played between children of class 1 (average age: 7.5 years), it is evident that the parents on the sidelines have a larger stake than the footballers themselves.

While it's great fun to watch every one of the four-feet-something boys fight it out, what's even funnier is their forty-fast-approaching fathers yelling themselves hoarse from the sidelines. Strangely, things always seem easier from the sidelines. And instead of revelling in the sheer joy of watching the whole team (goalkeeper included) crowding around the ball, forgetting carefully-tutored positions and leaving defences wide open, here's a bunch of dads (mostly) trying to be coaches. Or perhaps trying yet again to get their sons to be what they couldn't.

It's what a student of Shakespeare would call tragicomedy.

While the matches themselves are played in all seriousness, what's worth staying on for is the post-match analysis by the school's football coach - the only one really qualified to comment on the match. There was something he said at last Sunday's match that stuck - and it was addressed to the parents: "Let the game be the teacher".

Everyone heard him. But I'm not sure how many listened.