Vitamin T and other needs

     
     OK, so I am officially part of the world of twitwits (my term), or the twitterers or the tweeples or the twitterati; call them what you will.
     Am I ashamed of it? Yes.
     Am I doing it anyway? Yes.
     From the last time I looked, I am 18 days, 55 tweets, 26 followers, 83 followings and 18 direct messages old on Twitter and the handle that is used to carry all this senselessness is Urmi_Chanda_Vaz. Not bad, I'd say. At the going rate of more than one new follower per day, my vanity is being fed by the mouthfuls and my ego looks nice and curvy (oh dear, I can already hear the borderline obesity warning go beep-beep-beep!). Celebs must think similarly when their follower numbers hitch up by a few thousands per day.
     Twitter has taken the vain world by storm and anyone who is someone (and even no ones like yours truly) has something significant to say to the world...or at least they think so.
     And why not, I ask? When you have hundreds lapping up highly important facts like Salman Khan craving for a pizza or Gordon Ramsay cooking bull balls or OMG, Amitabh Bachchan taking a bucket bath, why shouldn't they tweet? Sample this: "Oh, you're my hero, my God, Amit ji sir ji...use balderdash soap for your divine skin and RT please." Now is there anything even remotely insane about this tweet? No. Because if Mr. Bachchan can tell you he's gracing the bathroom, Mr. Fan can tell him to retweet this gorgeous piece of literature.
     The inanity of the Tweetosphere is scary, sometimes funny and sometimes plain maddening.  That is why I had kept off Twitter for so long. That's what allowed me to indulge in some glorious derision. Oh, what fun it is to look down upon something that's so large.
     But then Social Wavelength happened. I opened a Twitter account as part of my job description, stooped low to see what happens down there and got sucked into that inimitable vanity trap that is Twitter.
     It is easy to fall prey to flattery. Yeah, it's no rocket science. It's man in all his 'social animal' glory that seeks acknowledgement, approval, acceptance and adulation from his fellow animals. My greatest victories are won when I speak and you nod. I say, you listen. I lead, you follow. Imagine the rush one feels, then, when others find you worthy enough to 'follow' you. When even the likes of Sachin Tendulkar have succumbed to the need for affirmation, what chance do us mere mortals have? We hate to follow the herd, but do it all the same, 'coz that's where the grass is.
     The need to be better than Tom, Dick and even Harry never abates. It just keeps getting bigger and stronger every time there's a DM, or an RT or a reply to your tweet. We try harder, we tweet smarter and we wait longer for just one more nod. Our selves have become dependent on Vitamin T and we need larger doses everyday to keep our fragile egos from collapsing. In the end, we all end up virtual wayfarers dropping in cheesy 140 characters hoping someone...anyone will notice us and follow us; our insecurities hashtagged forever.  
    

An overweight Bong

(Image:zcache.com)

     Inspiration comes from the strangest places. Sometimes a small phrase leads to a big insight and out comes a blog...

*****

     Trudging through my first lonely weeks at the new company Social Wavelength, I happened to get into one of those inane conversations with one of my new colleagues (a Bengali, incidentally). After a work-related query was resolved on G-talk, he asked me if I had had lunch. It was just past lunchtime. How nice of him. Hoping I'd be offered some company, I answered, "Yes, thank you. Anyway, it's a one-chapati, eat alone affair...gets done in 5 minutes..." But a Bong that he was, the picked the food cue! "One chapati!? But you are a Bong..."

     "I am an overweight Bong!" I interjected.

     "LOL...but you must have Rui maacher jhol with bhaat and begoon bhaja..." he trailed off. He was clearly interested in food. But I was interested in my little joke. But wait, it isn't really a joke...

*****

     Or maybe it is. Sadly the joke is on us Bongs...as a race. The adjective 'overweight' pretty much sits 'unprettily' on most of us. Only those plagued by the showbiz or genetics are exceptions. Sure enough the likes of Bipasha Basu and Koena Mitra and Raima Sen make up the league of Bong bombshells. But the rest of us are more like bomb-swells. 

     The love of food is definitely part of a Bong's DNA. There can be no other explanation for this insane obsession we have for food. With five meals on a regular day and even more on jonmodins, beyays, annoprashons, pujos, and even shraddhos, an average Bengali lives to eat.

     Perhaps the probashis will beg to differ, but a typical meshomoshai will begin a typical day by going to a typical baajaar, wearing a typical shaart-paanjaabi, carrying a typical tholay in his hand. The shopping list, then the bag, then the kitchen and finally the meal will consist of two bhaajaas, one dal, one shukto, two torkaris, one maacher jhol (and definitely mangsho on a Sunday or an occasion), one chaatni, and then some doi or mishti. Phew! The subsequent between-meal meals may consist of shingara, kochuri, chop, porota, roll, muri-maakha or the many other delights roadside kiosks and sweet shops have to offer. And the day ends with a dinner that must compete with the lunch on all counts. Honest!

     The probashi that I am, I had forgotten that this is the norm and hence the expectation of a typical Bong when he is invited for a meal. So when I offered a 3-course lunch I had laboured over all day to a relative from Kolkata, I was met with some palpable disapproval about the lack of variety. I think I would have died of shame had I accepted my MIL's very well meaning advice of serving a one-dish meal!

     But I'm alive here and the relatives are back in the heartland of the feisty foodies who spend most of their time, money and energy on food. No wonder there's only one Subroto Roy (bet he doesn't fancy food very much). How can Bongs succeed in business if all they do is eat, eat (No, Bongs don't waste money on liquids) and make merry? But with precious little left after 'foodorgies', merry-making for most moddhobittos is restricted to an annual trip to Puri or Digha...

It's a pity their famous brains fall behind their famous-er appetites.

2 States by Chetan Bhagat: Impressions

     I've been a self-confessed Chetan Bhagat loather all this while. Nothing against him or what he writes or how he writes it - I choose to not like him just because so many people like him. What to do? I am like that only. Ever since his 5 Point Someone days, his popularity pisses me off. I have a thing against everybody like everything and live happily ever after. So buying his books and reading them has been out of the question. But when my bhai-bhabhi thought my shelf needed a Chetan Bhagat (for a lack of my judgement or theirs) and gifted me his latest novel, I decided to give 2 States: A story of my marriage a chance. And anyways, since my marriage is stalemating, courtesy Jishnu and Mumbai, I thought I might as well read about other peoples' marriages and amuse myself.
      I'm not sure what his previous books are like, but 2 States is a fairly readable book. More than the story, what is to be savoured is his style of writing. It is refreshingly casual and may well have been snatches from our everyday conversations. His similes are rib-tickling, his insights fair and his characters real. His observations of prejudices are very good, perhaps because he has been subject to them. 
    Five days with Bhagat and I have to admit that I liked it while it lasted. You have to hand it to the guy for writing about life nice and easy with a good measure of humour thrown in. He really is someone who'd make for a good conversation starter with a random stranger or people you can't otherwise have meaningful conversations with. Bhagat's work is appealing in a way weather conversations are. They're safe and they're for everybody despite him being quite honest about the way the young operate. Anyway, uncles in their 40s and 50s are likely to not have read him.
     He may not make it to the annals of great literature, but Bhagat makes for a good companion of chai, coffee or cola.

First fright

     There's nothing more terrifying for a parent than to watch his child suffer. The pain is sheer and the helplessness penultimate. Before you can summon a doctor or even summon the idea of summoning one, panic grabs you by the throat and squeezes out every last ounce of reason from your head. The frantic heart takes over and reels with so many emotions, you don't know what to do with them. Your child cries, you cry. You child suffers, you die. You fear. You pray. Pray that there be one way that will let you take your child's pain away.
     ...All seemed hunky-dory on a regular day of our regular lives - stamped with that regularity which is taken for granted till one of the cogs of the wheel fall out. Jishnu was the model of a happy, healthy baby all eight months of his little life before that horrible retching began. There were no signs of discomfort and like any other day, Viren took Jishnu inside to put him to sleep at about 8.30 in the night. I was in the kitchen readying dinner when Vir started shouting and asked me to come in right away.
     I ran into the bedroom and to my horror saw Jishnu vomiting desperately and Viren looking desperate. I stood there transfixed at the door watching helplessly as my poor baby's body spasmed violently with the effort of throwing up. I stood there paralysed with fear facing something I'd never faced before. I stood there with all sorts of terrible thoughts crowding my mind even as Jishnu wailed in pain and discomfort. My reverie was broken only when Viren yelled, "What are you doing there? Help!"
     The next few minutes were pure hysteria and a frenzy of activity. Jishnu threw up, cried. We cleaned him up and the sheets and the floor and the bathroom and waited. Jishnu threw up again, we cleaned up all again; and Jishnu threw up for a third time. Somewhere in between I found my sense, my cell phone and my voice and called up Jishnu's pediatrician in Nagpur. A few assurances and a prescription later did I feel a wee bit 'regular' again. I cradled my baby in my arms, hushed him, soothed him and cried with him. In the next minute, I turned into a merciless model of practicality as I had Viren pinch his little nose while I forced the medicine down his throat. A few more tears and a phew!
     The medicine and exhaustion soon put Jishnu and our fears to sleep. We spent a partially sleepless night monitoring him, kissing him, caressing him even as he slept between us, blissfully unaware. Morning came and all was well again.
      So, what was the big deal one may ask. It was only a vomiting child for crying out loud (yep, right!). Yes, nothing was earth shattering in retrospect and storytelling. Yet, only a first-time parent may able to identify with this first experience of illness in the most precious part of you. Your world really can fall apart at even the thought of something 'bad' happening to your child. And like all things first, facing this fear as regards your baby is forever etched in your heart.

The Calcutta Chromosome by Amitav Ghosh: Impressions

     Ghosh ne mere hosh uda diye! Gosh!
     Good. My tribute couldn't possibly get cornier than this. Why? Because the book is so deliciously mind effing that trying to say anything intelligent might end up being corny.
     When I picked up the book from a roadside vendor, all I saw was the Elish maach and the word Calcutta on the cover. I thought it would lead me through the narrow golis of Kolkata in yellow taxis on a ride that would connect me to my roots. Thank God, my expectations weren't met. Thank God, The Calcutta Chromosome is another thing entirely!
     Why, Mr Ghosh, you are so cool, so crazy and so out of this world in TCC!! What a read! I'm so excited I cannot help but key in exclamation marks after every sentence! Bravo!
     Finally a book with no answers; a book with a plot so fantastic, so surreal it refuses to let its loose ends be tied; a book that sucks the reader into the dangerous alleys that could be its end. Few authors dare leave the labours of their love into the hands of readers that may not be half as appreciative as yours truly. Thank you, Mr G for letting it be.
     Thank you too for the indomitable L Murugan, the inquisitive Antar, the Rosses and the Farleys and the Urmilas and the Sonalis on missions - all trying to fit into a world where sciences and seances blend. Thank you for blurring the line between the real and the unreal, the mathematical and the magical, the truths and the lies. Thank you for reminding readers that no matter how far we get with our test tubes and gadgets, the only thing we are really looking for is immortality and that the only way about it is leaving behind a book like this. 

A Prisoner of Birth by Jeffrey Archer: Impressions

Dear Lord Archer,

Sorry, but you're not quite making the mark anymore. Perhaps inspirations are drying up but because your fan following isn't, you are being held a prisoner to publisher demands. You seem to be losing your charisma from your Not a Penny More...days. That chart buster was as riveting as it was real; its plot - gripping; its characters unforgettable. But you may have milked the revenge-plan-that-works a little too much. And what a reader is left with is a been there-done that, mish-mash of a repackaged story in the form of A Prisoner of Birth.

Sure A Prisoner of Birth is a page turner although there are no prizes for guessing what happens in the end. Sure there are some brilliant microplots in the story, but it doesn't make up for the same old poor defeat rich saga and it's unforgivably Hindi cinema like in its courtroom masala. Even the characterisations seem so forced at times, one almost feels sad about the lack of imagination thereof. Which modern author, in his right mind writes, 'Think like Danny, act like Nick' over and over to remind readers with supposed intelligence of what is going through the protagonist's head? And for the formidable bulk of the book, not one character comes out strongly and threatens to stay with you for at least some time. 

And what about the title dear Lord? Sorry, but it's as pointless as the rest of these pages that you call a novel.

Another day, another grey

"Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Please tell me there's no grey at all..."

"pffffbht"

I remember my mom telling me to get regular facials done after 25. I was maybe 16 then. Twenty-five seemed centuries away and blessed with good skin as I am, facials seemed like the thing for 'aunties scared of growing old. as if...'.

Cut to a decade after. Today. That’s me at 26, tagged as an 'auntie' by colony ka bachchas who see me with a bachcha, scared of growing old. Suddenly mom’s advice rings scarily true.

Well, the good news is that the good skin is still holding up and I may have another couple of years before I start making a beeline for the beauty parlour asking for a Shahnaz Hussain ka Herbal facial (yes, salons are still an unjustified luxury as a result of my dad’s commie influences).  

But there’s bad news too. Actually it’s more sad than bad. Every morning as I stand close to the mirror brushing my hair, another strand of grey peeks out, mocking me in all its silver glory. I heave a big sigh, pick up a scissor or if I’m too pissed with it, a pair of tweezers to put in as great a distance between ‘it’ and me as I can. But before I can get happy about having gotten rid of one does another spring right up. "Na, na, na, na, na"....it says and I pick up the scissor again. I'm clearly losing this battle. What chances do I really have? Nature vs. Tweezers.

It wasn't so long ago when I'd noticed the first grey hair on my mother's youthful head and was very upset about it. "How can MY mommy have grey hair? How can SHE grow old?" I remember thinking. All of 8, the universal reality of decay hit me. It made me uncomfortable, but I was cushioned in the comfort of time - time that seemed would never end, would never come.

But time did come. Cut to age 16. A time when I began to think grey was sexy. You know them - that tall, grey and handsome kind - those with slight grey at the temples or a full head of grey and a s**tload of confidence. Sexy, yes, but still meant for the others.

And time did come again. A little too early for me I guess. Damn those genes. But before I let myself wallow in some premature middle age crisis-induced depression, I'll squeeze into some tight tees, some short shorts and dye another day.

End of Project J

I think it’s over at last – my Project Jishnu. But before detractors start crying foul, no, I’ve not disowned my son. What has happened is that I’ve finally owned him. Blame it on post-natal depression or a plainer, ruder habit of ego-centric living, Jishnu felt like an interruption in my scheme of things. He was always my Project J – something that had been thrust upon me, and that I had to grudgingly do. He wasn’t part of my life. All he seemed like was an irritating little distraction that needed to be fed, changed, bathed and occasionally loved. It bothered me to no end when; say a potty call would interfere with my Google chat or Facebook session. Having to get up from my beloved eight hour sleeps for night feeds really overwhelmed me; not so much with fatigue as with anger.

I counted days and then months hoping my suffering would disappear one day out of some divine benevolence, but much to my dismay, Project J just got bigger and noisier. I just wanted him to sleep and savour every second of peace and the much missed ‘me time. I gushed about it and gave vent to my feelings on this blog hoping some kindred spirits would empathise (sympathise really) with my pitiable state.

Then suddenly one day I found myself blogging about books, taps and hands and going about my life as if nothing had happened. Jishnu had ceased to ‘happen’. He had, in his characteristic calm, blended into my life without my knowing it. It is said of habits that an act repeated 21 times forms one. I may have taken some 201, but Jishnu’s presence became a habit after all. Feeding him, cleaning him, playing with him, and loving him didn’t seem Herculean any more. Living my life with him rather than around him has become a practiced art form.  In fact, today I can even claim to be able to walk a tightrope carrying him if I have to.

So, it really is the end of Project J. I know because I sometimes actually wait for him to wake up.

Tap dance

     This day, I offer my unconditional apologies to all the makers of those B-grade horror flicks where they confer the shower with the power to kill with hot water. I ask for solemn forgiveness for having disbelieved them all this while. Only this morning when my shower tried to kill me did I realise that life imitates art. Yessir! My shower tried to scald me to death this morning. Actually, it has been consistently trying to bring me to a boil since I came to Mumbai.
     OK, I admit, I did go a little overboard with introductions here, but I cannot for the life of me understand these fancy taps. Like what’s their problem, man? Why can’t the blue tap just deliver cold water and the red one hot? Why do the knobs of the main tap, and the sub taps and the shower and the hand shower and such other of their fraternity have to be turned some forty times before you get what you want? Admit it guys, I’m sure there are scores of ‘untapped talents’ like me out there who just won’t get it. How many times have you meant to get an innocent mug of water from that big tap and been rewarded instead with a bin-badal-ki-barsaat, clothes and all? Or was it the anticipation of a warm stream of water meant to comfort you on a shivering-ly cold day and all you got was a rude cold shock? Or was it an urgent must-wash-my-hands-NOW moment when the taps conspired to mock you dry despite your having turned the tap to its turnable limits?
     Gawd, the pain, I tell you. What happened to our dear ol’ peetal ka nal? You know, the ones that needed their washers changed every other month because no quantities of M-Seal or nariyal rassi could rein in the drips? But, that’s okay. Really. I’d barter my Jaquars any day for the ease of those gold-gone-green taps. I would much rather hear their tip-tip at night than look desperately around for tips to operate a tap.
     I can almost picture Jishnu a few years hence, getting exasperated with me and saying, “What’s so difficult about these taps mamma? It’s not rocket science!”
To that I think I’ll say, “Give me rocket science any day, son. But for now, just tell me which damn way which one turns just so I can fill my bucket in peace.”
     And then perhaps I’ll know what my mother has against computers.

Kissed by Kesey

    Mindblowing - in all senses of the word. For what One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest is, thesis upon thesis will have been written by awestruck readers and critics over the past five decades. And between the pages of this book, I’ve been so tempted to Google it and see if millions of Kesey fans have felt what I was feeling. But I refrained each time, afraid I would mistake others’ observations and admirations for mine. I wanted to savour each one of my ideas about this classic.
     I’m finally through with it and am simultaneously dumbstruck and overwhelmed with words that want to capture the novel’s worth. Yes, I’ve encountered other brilliant books before, but this gushing comes from the resolution of a very personal crisis.
     Since I majored in Clinical Psychology four years ago, I’ve made conscious efforts to stay away from the subject even if it meant wasting two years of sincere academic effort and a career as well. Towards the end of my course, what with visiting mental asylums for case studies, I’d found myself committing the cardinal sin of a shrink – getting involved and getting upset. I kept getting drawn to their part of the world where there was no happiness. Everything I saw was through sombre lenses and for the cynic that I basically am, the world became a darker place. This realisation hit me when on a nature trip, I found my ability to be inspired crippled. I shrunk back in fear of the person I was becoming. I was terrified at the thought that nothing beautiful would come off my pen again. I was scared I would end up knowing nothing but to dissect cases, find reasons and try in vain to be objective towards people’s pain – pain in the deepest, bleakest parts of their minds. I decided that day that the scientist in me was killing the artist in me with clinical precision. The sciences of the mind and the arts of the heart couldn’t co-exist for me – not till I read One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.
     Kesey’s novel showed me that music could indeed emerge from madness if you wanted to make it happen. He shows that beautiful literature could be made by writing about the ugly. Through the larger-than-life McMurphy, he lay open the happinesses of even the most wretched and convinced me that not all was grey. What struck me most was the author’s ease of narrative in flitting between the real and the unreal; especially with his narrator Chief Bromden. How perfectly natural the transitions seemed when Kesey transported the Chief from the real world of the hospital ward to the equally real world of hallucinations. How unclinical and poetic he makes the bizarre seem, when my encounters with the clinically insane were disturbing at their best. How reassuring Kesey is in retaining the humane in these outcasts who are treated no better than animals by those on the outside.
     All these exceptions were made possible, of course, because of R P McMurphy’s exceptional presence. His incessant war with institutionalism personified in the Big Nurse Ratched tickled every last rebellious fibre in my body. Like with any wannabe rule-breaker, McMurphy’s card dealings, and TV demands and glass shatterings and merry making let me live out a great many fantasies. But the book, of course, also ends with a grim reminder of why us wannabes prefer staying wannabes and not try to fly too high above the cuckoo’s nest. 
    PS: The movie's great too, but to say the least, the book's better.