I started my first job with a Delhi based research organisation and my first project was 'Juvenile Delinquency and impact of mass media.' And as part of the project, I alongwith my colleagues went to a Remand Home and met a number of juvenile delinquents. But my purpose here is somethingelse... i am not writing about jobs here actually I am going to write about those days of when getting the first salary was equivalent to having a feeling of freedom. It's sweet taste that lingered in the mouth. And i still remember the thrill of depositing the cheque and subsequently taking a bus and going to Connaught Place. I bought my Kodak Korma for Rs 1500 from Studio India. The handsome elderly gentleman said to me loveingly “May you have years of exciting journey with this one.” Thirteen years have passed on and I still have that camera.Though I must add that my husband has changed more than six cameras in last three years. With the remaining money, I bought casettes of Scorpion (those days everybody sang 'Winds of Change').
More than a decade long, money was never much . And even when I changed my job to the country's leading agency, the money was not at all impressive from any point of view. We used to call ourselves 'Moongphali patrakar.' Moreover, finding a flat in South Delhi was not an easy task with limited money. But somehow we sailed through... a part of it goes to sheer luck also. But looking back, I think qualitatively my life was better. I am not the one who romanticises poverty. I personally feel poverty is the greatest curse on earth. Not being able to buy the medicine you wanted to buy for your loved one can be soul destroying. It can hurt you, it can shatter you, it can traumatise you forever.
But looking back, I feel that those days I alongwith my friends had no concept of saving. Anybody who had a little more than Rs 5000 in the bank (in our friend circle) was envied!!! And when I had saved Rs 10,000 in the bank, I happily booked a second class ticket in Tamil Nadu express and travelled all alone from Delhi to Kanya Kumari. In 1995, credit cards were not popular. So, I had taken my money in Travellor's cheque and I must say that I had my share of savings. The pleasure money gave those days were pure, unadultered. When we had less, we lived for the moment. When we have more, we live for tomorrow. And sometimes tomorrow extends to day after tomorrow, a month and a year.
The 21 love ice-cream or the Manhatten Mania at Nirula's were relished with the joy of a child having a cardbury chocolate. And when we felt rich we used to go to Golden Dragon in Panchsheel Park for its Golden Dragon special Fried rice, and chilly chicken.If money was little more, emporiums were the place we went for shopping.
It's a different story now. Money has different connotations. Now it means mutual funds, savings certificates and fixed deposits. And it has also meant long dark hours in the office. And need I say I miss my 21 love and Manhatten Mania of Nirula's. More so when I am in Ahmedabad---!!!!!
PS: I read somewhere that when gypises curse a person they say that “MAY YOU WIN A LOTTERY.“
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Musings of an Oriya Amdavadi
It was one of the most difficult decisions of my life. It was not easy to leave Bangalore, India's silicon Valley and move to dry Ahmedabad. Friends and colleagues thought I was crazy to even think of moving to a city which had just witnessed an earthquake measuring 7.4 richter scale. But then sometime in life, you throw all 'sane advice' to winds and do as your heart dictates. So I decided to say goodbye to Namma Bangaluru and take a flight to Ahmedabad. It's six years since I am here in Apnu Amdavad.... a city which never figured in my dreams even as I was chasing many a dreams and some impossible relationships during those heady reckless years in Delhi. But then as I believe in life some you choose and some life chooses. My first brush with Ahmedabad came through a long distance phone call I made from Delhi to a young guy whom I later married.
March, 2001 As I came out of the IA flight late in the evening, hot air welcomed me. Well, the days of cool Bangalore are over, I said to myself. But then I was also coming to a city which still had apartments almost hanging in the air. The dust had not settled. The pictures of horrors of 2001 earthquake were still making to front pages of newspapers. Amidst death and destruction, I started my journey on a note which at that time seemed quite incomprehensible. Nevertheless exciting.
Kem chho, majaa ma
That's what I learnt first within days of arriving here in Ahmedabad. Over the last five years, it has become a part of my day-to-day vocabulary. My neighbour greets me this way, I greet my domestic help this way. The chain continues irrespective of life's turns and twists. Well, that's how this city revolves on a wheel of merry-go-round, or should I say Majaa Ma. Internal turmoils, pains, questions, traumas after all don't find a place in the hisaab kitab of life. Who cares for all these?
From Deepika to DeepikaBen
For the receptionists in my earlier offices, I was Deepika Madam. For friends, outsiders I was plain Deepika. Now, suddenly I became Deepikaben after coming to Ahmedabad which was too hard for me digest. I kept on insisting over the phone that "I am only Deepika..." Interestingly, the other voice always kept on forcefully calling me "Deepikaben". All letters from local people addressed me as Deepikaben Sahu. And those who knew my husband's name addressed me as Deepikaben Murlibhai Sahu... (Oh God!) (how I dreaded those letters not for the content but for this never-ending name only). Interestingly, there are some who still ask me "How's Mr Sahu?" And when I say "No, he's Mr Menon", they find it hard to digest. When I was applying for my passport, I went through hell cause I have still retained my maiden name. To top it all, I get many invitation cards which say "Deepalben Shah." But after six years things have changed. I have mellowed down. Today, I happily pick up the phone and say with a smile, "Yes, Deepikaben speaking." That's the biggest transformation for an Oriya, I must say.
Tame Kaun This is absolutely crazy. My sisters can't understand this... they think I am lying. In the middle of the night when my phone starts ringing, I start imagining all possible bad news in this world. With great fear in my mind as I go to my study to pick up the phone, a dominant voice from the other side asks me, "Tame Kaun (Who are you)?" In the beginning, my mild east-Indian sensibilities didn't allow me to say anything. But now, I have become wiser... so with all the patience in the world I put question "Who called up this number, me or you? So you better know whom you are calling up in the middle of the night." Or if I am in a naughty mood, I say, "Karanj police station ma thi boluchhu (I am speaking from Karanj police station)." No offence meant to our men in khaki.
Sau Taka/ 100 rupees
Ahmedabad worships money. It earns money and it also saves money. I was never taught the art of savings. My father always encouraged me to spend money on books, travel, music and of course good food. It's only after coming to Ahmedabad, I realised there's something called savings in life. Thank you, Ahmedabad. Money speaks everywhere in this city. So ask your plumber "Will you come tomorrow to repair the leaking tap?" If he says, "Sau taka (100 rupees)," be sure that he will come. If you are wondering what sau taka has to do with his promise to do his job, then just close your eyes and think that like many other Amdavadis, the guy (in true spirit of the city) has learnt no other way to express himself or his commitment.
Pure Veg---- Punjabi, chense and continental
I have nothing against vegetarianism. Both my parents have become vegetarians now. I am married to a vegan (somebody who doesn't take any animal products in his diet). But I am simply tired of this board in front of restaurants here.... "That's Pure Veg: Punjabi, chenese and continental." So all that you get is baked macroni, veg manchurian and some orange coloured paneer butter masala. I can't distinguish one dish from another. They all look like mismash of something red, white and brown. And not to talk of items like chenise bhel... (I have never seen so many variations in the spelling of the word 'Chinese' anywhereelse in the country).
Oh, those lovely rains!
Rice, fish curry, mashed potato with a dash of mustard oil and pouring rains — that's early childhood memories. Sitting for hours near a window and seeing the rains lashing against the lamp post back at home in Orissa always came naturally to me. Rains bring back smells of wet earth of a land I left years back. They bring back memories which come and kiss on the cheeks but then gently go back again to the never-ending paddy fields of a verdant earth. Rains falling on the roof of my house lulled me into sleep in those carefree days. They were not just falling rain drops they were like God singing lullaby in the middle of an otherwise silent night. Rains bring back images of Ma waiting with a towel in the veranda as I returned from school all drenched. Rains bring back memories of me and my younger sister dancing away to glory in the garden just as the clouds became darker and darker. I miss that lashing rains in Ahmedabad. Give me wet clothes, umbrellas, soaked walls but give me Orissa's almost magical monsoon. And I am longing for that sentence to hear --- "There's a low pressure today."
Some of the things I love about Ahmedabad:
* The uninterrupted power supply (I grew up in Orissa where we could hardly see the nail-biting moments of a one day cricket match because the electricity would always play hide and seek with us)
* I love the fact that I can take an auto-rickshaw in Ahmedabad at 11 in the night and reach home (I have never done it in Orissa and I know it's difficult to do so in Orissa). I love it when I see 60-year-old women riding scooters and roaming on the streets of Ahmedabad. They are not relegated to the background.
* I love it when Gujarat families (all well-dressed) visit their loved ones to wish Saal Mubarak on Bestu Varas (Gujarati New Year). I love the way Navratri is being celebrated here. Even a dry dusty city like Ahmedabad looks so very inviting and elegant during those nine nights.
* I love it when Gujaratis serve a traditional meal of dhokla, undhiyu and khatti mithi dal when they invite guests. Only when we celebrate regional cusine at home, the world outside will raise a toast to it. .
March, 2001 As I came out of the IA flight late in the evening, hot air welcomed me. Well, the days of cool Bangalore are over, I said to myself. But then I was also coming to a city which still had apartments almost hanging in the air. The dust had not settled. The pictures of horrors of 2001 earthquake were still making to front pages of newspapers. Amidst death and destruction, I started my journey on a note which at that time seemed quite incomprehensible. Nevertheless exciting.
Kem chho, majaa ma
That's what I learnt first within days of arriving here in Ahmedabad. Over the last five years, it has become a part of my day-to-day vocabulary. My neighbour greets me this way, I greet my domestic help this way. The chain continues irrespective of life's turns and twists. Well, that's how this city revolves on a wheel of merry-go-round, or should I say Majaa Ma. Internal turmoils, pains, questions, traumas after all don't find a place in the hisaab kitab of life. Who cares for all these?
From Deepika to DeepikaBen
For the receptionists in my earlier offices, I was Deepika Madam. For friends, outsiders I was plain Deepika. Now, suddenly I became Deepikaben after coming to Ahmedabad which was too hard for me digest. I kept on insisting over the phone that "I am only Deepika..." Interestingly, the other voice always kept on forcefully calling me "Deepikaben". All letters from local people addressed me as Deepikaben Sahu. And those who knew my husband's name addressed me as Deepikaben Murlibhai Sahu... (Oh God!) (how I dreaded those letters not for the content but for this never-ending name only). Interestingly, there are some who still ask me "How's Mr Sahu?" And when I say "No, he's Mr Menon", they find it hard to digest. When I was applying for my passport, I went through hell cause I have still retained my maiden name. To top it all, I get many invitation cards which say "Deepalben Shah." But after six years things have changed. I have mellowed down. Today, I happily pick up the phone and say with a smile, "Yes, Deepikaben speaking." That's the biggest transformation for an Oriya, I must say.
Tame Kaun This is absolutely crazy. My sisters can't understand this... they think I am lying. In the middle of the night when my phone starts ringing, I start imagining all possible bad news in this world. With great fear in my mind as I go to my study to pick up the phone, a dominant voice from the other side asks me, "Tame Kaun (Who are you)?" In the beginning, my mild east-Indian sensibilities didn't allow me to say anything. But now, I have become wiser... so with all the patience in the world I put question "Who called up this number, me or you? So you better know whom you are calling up in the middle of the night." Or if I am in a naughty mood, I say, "Karanj police station ma thi boluchhu (I am speaking from Karanj police station)." No offence meant to our men in khaki.
Sau Taka/ 100 rupees
Ahmedabad worships money. It earns money and it also saves money. I was never taught the art of savings. My father always encouraged me to spend money on books, travel, music and of course good food. It's only after coming to Ahmedabad, I realised there's something called savings in life. Thank you, Ahmedabad. Money speaks everywhere in this city. So ask your plumber "Will you come tomorrow to repair the leaking tap?" If he says, "Sau taka (100 rupees)," be sure that he will come. If you are wondering what sau taka has to do with his promise to do his job, then just close your eyes and think that like many other Amdavadis, the guy (in true spirit of the city) has learnt no other way to express himself or his commitment.
Pure Veg---- Punjabi, chense and continental
I have nothing against vegetarianism. Both my parents have become vegetarians now. I am married to a vegan (somebody who doesn't take any animal products in his diet). But I am simply tired of this board in front of restaurants here.... "That's Pure Veg: Punjabi, chenese and continental." So all that you get is baked macroni, veg manchurian and some orange coloured paneer butter masala. I can't distinguish one dish from another. They all look like mismash of something red, white and brown. And not to talk of items like chenise bhel... (I have never seen so many variations in the spelling of the word 'Chinese' anywhereelse in the country).
Oh, those lovely rains!
Rice, fish curry, mashed potato with a dash of mustard oil and pouring rains — that's early childhood memories. Sitting for hours near a window and seeing the rains lashing against the lamp post back at home in Orissa always came naturally to me. Rains bring back smells of wet earth of a land I left years back. They bring back memories which come and kiss on the cheeks but then gently go back again to the never-ending paddy fields of a verdant earth. Rains falling on the roof of my house lulled me into sleep in those carefree days. They were not just falling rain drops they were like God singing lullaby in the middle of an otherwise silent night. Rains bring back images of Ma waiting with a towel in the veranda as I returned from school all drenched. Rains bring back memories of me and my younger sister dancing away to glory in the garden just as the clouds became darker and darker. I miss that lashing rains in Ahmedabad. Give me wet clothes, umbrellas, soaked walls but give me Orissa's almost magical monsoon. And I am longing for that sentence to hear --- "There's a low pressure today."
Some of the things I love about Ahmedabad:
* The uninterrupted power supply (I grew up in Orissa where we could hardly see the nail-biting moments of a one day cricket match because the electricity would always play hide and seek with us)
* I love the fact that I can take an auto-rickshaw in Ahmedabad at 11 in the night and reach home (I have never done it in Orissa and I know it's difficult to do so in Orissa). I love it when I see 60-year-old women riding scooters and roaming on the streets of Ahmedabad. They are not relegated to the background.
* I love it when Gujarat families (all well-dressed) visit their loved ones to wish Saal Mubarak on Bestu Varas (Gujarati New Year). I love the way Navratri is being celebrated here. Even a dry dusty city like Ahmedabad looks so very inviting and elegant during those nine nights.
* I love it when Gujaratis serve a traditional meal of dhokla, undhiyu and khatti mithi dal when they invite guests. Only when we celebrate regional cusine at home, the world outside will raise a toast to it. .
Friday, May 18, 2007
Nothing intelligent about this post!!!!
Some days ago I was chatting with one of my friends. As predictible it might sound but the coversation veered towards women (He being HE). I asked him 'What do you look for in a woman?'
His reply on the Gmail chat reads something like this: ‘Somebody who has a decent knowledge of sports and a decent knowledge of international affairs. And somebody with whom I can carry an intelligent conversation for long hours.’
I bet, if he can tell me who’s Karen Hughs then I will resign from my job. Forget about international affairs, his knowledge of national affairs is quite pathetic. I mean, I am tired of listening to people talking about their love for being with someone who can engage in intelligent conversations.
I studied in JNU where everybody thought they can be world leaders in carrying out ‘intelligent conversations.’ Cups of tea were consumed in Ganga dhaba even as youngsters in cotton kurtas and kolhapuri chappals spent nights in animated intelligent conversations. Some even thought that they have a patent right to intelligence.
I have experienced intellectuals dissecting human emotions in most critical ways over glasses of whisky and laughter. But they never felt what it was to feel feelings. It was devastating as a 20-year-old to learn that the sentence ‘I love you... is a plain simple contextual one devoid of any feelings’ from a man who only believed in intelligent conversations. Anyway, times have changed. The same person now regrets about that particular phase of his life in which he was obsessed with everything that was remotely ‘intelligent’ and in the process lost out on one of the most beautiful things in life called ‘Feelings.’
I have nothing against intellectualism... I love intellectuals for whatever they are.. For all their pretensions, for all their arrogance, for their ability to bask in absolute nothingness. I love sharing a drink with them cause they are so self obsessed. But then why do people have so much of shame in admitting that they too enjoy unintellegent conversation? If they love intelligence why can’t they sit and finish Simone De Beauvoir’s Second Sex at one go?
As you grow old and experience the richness of varied relationships, coversations laced with intelligence just do not matter. When I laugh and play Ping Pong-Ting Tong (that’s a game in which one of us becomes a cat after eating some magic cookies) with my five year old niece Simrita then those moments of unadulterated joy simply overwhelms me. No logic, no rationality, no theory works in this case. Three years ago, I spent most of waking hours in a hospital holding hands and taking care of my terminally ill sister-in-law. There was no scope for carrying out a conversation (She died of head and neck cancer). But it was silence and love that eventually brought us closer in those trying monents. Not intelligent conversations.
There’s something fresh about unintelligent converstaions. There’s something very pure about it. There’s something about it which just allows to be yourself. When I meet my friend Indira in Delhi, outsiders might think that we are crazy. Cause we spend all our waking hours in conversations without any trace of intellectualism. But the image of three of us (her sister included) dancing in the middle of the night while lying on the bed and singing Hindi film songs always brings a smile.
And I strongly believe only if you are really intelligent then only you can carry on an unintelligent converstaion. Otherwise, throughout your life you will just keep on telling people that "Oh, I love women who can carry on intelligent conversation for hours." Man, try reading a book on Kafka. You can get your quota of intelligence provided that you can go beyond a few pages. ...
His reply on the Gmail chat reads something like this: ‘Somebody who has a decent knowledge of sports and a decent knowledge of international affairs. And somebody with whom I can carry an intelligent conversation for long hours.’
I bet, if he can tell me who’s Karen Hughs then I will resign from my job. Forget about international affairs, his knowledge of national affairs is quite pathetic. I mean, I am tired of listening to people talking about their love for being with someone who can engage in intelligent conversations.
I studied in JNU where everybody thought they can be world leaders in carrying out ‘intelligent conversations.’ Cups of tea were consumed in Ganga dhaba even as youngsters in cotton kurtas and kolhapuri chappals spent nights in animated intelligent conversations. Some even thought that they have a patent right to intelligence.
I have experienced intellectuals dissecting human emotions in most critical ways over glasses of whisky and laughter. But they never felt what it was to feel feelings. It was devastating as a 20-year-old to learn that the sentence ‘I love you... is a plain simple contextual one devoid of any feelings’ from a man who only believed in intelligent conversations. Anyway, times have changed. The same person now regrets about that particular phase of his life in which he was obsessed with everything that was remotely ‘intelligent’ and in the process lost out on one of the most beautiful things in life called ‘Feelings.’
I have nothing against intellectualism... I love intellectuals for whatever they are.. For all their pretensions, for all their arrogance, for their ability to bask in absolute nothingness. I love sharing a drink with them cause they are so self obsessed. But then why do people have so much of shame in admitting that they too enjoy unintellegent conversation? If they love intelligence why can’t they sit and finish Simone De Beauvoir’s Second Sex at one go?
As you grow old and experience the richness of varied relationships, coversations laced with intelligence just do not matter. When I laugh and play Ping Pong-Ting Tong (that’s a game in which one of us becomes a cat after eating some magic cookies) with my five year old niece Simrita then those moments of unadulterated joy simply overwhelms me. No logic, no rationality, no theory works in this case. Three years ago, I spent most of waking hours in a hospital holding hands and taking care of my terminally ill sister-in-law. There was no scope for carrying out a conversation (She died of head and neck cancer). But it was silence and love that eventually brought us closer in those trying monents. Not intelligent conversations.
There’s something fresh about unintelligent converstaions. There’s something very pure about it. There’s something about it which just allows to be yourself. When I meet my friend Indira in Delhi, outsiders might think that we are crazy. Cause we spend all our waking hours in conversations without any trace of intellectualism. But the image of three of us (her sister included) dancing in the middle of the night while lying on the bed and singing Hindi film songs always brings a smile.
And I strongly believe only if you are really intelligent then only you can carry on an unintelligent converstaion. Otherwise, throughout your life you will just keep on telling people that "Oh, I love women who can carry on intelligent conversation for hours." Man, try reading a book on Kafka. You can get your quota of intelligence provided that you can go beyond a few pages. ...
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