The encounter

With great enthusiasm he opened his lunch box, to be invited by a very fishy smell, which, to him, was the most invigorating aroma coming out of a lunch box. His eyebrows went up as he inhaled a deep breath, and he held it there, like he was in a sort of trance. Never mind how queasy his Marwari friend Rajesh felt, every day, sitting beside him at lunch table. Well, he was welcome to sit on another one, if he wished. Why should he care. And for all he cared, he knew all the tables had people busy taking the ‘kaanta’ out of their fish. He felt a tad bad for Rajesh, but continued to mix the bhaat and maach with confident, expert strokes. Having studied in America, he had lost touch with picking bones from Ilish. Too bad one didn’t get Ilish fillets in Kolkata.  Its by far the toughest fish to pick bones from, he had declared. So, his mother, in a very bong mom like manner, had carefully picked the tiny little rascals and packed his lunch with macher jhol and bhaat, topped with the boneless Ilish.

Arnab didn’t like being disturbed during lunch, especially if the lunch in question was Ilish maacher jhol-Bhaat. So he usually kept his phone on silent mode or simply switched it off for half an hour. before he could do that, it rang.

The Gods are against me today. First my crashed laptop and now this. Who the fish is calling…Hello?

Did I get you at the wrong time? You sound very annoyed, boomed a mature, strong, lady-like voice on the other side of the phone.

Well, what do you expect? I was having Ilish and Bhaat. Its blasphemous to disturb anyone around this time. Who are you by the way? Ritu?

Its funny how we spent an entire day together, and never exchanged our names.

Its impossible that I spend a day with you and not know you. Where did we meet?

Falaknama express. 16 A, 17 A. AC 2 Tier. You gave me your number, just thought I should call. I thought you might need a shoulder to cry on, after KKR got rogered yesterday by Mumbai Indians. *Loud guffaw*

Oh the miss uppity-up bong basher. And how come you called?

What’s up for the evening? Wanna catch up for coffee?

Whoa! That’s fast, are you from Bangalore?  Where do you wanna meet? CCD?

Nah. lets meet at the coffee house.

Eew. Pseudo intellectuals and dadus go there.

I am hanging up.

OK OK. Women! 5.30 pm, then.

 

--------

I never knew men can be on time too.

Good to see you. I never thought you’d call. But first lets exchange names. I am Arnab.

The sea, eh? Isn’t that what your name means?  I called because I was getting bored with all the relatives around. Too many.

You haven’t told me your name, yet.  And didn’t you mention you were here to meet your relatives. So why run away now? And you seem to know quite a bit of Bengali. Name please.

Too many relatives. why do you want to know my name? You can’t wait to classify. Isn’t that why?

Its feels wee strange dating some nameless babe over coffee

Date? Presumptuous, aren’t you. Patrali. No more questions around it.

*whistles*. Bong babe. Bong basher.

Don’t assume, Bong smarty pants.

The name can’t get any bong-er. Why do you hate us?

I ain’t one of you. And why is it so important to pick the non bongs from the bongs. Everywhere you go, you start hunting for your brothers.

So what are you? If Patrali isn’t Bong, I’ll take you to Tangra for Chinese.

Can I be classified as human? Will that satisfy your pursuit?

Patrali!! Should i call you Pat or Potrali?

Oh shut up! I am Patrali Das.

There! I knew it. I knew it.

Wait you, fish-head. My family hails from Orissa. We speak oriya at home and listen to Rabindra sangeet. By stroke of some misfortune, dad’s family is settled in Kolkata, hence all the bong knowledge. I live in Hyderabad and can’t live without idly-Sambar, as much as i can’t do without Puchkas and Rolls. Aar kichu jaanaar ichche? And we are going to Jimmy’s Kitchen tomorrow.

 

ooooodey!!!!!!!!!!!!! I should have known. Damn. Damn.

Hold it. The last time someone referred to us by that slang, wasn’t spared.

Don’t take offence ma’am. What do you think Bong is?. That’s slang too.

Stop calling me an oode, and I’ll stop too.

Deal.

 

I cook awesome Bengali food, you know, Arnab.

Its not surprising Pat. Half the Oriyas were cooks in big Bengali mansions. How come you don’t know?

@#%%$^%^^&^&^&!!! How impudent!

Are Na na,  Pat…I didn’t mean that..

You meant just that. This is precisely the reason I can’t stand Bongs……

 

(And the fight continues)

The Konk effect

Last weekend when Ananya came over, we watched Dil kabddi again. Somehow watching this movie with girl friends makes it so much more fun! Between sips of Absolut vodka, I realised how similar I am to both Meeta (Soha) and Simi(Konk). More of Simi, actually. 'Passive aggressive'- it defines her character perfectly, and the more I think about her character, it feels so me.

Sample this conversation between R and me

R: Yummmy! I love this briyani

KG: Thanks. Its a bit salty na..

R: no...not really...

KG: what do u mean by not really...u mean, it is a lil salty then...

R: No, man. It's not. Chill.

KG: Do you want achaar..it will balance the taste

R: No. KG: ok

R: wait, do you want some? KG: It's ok.....only if you want , u can get some for me too.

(R gets up  to get me some pickle )

KG: you want green chilly?

R: I'll get you one

KG: no no. That’s ok. I just wanted to know if you wanted any...its pretty low on mirchi

R: No, I don't.

KG: Ok. I thought if you did, you could get me one too. But it's ok.

R: Babe, just ask, and i'll get you. Ato complicate korcho kano bepar ta ke

KG: I was just seeing to it that you enjoy the goddamn biriyani.

R: Oh, but I am! Its you. You have a problem with it. Not me.

KG: Fine. I'll never ever ask again. Poocho to problem, nahin poocho to problem. Forget it.

(R continues to change channels)

I do this so often to him, that on realizing this now, I feel terrible!! :D And and I so hope Raj isn't telling his friends about his grief like Irrfan Khan about how bad I make him feel about the remote not being in its place :D :D

Signing off with Rhat Fateh Ali's Zindagi Yeh.

 

Tete-a-tete

First, she buys a ticket for Falaknama Express, AC-2 Tier. Before hopping on it, she buys two fat books- racy, romantic ones, full of sex and masala. As an after thought she also picks up a femina and a Filmfare on which Shahrukh smiles a sweet pappu smile. Just in case, the two fat books aren’t racy enough. She stops to think if  Haldiram Bhujia would be a good option or the plain oily potato chips. Deciding against both, she hops on board. She looks for her seat and finds a pile of ‘Indian railways berth linen’. She smells it and images of big dhobi ghaats  and some nullas flash in front of her eyes. She sets aside those thoughts and begins to arrange the white sheets on the berth. She tucks it well, without a crease anywhere, then, unfolds the blanket and spreads a white towel, on the white pillow. She utters a tiny thank you to Lalu Prasad. The train moves, ready to take her to the Dada- Boudi land.

 

She opens one of the fat books. A murder mystery. Some fool kills his girlfriend and leaves her hanging from the ceiling. Gross. She shuts the book, goes to the other fat one. This one’s too descriptive. She kicks her self for deciding on the books based on size and cover. The cover had a lipstick stained whisky glass..it looked promising. How could she have known?

There was someone sitting opposite her, a young man. Seemed around her age- 25-26 ish. He had been looking at her and her flurry of activities. He was rather amused. She looked at him. He took this chance…

You like making trains cozy….it almost looks like my bedroom.

Sorry? You talking to me?

(How dumb…in a two tier A/c with just two souls facing each other..what was she thinking?)

Well, yes. The only other face that I can see of, is that poker face Shahrukh Khan’s.

Sorry to offend your taste. But I think SRK rocks.

Hmmm. Actually ever since he has been part of Kolkata Knight Riders, I’ve been pretty okay with him too.

You are a KKR fan,eh?

Well,  IPL is all about showing your support for your state.

Yah right, that’s why they are playing in South Africa where devout fans like you can go watch?! IPL in such light is pointless, if you ask me.

I am not.

What?

Nothing. Are you from Kolkata as well?

As well? Am I supposed to assume you are from that city?

Sorry. yes, I am. So, are you too?

Umm…no. I am from Hyderabad. I am visiting my grandparents.

So basically you are from there?

Meaning? What is basically?

Meaning, you are a Bengali, and were born here, have your roots here…

How much you presume! Well, just because I was born there, have my relatives and cousins there doesn’t make me ‘basically’ from Kolkata. I think I am basically from no where.

You are a philosophical kind of person.

Is that a compliment?

I think being philosophical is so pseudo. Philosophical people tend to look at things differently just for the sake of giving it a serious look. Sometimes its so unnecessary.

Dude. You have no idea what you are talking about. I bet you are an engineer.

What?!!

Tell me, are you not?

Yah, I am. And I am sure you were from a flashy college, and you studied commerce or psychology or maybe even literature or some shit.

What nonsense! I was a political science student.

Same shit.

I can’t believe this. You disturb me, strike a forced conversation and are now uttering some irrelevant rubbish. You think this is a movie? Ah, you think this is jab we met?? You think this will turn into a love story of sorts?

Whoa! Calm down. I didn’t  disturb you. You were bored of your books. By the way, how do you manage reading such cheap sleaze?

What do you mean? To each his own, man. I bet you haven’t gone beyond Tinkle.

Mandrake and Phantom. I didn’t like Tinkle. I am into other stuff…

Whatever. You bongs. You think you can make a relative out of every loser you meet?

You just called yourself a loser. Hahaha.

(can’t resist smiling) Ok. Sometimes I talk shit. But really, what do you bongs think? Everyone is your dada/didi'/boudi?

I won’t go that far. I’d rather have you as my girl friend than have a promiscuous love affair with my sister in law.

Such nerve!

Here, take down my number.

And what makes you think I’ll call you.

Bongs are charming. You can’t resist calling me.

Please- a good bong is a dead one. (Furiously punching his number on her mobile).

So, tell me more.

You tell me…tell me, do you like Shutki Maach?

 

(This story has a lot to do with me. It is strange how I categorically state my dislike for bongs, but have my best pals, memories, family friends, and now a husband --  all bongs. So this one’s a confession of sorts- no matter how much I run away from them, I can’t help loving them. May be its a stroke of luck that the bongs I know are all such amazing people? :D

Whatever, here’s wishing all my darling bong bondhus a  Shubho Naboborsho!)

Gangu, I miss you.

Since I am already on a ‘missing India’ trip, I might as well blog all about it. Actually, there is one thing that makes me miss India, like crazy. Roadside Paani Puri, for sure. But besides that, it’s the very indispensible, dhobi wala. Ok, before you perverts start posting comments with your twisted thoughts, lemme tell you that old joke is a boring one. The topic in question is ironing. I swear, there is no way, I can iron my lazy family's clothes any further.  I no longer dream of mirchi bhajjis and indo-chinese chilly-chicken. I day dream of crisp, ironed, stacked, shirts and tees, that arrived every 3 days at my door step, wrapped in my old dupatta. And all he took was a mere twenty rupees. The thought of my mother fighting with him for charging 50 paise extra for jeans, makes me cringe now! And a day late in delivering our clothes, would only tell us how important a person he really was, in our lives. Oh, Gangu, where art thou?

Oh no! Where on earth have I landed?  Why is everything a DIY project ? As if, Raj foresaw this, he carried an iron box all the way from India, and on landing here, one of the first buys from  Ikea (stuff from where our house is pervasive with), was a nice, sturdy, ironing board. And it is not by a stroke of fate, that he has used it all but once, in the last six months. It’s a gift for me, he had said. I clearly remember.

I have had enough of beaches and bay view apartment stay. I have had enough of ozzie parks and barbeques. I want no more of the Darling Harbour and Opera, and I am sure done with the Great Ocean drive. I want the dhobi wala back at my door. I miss you so, Gangu.

(I once asked Moon, how she managed this problem, and she in her cool as cucumber voice told me- we always buy wrinkle free work wear, duh!  If only her brother had more sense…)

Technorati Tags: self,laundry,India

The Swayamvar, it seems.

I was just guffawing on reading India Uncut’s  Move Over Heer-Ranjha, and decided to do a video search. I really miss Indian television at times, especially the filmy masala and gossip that it has to offer at all times. But I was totally unprepared for this! I thought India Uncut was joking, just predicting future TV scenarios. Hell, no!!!

 

 

Good grief!

Will my producer , director friends please come up with better shows? Like the Yeh Jo hai Zingdagi kinds.

A socially responsible post

OK, so I have been told to do some socially responsible blogging. Apparently i write too much about self, and contribute little towards making this Earth a greener, better place. So here’s my bit to try and clear conscience.

Not many things catch my eye, unless of course,  it is about food. But this did- the url -- faff.me . It stands for Fight Against Fossil Fuels. Its a site trying to promote awareness about the crazy levels of poison we inhale, no thanks to our automobiles. If you do a quick search you’ll generate about 76,00,000 results with studies being conducted all over the globe to tell you a simple truth- If fossil fuel emissions continue to increase at this rate, the carbon storage capacity of the land and oceans will decrease and climate warming will accelerate. Not just that, Fossil Fuels are are used by human 100,000 times faster than they are made. Fossil Fuels take millions of years to form, and they are non –renewable. I know, a scary scenario, considering the fact that Fossil Fuels supply 90 % of the world’s energy.

So faff.me wants you to fight against it- Say NO to CO2 it says. This is how -

The way Faff.me promotes its message is cool. Instead of big bold headlines all over the city, which people will read and forget, they have initiated a campaign to upload videos that expose Fossil Fuel and the automobiles that run on them. There’s a cash prize for the greedy souls too, for the highest number of video hits on YouTube.

I know, fighting against the use of Fossil Fuels, especially by automobiles, is nothing but pointing a finger at your own self. Well, a little self education, doesn't hurt. For starters, how about considering the use of alternate source of energy? You know solar, hydro, wind- all free and renewable sources of energy. maybe, we don’t need that second car, you know?

I know its easier said than done. And with the likes of Nano- I think I know where we’ll all end up---- in a global gas chamber.

After all this, if you still don’t know how you can help, just spread this message. That’s one good thing done for today.

Wow walls

I always had a fascination for graffiti. Look what I found. I so loved the concept. I wish they did something like this in Hyderabad. I am getting big bold ideas. Tracer, what do you think of this??

 

The Wall project, is a concept by Dhaya Pilo, a filmmaker. She brought together a bunch of people to make the walls at Bazar Road, Bandra, Mumbai, come alive and look gorgeous. Soon it became a bigger project and they are now at many other locations. Its lovely- checkout some of the walls they’ve done at Bandra :

 

 

Their website: www.thewallproject.com

An Ode to Paracetamol

Do you know what it means to have a friend like you,

always in stock, dutifully waiting (in the cupboard),

to be consumed,

to relieve me off unpleasantness.

 

You are like that one friend,

one can call, at any time of the night,

and are sure to be understood,

forgiven, loved and soothed into oblivion.

 

You are omnipresent, like the one above,

inside my purse, in the draw, in my jeans pockets, on the kitchen counter,

you show up, always, when I need you the most,

to tell me, hey, relax, gulp me down, chillax and let me take your cares away.

 

You are my Talisman

my love, my pillar, my rock.

Only you know what it really takes

to shoo the pain away.

 

 

Technorati Tags: Self

Of daddies, mummies, and their little idiosyncrasies

A few weeks back, while we, Moon and I, were gossiping our heads off, she said something that has stuck to my head. It was what Moon said about children becoming like their parents, no matter how much they denied it or ran away from being like them. She was of course, talking about the not-so-nice qualities about our daddies and mummies. The good part is good and we have acquired them, and don’t mind getting more of- its the little irritating qualities that we always said we wont inherit, but seem to be doing a bad job of it. Come to think of it, hell, I am on a similar track too.

I couldn’t stand ma’s habit of purchasing plastic ‘dabbas’. She has a fetish for those - she started with those Chinese shops and has elegantly matured to being a Tupperware agent. whatever, I did not quite share this liking for plastic trash. And as the genes would have it, I seem to have grown into another dabba maniac. No number of dabbas are ever enough for my kitchen. The other day, I asked Raj, carefully treading over the volatile teatime conversation - ‘I want something, you promise you won’t yell’ . ‘I already know what you want….you want those Rubbermaid dabbas, don’t you’, he said in a matter of fact manner and burst out laughing. We both had a laugh, and that’s when I realized I had turned into a La Basanti (Ma’s name,  I know, very filmy) myself.

There is more. Last evening, I was reading my book, sipping cha and looking out of the window, while the skies poured their guts out. Suddenly, like in a dream, I got up, went into the kitchen, and in 10 minutes flat made Pakoras and cha for Raj and me. That was so ma like. I always got irked with ma for spending insane amounts of time in the kitchen- especially when she made pakoras while it rained. Why couldn’t she just get from the ‘bandi’ downstairs?  Of course, I didn’t have a choice in Sydney, but the way I did it, was very very ma like.

Ma’s OCD bug for cleanliness, which got the better of me in college, bit me when I got married. My unfortunate husband  faces the brunt, now. Its funny how ma would pull  the corners of the bed spread every 5 minutes, and it would drive me crazy. I do that now- now, even a crease on the bed cover drives me crazy.

I remember whenever we had a party at home, ma would get into a frenzy, cooking. I just couldn’t get the point.If the purpose of a party was to chill and have fun, why cook at all? Just call Nanking or bring home Biriyani. I always had fights over this with ma. And now, you should see the same old mocking KG. Raj dreads having a party at home, lest I finish cooking only after the guests leave. I cook an awful lot, too, just like ma.

Dad’s turn now. My uncles always told that dad was the ‘angry young man’ of our family, and that he slowly cooled, as he grew older. I remember how he lost his cool at the drop of a hat over stupid things. I dreaded those angry moments, and always told ma- I will be cool as cucumber with my children. Yah right! People who know me very well know exactly how cool this cucumber is. Its okay you know if a bit of his temper has rubbed off me too :D. Raj has a new way to calm me these days- each time my nostrils flare up in anger, he clicks a picture of mine with his Blackberry. How irking- but I crack up, nevertheless. (And one of these days I plan to crack his irksome Blackberry).

When dad has an opinion about something- even the three Gods- Brahma, Vishnu or Maheshwara cannot change it. KG lately is acting like a stubborn bull too.

Oh and the pencils- I remember, dad always was particular about the stationary we were given. He wanted us to always keep them in place and all together instead of throwing them all over. Of course, no such thing happened, and I was an unruly child. At times he did give me a yelling- very rare, but on other occasions, and even NOW, he collects them all together and keeps stray pencils and pens in one box. As a child of course, that bothered me- I wanted to be left alone. I even went a step ahead and told my brother that when I become a parent, my child will be given pens and pencils, which she could throw around as and how she likes, because they were the child’s. Huh?! No way baby. KG is a task master of a mummy. All pens and pencils in one box. Now!

 

So, little by little we become like them. We take to their idiosyncrasies and their little madness into ourselves, and become like them. And that’s what makes us love them all the more.

 

Miss you, ma, dad.