Technicolor, or Black and White?

Technicolor, or Black and White?.

FIROZI AND FUSCHIA

First Impressions: 

Visiting apna Bharat, aka India after a gap of nearly two years, one cant help but crinkle  the nose a  bit at the strange smell that assaults the senses as you step out into the churning couldron of Delhi traffic. As I venture to cross the street toward the waiting car, I am horrified at the cabs rattling forward in our direction. Obviously, their drivers couldn’t be bothered that  a family with little kids is trying to cross over to the other side, just steps away. Mindful that I do not start to act like a head shaking, mouth agape NRI, I take this literally, in my stride. Now seated in my dad’s family car, my kids are being skittish. Unused to riding a car sitting in anything other than their assigned car seats, they don’t know whether to be pleased or apprehensive at this concession – here they get to place their little tushies directly onto the fake leather car seat covers. My eighteen month old,  on his maiden trip to India, insists on being belted in. Ayan, theolder of the two, is sitting docilely in place, as he is used to traveling by car in India. On his first trip back, he had many misgivings about riding in the car without his child seat. Now, he vies to sit in the front passenger seat all the time, knowing he cant even dream of doing the same in Chicago.

Marching in Tune: 

Once we’ve been home  a few days, and gotten over our jet lags -for a week, at three in the morning, the kids and I helped ourselves to whatever eatables we could find on the kitchen shelves and in the refirigerator

– we start to match our steps with the rest of the household. Now we’re singing in tune, not warbling away by ourselves at unearthly hours.

It’s a Mad, Mad World Out There:

About a week after I arrive I finally decide to take the plunge –  into the traffic – where scooters and motorbikes are wedging themselves into tight spaces in between the Audis,the  BMWs and the SUVs. It takes anywhere from one to three hours to get anyplace from my parents’ house in Gurgaon. And what drives a person nuts is the fact that  lane- driving is nonexistent, and I wonder why theroad people, whoever they are, have even bothered to demarcate the roads.

In fact,  even traffic signals are insouciantly ignored, and at night, the odd motorist who actually stops at a redlight is honked into motion before the signal turns green.

The Magic of Delhi

Well, I have finally made it to Karol Bagh now, and mercifully, the weather gods have been benevolent this year. Its mid-April, yet the sun does not glare down withthe expected intensity. It was a bitterly cold winter I’m told, and it seems that the colder-than-usual weather pattern is continuing – for now. Delhiites definitely do not spend the entire year pining for summer like people in Chicago do, and with good reason.The period from April to August can be scorchingly, unbearbly  hot, and when someone asks me whether I prefer a cold snap or a heat wave, I don’t miss a beat and choose the former. Well, this evening the weather is just perfect. Not cold, and not hot. This particular Karol Bagh by lane is right behind the main, crowded street where all the shops are. Even though it’s a Saturday evening, there are no throngs of shoppers here. There is an aloo-tikki walla at one corner of the street, and the aromas wafting up to me in the gentle breeze are simply divine.No screwing up one’s nose at these smells!  This street has some small unimpressive-looking eateries, that no doubt churn out the most scrumptious Punjabi food., a couple of jewellers, a few small shops, and homes above the shops.  Uncharecteristically,the men here seem happy to be chatting among themselves, and oblivious of  the women. Not that there are too many of them, for they would be busy scouring the merchandise in the shops one street away. And being ogled at.

But snippets like these it possible to unfurl in the mind’s eye what Delhi may once have been. For centuries past, Delhi has been a center of the Arts, culture, and all that is fine and high-bred. Wipe away the smog, and the crassness with one corner of the perfectly pekoed  dupatta of  the Delhi damsel,  and you will see that Delhi still has character. Its tehzeeb or manners are still intact, albeit eclipsed by the brashness that is now a given.

A trip to Chandni Chowk reinforces this line of thought. The paranthas at parenthewalli galli may not be all that spectacular,over-rated if you ask me,  but touring the restored Ghalib Ki Haveli in Ballimaran, where the great Urdu poet Mirza Ghalib once lived, loved and created, is surreal. Mirza Ghalib is acknowledged as a true Master of Urdu poetry. Yet his abode, this haveli, used to be in a shambles until not very long ago. Now, due to newspaper expose’s highlighting its misuse and pitiable condition, and the public outcry thus created, the Archelogical Society of India has carried out vital restoration work. It now has a small shrine dedicated to the great poet, with framed samples of his shayari, some original photographs, and interesting trivia adorning the walls.

Vintage Value:

Here, in Chandni Chowk, which means ‘moonlit courtyard’, one can hark back to the splendors of the Mughal era, the walled city of Shahjahanabad, which is now known as purani dilli. These used to be canals crisscrossing the entire market, and they reflected back the moonlight at night!

As I look around me at the choking streets, the ominous tangles of electrical wires clumped overhead, and the utter lack of sanitation, I feel bad for what could’ve been. In the west, history is preserved, polished and peddled to tourists; milked for all its worth.And here in our country, vintage is kabaar, or trash.

 Mixed Bag:

In the course of the next few weeks I visit the posh Ambience Mall in Gurgaon, the crowded Lajpat Nagar Market in South Delhi (where I get so antsy at the idea of elbowing my way through the masses of shoppers, that I buy a couple of plates of the mouthwateringly yummy moon daal pakoris with chutney and grated mooli, and get into the car, shopping be damned), and Janpath. Now going to Janpath, haggling with the stallowners, and getting branded export surplus clothes at throwaway prices is a very college-student thing. Artificial earrings, mirrorwork jholas, and grilled sandwiches washed down with cold coffee. These were things we did when we went AWOL from LSR, choosing an afternoon at Janpath or Dilli Haat over the sleep-inducing drone of the post-lunch  Political Science lecture.

Revisiting Memory Lane: 

But me, it’s as if I’m stuck in time. I still make sure that I go to all mystudent-day haunts, and embark on these shopping jaunts. And by the time I’m done indulging each and every nostalgic bone in my body, the six weeks have flown by. It’s time to pack my bags and head home (?) to Chicago. And, as always, I arrived as Apprehensive American, and am going back as dyed-in-the-skin Dilliwaali. When I got off the plane, I was all pastels and grays, now I’m firozi and fuschia!

Starlight Evenings, Good Food, and the Company of Friends

Growing up in New Delhi,   power outages, were (and still are) commonplace.

‘ Light gayi’ meant everyone getting out of their homes and onto the neighborhood streets. It was a legitimate excuse for us kids to snap shut our textbooks, and  head outdoors; An excuse to take a break from the endless studying (or mugging) for the never- abating  slew of  tests and exams –  weekly tests, semester exams, finals, and whatnot;   we really had to study  very hard.

So it was hardly surprising that, as soon as the electricity went out, the entire ‘colony’ (housing complex) would be plunged into darkness. But definitely not our spirits.  Hand pushed ice cream carts with their trademark striped canopies would trundle up the street.  The chuski sellers , with their crushe- ice popsicles bathed in thick, sweet colored  syrup, were equally in demand.  We children would beg our parents for the few rupees it cost to buy ourselves an orange bar, a ‘cola’ bar, or the pricier indulgences – a choco -bar, or the mango-duet. Mmmm, my taste buds have certainly not forgotten.

 The younger kids busied themselves with games of tag, hopscotch, or hide and seek.  The teenagers, too cool for these childish games, would just ‘hang out’ . The girls would stroll hand in hand, giggling and swapping  secrets. The boys would saunter about cockily. The parents, knowing that the kids were near by  and safe, would chit-chat among themselves. The ‘uncles’ would invariably discuss politics. Their opinions and pronouncements on corruption, the upcoming elections, and the maladies afflicting the State of India, were bandied about in deep, all-knowing tones. For each man considered himself no less than a total authority on the Indian Political System and the “gorment”. The aunties would be discussing their bais or maids,  or the sabzi vaala (vegetable vendor) and his  tampered-with weighing scale. Sometimes these batti-less  evenings turned into impromptu potluck dinners. All the mommies would bring out what they had cooked for that evening’s dinner – a daal or a sabzi, a mutton or chicken dish, or a pulao. The rotis would be pooled in too, and always, the verandah of the ground floor flat would become the venue. We kids would be told to bring in the plates, katoris (bowls) and spoons from our respective homes, and the feast was on!  Every household’s everyday, homemade fare would be pooled together to make for a sumptuous spread. As Mrs Khanna’s  rajma chawal was spooned onto glistening stainless steel dinner plates, or Mrs Aggarwal’s aloo ki sabzi  (potato curry) was scooped up with fresh made phulkas, everyone  got to dig into food that tasted different and therefore yummier  from the  daily fare served up in their homes. Never mind if all Mrs Mathur had cooked tonight was khichdi;

Teamed with another family’s raita, and some tangy lemon pickle, it was lip-smacking.

And then, as suddenly as it had ‘gone’, the electricity was back on. One  could hear a collective cheer of “aa gayi” (it’s back),  and everyone  hurried  back indoors, albeit reluctantly. Tonight, the party was over. But never mind, we all had the utmost  faith in our  permanently beleaguered government-owned  electricity provider, the Delhi Vidyut Board.  Come tomorrow evening, it would surely deliver – another power cut, and another impromptu evening with the neighbors.

Thirty and Flirty

Having entered the third decade of my life fairly recently, I am sill acclimatizing  I now answer in the affirmative to all of the following questions:

1.  Mother of two?

2. Married nearly ten years (really?!),

3.Need reading glasses?

4. Use anti-ageing products?

 Since I was born at the very beginning of eighth decade of the twentieth century, there’s no denying that I have entered, certainly and irrevocably, my thirakta thirties.

Scrolling down  the ‘Age’ field in online forms, I find, that I have to well, scroll down quite a bit. I must hold the ‘down’ arrow long enough to allow for my year of birth to appear. Oh well! small nuisance, it is!

Peering at myslf in the bathroom mirror, I would be lying if I said that I cannot spot the ever-increasing tally of grey hairs that now call my head home. But hey, my skin is still wrinkle-free.Thank God for small mercies. But, when I flip through my wedding and honeymoon photos, I can’t help but notice the  youthful glow that is obviously missing now.  I tell myself,  it must be the lack of make-up.  And anyway, who has the time (or money) to invest in make-up?

‘Till a few years ago ,all the  ‘uncles’ and ‘aunties ‘would often ask me, ‘Beta, which class are you in?” mistaking me for my  sister, who is twelve years younger. They would be surprised when they realized that it was the elder one they were addressing, a married woman, well past school going age. Not anymore. And to think that I actually felt a little indignant when they underestimated my age!  I make comforting clucking noises to mysel fas I mumble : ” It must be the wisdom showing. Not the age.”

The truth is, I no longer feel offended or even notice when  kids address me as ‘Aunty‘. Actually, I tend to look at the brighter side – atleast they don’t say ‘Aunty-ji (yet)‘.

During the ‘ wonder years’, a huge meal topped by a triple sundae had no body-altering consequences whatsoever. Now, even a kids-sized scoop of ice cream seems to get deposited directly onto my waistline. Talk about getting chubby in all the wrong places!

Those were the days, when weekendsmeant late-night partying, impromptu outings with friends, or at worst,watching a few movies back-to-back. Now, it’s all about getting to know other ‘couples with kids’, home-cooked potluck dinners, or, at our very adventurous best,  a to the zoo or the aquarium. Impromptu – well, is that even a word these days?

Songs that were all the rage in my terrific teens, have now joined the annals of the ‘golden oldies’, or the ‘olden goldies’. Or whatever. Who cares. I am all for standing up for the Right to Music.

I was recently made aware that the phrase ‘crow’s feet’ does not refer to the anatomy of a bird; Rather,it is an unwelcome addition to the facial anatomy of women.

Talk about simple needs. A good book, hot chai and a bowl of Maggi.  An afternoon to myself. Is it too much too ask? Yes. It is.

My husband is alarmed by my plummeting interest in costume (read fake) jewelry and bargain (read unbranded) clothing. He is helpless in the face of my increasing aptitude for gemology (read diamonds), and enthusiasm for haute couture.

But hey, it’s not all bad, this turning thirty. For, when I have the time, and I’m dressed to the nines, I can still make heads turn. So what if most of those heads are of the balding, receding hairline variety? One has got to make concessions, and move in sync with the times.

And didnt’ I read somewhere just the other day, that THIRTY is actually the new TWENTY?

 

 

 

Sometimes Sweet, Sometimes Savory- a baby story

I observe my sons growing and learning, and most of the time it’s fascinating. But there are several instances when one is bewildered,  because instead of getting easier, increasingly independent and manageable, they seem to become more out of hand .

The moment my older son  first beheld the tiny bundle  swaddled in the hospital-issue white with red-and-green-borders blanket, with the ‘unisex’ pink and blue (though more pink than blue) hat atop his soft, downy head, was captured on camera by an obliging nurse. His expression spoke volumes: It said “Wow!, so there actually was a real baby inside mommy’s belly!”

But post delivery, as I got shifted to a private room, he visited. Having given birth via C-section, there was a monitor to  track blood pressure, heart rate and other vitals. There was an  IV going,  for administering fluids as well as pain medication. A  was eyeing all this paraphernalia that was hooked up to his mom, rather apprehensively. When he smiled, the dimple on his right cheek hardly showed.

I realized that for him, anxiety for his mother’s well-being had cast a shadow on the excitement of becoming a big brother. I called him over to my bedside, and put my arm around him. I showed  him what the different machines were for, and said that the needle poking  into my arm didn’t hurt at all (yeah, right).

He managed a wider smile then, but I could see  that

baby two

he still wasn’t  convinced that I wasn’t seriously ill.

Once I was home with the baby, it was evident that A was  more relaxed. No more hospitals, needles and nurses.  He could see that his mother still needed a lot of rest, and that she had to spend almost all her time feeding the baby.

We were lucky that we had my mother, father, and other close family around, and they took care that he wasn’t by himself ever. They laughed and joked with him, read his favorite books together, and kept him engaged.

Despite not getting any one-on-one time with me, he was very understanding – and helpful!  He would scurry around enthusiastically, offering to run little errands around the house. I would ask him to bring me a diaper or  burp cloth, and he just loved watching me give his little brother a bath in the sink. Until the initial excitement wore off,  he was the ever-obliging gentleman! Most of his own 5 year old needs- waking up and getting dressed for school, bath time, meals –  were being taken care of by the other people in the house.

Now, we’re all aware that newborns are wont to crying spells day or night, without any apparent reason. And if you have a colicky baby, it may just scream its little lungs out all day and night. We were lucky in that we didn’t seem to have a particularly gassy baby; however, we did have round-the-clock feeding, burping, changing, and rocking to sleep.

Our older one sometimes reached the end of his tether; clearly fed up with the heightened noise-levels and commotion, he would  protest.  He said that he loved his little brother ‘very much’, but was tired of the crying, and wanted some ‘peace’.  He complained that  he could hear his brother screaming even when he was asleep in his own room. Considering ourselves very lucky if we  had three straight hours of sleep at night, we heard him.

It was a tough time for everyone, even though we were fortunate in having my mom fly down all the way from India just to help us out. Still, it was a trying time for everybody in the family, not the least for the tiny infant who was trying to get accustomed to life outside the womb!

My husband now tells me how challenging  those first three months were  for him.  Battling a constant sleep backlog, he would snap at people at the drop of a hat.  Now, his coworkers laugh, and revealed  how they tried to steer clear of him during those ‘postpartum’ days.

Cut to 2012:  baby number two is now, at two years,  L’Enfant terrible .  And our first-born is a  precocious second-grader with an opinion on everything.

When debating about whether to have a second child,  one had always heard people say, “Don’t worry, the second ones are much easier. They seem to grow up soooo much faster. You won’t even realize , and they won’t be babies any more!”  (I tell you, it’s a conspiracy)

We all know that when our kids are little, the days are crazy, frenetic and oh-so-busy. I don’t know for how long now, but my meals are always a rushed affair. My trips to the bathroom have to be  super-short, unless I steel myself to lock  the bathroom; I  turn a deaf ear to the screaming, and to those little fists threatening to bang the door down. As a last resort, you can have your toddler accompany you to the bathroom, the shower, and  your  closet.  Toddlers, I have realized, are innately puzzled and fascinated by everything; and they have an unquenchable curiosity. Couple those traits with well-developed speech, and you will have all manner of strange questions directed at you. Plus the temper tantrums, the  insouciance, and the inevitable messes and spills.  Makes for an intoxicating cocktail, eh? No wonder then that most of the moms with small children that I run into, look like they’re about ready to pass out. And obviously, the degree of frazzled-ness increases with the number of children you have.

I’m fortunate that due to the longish age gap between my sons, I do have one kid in school until 3 pm every day. And, I won’t deny that I  am looking forward to the day when both my sons will be in school all day; But, as I envision my two grade-schoolers  waving  goodbye from a big yellow  bus, what is that unmistakable pang I feel?  Is it the joy of ‘liberation’?  The anticipation of having the day to myself? Could be. But I strongly suspect, that what I’m feeling is actually a tug at my heartstrings;  a bit of separation anxiety. That is why, as I walk back home from the bus stop, there isn’t exactly a spring in my step. But it’s not as if I’ll dragging my feet, either. I reckon it’ll be a mixed feeling.

THURSDAY Happenings

THURSDAY Happenings.

JAB TAK HAI JAAN

JAB TAK HAI JAAN.

Memories

No complaints, no regrets

About moving bag and baggage here

To the mighty US

But every once in a while

My heart begins to pine

And my mind begins to wander

To another place, another time

My senses are as if transported

And I can smell the rain – kissed earth

In my ears is the sound of rustling peepal leaves

And my eyes behold the flaming Gulmohars

It’s as if my nose remembers

How divine the air smells in autumn,

And the capital all decked out for Diwali,

etched in memories never to be forgotten.

They say that Delhi has changed –

It’s noisier, faster, more crowded… and just not the same,

But how can one forget the joyful days at school,

Prancing ‘coz the rains finally came?

The merciless sun of summer,

The heat and the gusts of hot air

The bitter cold of winters past

The thick, all-enveloping fog

So what if this was a choice I made

To start anew so far from home

I know that no one asked me to move

To leave my comfort zone

But how does knowing this help

What difference does it make?

When one is feeling estranged and bereft

Of the land they once chose to forsake?

JAB TAK HAI JAAN

Went to watch this movie on the day after its release – it was a weekday, and AMC Barrington wasn’t milling with moviegoers like it would be over the weekend. The parking lot was almost empty, so we managed to get a spot close t the theatre entrance. So far so good.

A Shah Rukh Khan release never fails to create an uproar here in the US, and its not uncommon for the desis to break into heated arguments and squabbles over theater seats. Here in America, they have the ‘free seating’ system in movie halls, which means that once you have your ticket, you are admitted into the theater area. Once in, you are supposed to locate your screen, and find yourself some seats. So, as far as getting  good seats goes, it’s purely on a first come first serve basis.

Coming back to JTHJ, the hall was about 25 per cent occupied that Wednesday evening, impressive considering it was a weekday. Otherwise, even on weekends, its not uncommon to see movies running to empty houses, with no spectators bar the rows of plush, but unoccupied seats.

Being a Shah Rukh-starrer and a Yash Chopra directed film (his last one no less), JTJH was not subject to the same dismal fate. The balcony section was almost fully occupied.

The trailers finally petered out, and we saw the familiar Indian Censor Board Certificate on the screen, with the film title ‘Jab Tak Hai Jaan’ scrawled across it.

Expectant and excited, my husband, our two young boys, and I, waited for the magic to unfold. This film, by all accounts, was touted to be the saga of all romantic sagas.   For,   if Yash Chopra + SRK = Magic, then imagine the conjuration that could be  SRK +Katrina Kaif+ Yash Chopra!

The film begins with bomb squad expert Samar Khan (Shah Rukh) of the Indian army, defusing his 95th bomb in the militant-infested Kashmir valley. The love story that lies at the heart of Jab Tak Hai Jaan unfolds through the diary of Samar Anand, which falls into the hands of young BBC intern Akira (Anushka Sharma).

Through the pages of his diary, Akira learns that there is a story behind the stoic, almost melancholy demeanour of Samar Anand. She   reads about the cruel twist of fate,  from which emerged this man who flirts with deth every single day, defusing deadly bombs sans a bomb-suit, with his bare hands.   Beyond impressed and moved by his story, Akira decides to do shoot a documentary, “the man who cannot die’, for her internship project. She pesters her boss til she gives the nod, and the boss secures permission from the Army brass.

As she follows Samar Anand and the rest of the bomb squad around, Akira realizes she’s falling for him. She feels that Samar and she are very alike – they both are fearless, unafraid of death, and even confesses her love to him.

This is the intermission, and from this point on the twists and turns get increasingly incredible, and I don’t  mean that as a compliment.  Aditya Chopra has written the story and screenplay, and his late father’s indubitable  directorial prowess cannot make the hackneyed plot more believable. It just about manages to make it tolerable. But, where the director succeeds, the editing falters. The film, at two hours and forty minutes, is loooong!

Kaif delivers her lines in her usual  accented Hindi, and her English accent is unmistakably American.  No problem, except that she’s playing a young  British heiress, the born-and brought-up in London kind.  In fact, she is even tutoring Samar Anand in the correct way to speak the ‘propah’ Queen’s English, and in return, he is teaching her to sing in Punjabi. Thank God they’re playing pretend.

The  music has been scored by AR Rahman and the lyrics are  by Gulzar – the illustrious Oscar-winning winning team of Slumdog Millionaire and many other fabulous musical scores. While the songs aren’t bad at all, they’re just not up to the usual standards of maestro Rahman. The background score though, also by Rahman, is haunting and evocative. Gulzar’s lyrics, especially for the Punjabi folk song ‘Heer’ , resonate, weaving a beautiful picture longing and love.

Shah Rukh Khan is in his element as the middle-aged army man, essaying the part with the right amount of savoir faire;  but his performance as 25-year old Samar seems more than just a tad forced-  the too-wide-to-be-real grins, flashing those dimples on cue, and the young, fresh-faced lover boy act – he is clearly trying too hard to pull it off. Filmmakers kindly keep in mind,  it’s been more than fifteen years since he played Raj in DDLJ!

Having said that, it’s not the actor’s fault;  it’s the flawed story line. How could the makers expect a forty-seven year old to convincingly play a twenty-something? And in my humble opinion, Shah Rukh is no Aamir Khan, a la 3 Idiots, whose   portrayal of an undergraduate Engineering college student was so authentic, it had us convinced.

Anushka Sharma as the fiesty, ambitious  journalist is bang-on. She gives an energetic yet measured performance, and takes care to not overact.

As for the lovely Katrina Kaif, she is the quintessential Yash Raj heroine – achingly beautiful, and hopelessly in love. The lady really tries to put in a heartfelt performance. But once again, the ridiculous story line fails her. However, her dance moves in a London underground nightclub literally take your breath away, and is easily the one stand-out sequence from the film. Her flawless dancing bears testimony to the fact that she really has come far as a performer, and her reputation for being exceptionally hard-working is very well-deserved.

As the film culminated in its bittersweet and completely predictable ending,  our family of four started to file out of the theater.  We were relieved that the movie was finally over, but also disappointed, and somewhat exasperated. One couldn’t help feeling  let down, even as many in the audience stopped in their tracks to watch the still shots of the late Yash Chopra during the making of the film, and interacting with his actors. His mastery over his craft, and the easy rapport he shared with the stars came through.

All in all, Jab Tak Hai Jaan is average fare, worth watching once, if only to pay homage to the departed King of Romance.