Satur Dayzzzzz

Aaah! Saturdays!! Did I spell that right? Naah, not right. Well, technically, in English, perhaps. But there's another way, a better way... S - A - T - U - R - D - A - Y - S. Now, THAT'S how you do it. Nice and easy, one moment at a time, stretched out, as much as one can... make each moment last, each moment count... reap the 100% dividend of sheer laziness...

What makes Saturday's even more special is the smug knowledge that there's one more lazy day in store. That's a bonus.

But Saturday, in and by itself has goodies in store for me.

First, the Business Standard. A paper that I "waste" good money on for 6 days a week. I'm sure there are folks out there who are avid readers of this (possibly respected) newspaper. I am sure their articles probably are well written, perhaps even well researched. But don't bother asking me. From Mondays through to Fridays, week after week, this paper has but just one sole use for me. The cryptic crossword and, to a slightly lesser extent, the sudoku. My mornings are an addiction to the filter coffee and the Indian Express. My evenings are an addiction to the sudoku and the cryptic c.w (and music and a nice glass of God's water, if you please)

But come Saturday, and the BS is a joy to read. The edit, penned by TN Ninan has been a joy to read for a long, long time. The double bonus, in recent years, has been to also have Shekhar Gupta's "National Interest" column too.

But what makes my Saturday truly, truly an indulgence of joy is a weekly blog by a man I now cherish as a friend. He has been a part time writer, a creative film maker and a full time wonderful human with a quirky view of life, a man who seems to share a secret knowledge that life is a big laugh and no, there's no point getting serious about this great big joke. Adi Pocha, whose once upon a time weekly column for the Indian Express, "Rebel Without A Clue" has now metamorphed into a weekly blog which he calls "My Friday Blog" but generously shares on a Saturday morning.... (if you wanna see his blog, here you go: https://adipocha.blogspot.in)

Saturday - and no, I'm too lazy to retype/re-spell it the correct way - becomes special with that triple treat of food for thought.

So, here's where I stand.

• Filter coffee - check
• IE - check
• Ninan - check
• Shekhar G - check
• Adi - double check.

Now what?

Of God, Gods and being Humane

For far too long I have been - for want of a better word - an "atheist".

I find it impossible to believe in the existence of a "God" (or multitudes of them) that is all knowing, all seeing, omnipresent etc. I do not believe in a 'divine plan' for mankind. 

I do hasten to confess, however, that I have no problem in going to temples (usually at the behest of the wife - 'god' save me from her looks if I don't!) or other places of worship. 

Including churches. Which are, generally, a bit cleaner and a lot quieter than many temples (with a few notable exceptions - Udupi, Sringeri, almost all the temples in Kerala) 

My familiarity with churches is a throwback to my school days, from classes 1 through 10. Studying in Christ Church High School, in Madras, a school that was built around a church, one could not but get real familiar with it. A towering, elegant steeple, a pristine prayer hall that had stained glass windows, nice comfortable pews AND a superb pipe organ - AND one Mr V Abraham, a history teacher who had a divine touch on the piano as well as with this magnificent pipe organ.

Memories of "church days" are usually memories of sitting comfortably on the benches under the blades of huge, really huge ceiling fans that rotated slowly, listening to the Padre's sleep inducing sermons and then standing up now and again to sing hymns in praise of Our Lord... 

Even then around the time I got to 9th or so, the first stirrings of questioning thought had been born. The seeds of un-belief were taking root in this rebellious mind.

In the years since I've been to temples, churches, gurudwaras and mosques, often as a tourist does, looking at the marvellous structures that man has built to glorify his Gods. 

I will not get into a debate with those who believe - you have your belief, it gives you strength and more. I'm glad for you - leave me to my godless world, in peace.

But I am, today, thinking. It is Easter, after all, and as the Christian world rejoices in the Resurrection of Christ, all those years of sermons by absolutely well meaning pastors ignite a small memory. 

What was Christ's message to man?

Did He not say, during the Sermon on the Mount, that He would introduce a new standard of righteousness that expanded on the Ten Commandments, which were at the heart of  Moses' law’s of prohibitions and commandments. “Thou shalt not kill” was no longer enough; Christ required His followers to reject hatred, be forgiving, and even love their enemies. He asked the people to change their hearts as well as their actions..

Are we worthy of Him, of His sacrifice? Even within the Christian world have we not riven His teachings into so many sectarian walls that war among themselves in His name?..

And in His name, or more accurately, under the PRETENCE of His name how many wars have been waged? 

If humanity can return to the basics of Humane thought, do we need Gods? 

Humane living. Now THAT is something I will subscribe to. Vasudaiva kutumbakam.... Like Christ's teachings, an ideal. 

Loopy Stuff - or, Devil in the Details!

The Devil, I've heard it said, is in the details. 

And so, therefore, by virtue of being born in the wrong side of September (which  makes me Virgo - Virgo, mind you, not vir...) 

I am preordained to be condemned. 

That sheet of paper on that table is not exactly straight.

The book on the bookshelf is not exactly straight up.

That bit of this, over there, is not exactly THAT.... 

You get the picture? 

That comma? The full stop. And all. And etc.,? So, Brit English (there's no other) says programme, no? 

Finicky.

Fastidious. 

Downright persnickety! 

That's me.

Which means what?

Nonsense rules the head and rompa/stomps all over the irrational heart!

So, as I stood in the showroom, checking out a variety of trousers... 

Texture.

Colour.

Cut.

Fit. 

Yeah, yeah, i know... 

But, what is that ONE thing that swung the deal?

Call me nutty.

Call me crazy.

Or mad.

Or just plain eccentric.

LOOPY even!!

Those small, itty-bitty things that make up less than one percent of the whole damn trouser... Loops. LOOPS! 

Stuff that belts go though?

You've seen them before I'm sure?

Yes? Yess!!

This pair of trousers had 8 loops going around the waist. 4 on one side. 4 on the other. And so, to 'paraphrase' (or bowdlerize) (or whatever) "If two heads are better than one", certainly God intended 8 loops are better than 6.

You can't go wrong with 8 loops.

So, trousers, tick! Paid for. Done.

What's that you say? I'm loopy?

Nah re baba, I'm just a screwed up Virgo.

We're wired different. Wired. Weird. Same difference. 

.... Never the twain shall meet!

I'm tired of the West. I am firmly of the East. The West has, for far too long,lorded it over the East and looked down in sneering scorn. It is time, I think, to set the score right.

In all this, while I am tired of the West, what can I say of the South? They don't even get into the East vs West argument, such smug buggers they are, staying aloof and snooty.

 

If you think I am talking about inward looking, contemplative, Oriental thought and philosophy set in conflict with Occidental culture, science and the Renaissance.... you're way of the mark.

That is a battle for another day. But yes, there is a small, tangential connection. The oft mentioned comment, "The East is east, and the West is West, and never the twain shall meet" is somewhat true.

But I have suffered ENOUGH. Not once, not twice, but on THREE CONSECUTIVE NIGHTS this resident of the eastern suburbs of this wretched hell-hole called Mumbai went traipsing (at the beginning) from the East, in an attempt to reach the western suburbs (which, by the way, I must say, is enough for a lifetime) What I started off doing (traipsing) soon degenerated into a slow funeral march, crawling, inching, and if you allow me to be accurate, millimetering through the traffic snarls of the uppity, snooty, snobby, pathetic, horrible, horrendous, lousy, terrible roads of the W suburbs...

Thursday: Left Churchgate at 5:05, reached AND crossed the domestic airport at 5:55 (YES!) and was en-route to a friends house in Kandivli. Guess what? Destination reached, finally, at 8:20! The Smokehead (a fine, majestic single malt) was worth that ride. As was the company - and the conversations too. But next trip to Kandivli? In my 4th rebirth after this! (That will be too soon)

Friday: This, in fact, was an unplanned, impromptu gathering of lie minded oldies (mature talents, as the initiator described this). Despite misgivings, tempted by the promise of free flowing conversations, one left home (Kanjur Marg - and YES, that IS a place, and it IS in Mumbai, seriously, go look it up on Google, real people DO live here) at 7:00. Was at the "J" end of the JVLR Highway by 7:35. Destination: Global Fusion, near Ambani Hospital in Andheri West, reached at 8:40! 

Saturday: As with Thursday, a PLANNED trip. Once again to Andheri West (Andheri: The heart of darkness? The abode of depression?) Shall say noting except one word, "Ditto" (same as above) 

I'm now seeking early retirement. From the "charm", the "seduction" and whatever else you may say to me, about the Western suburbs.

Give me places with names like Vidya Vihar. Like Bhandup. Nahur. Even Govandi and Bainganwadi. Give me a heaven called Kanjur Marg. 

Where the roads are good. 

Where traffic flows smoothly.

Where a journey is just a journey and not a fight with life.

Where Life is GOOD.... 

Where the East is, there is inner peace. 

And you, South Bombay (somehow, while the Eat and West became Mumai, SsoBo remained Bombay, no?) - yes, YOU, South Bombay, you just shut up! I'll bash you if you even smile smugly after reading this. Not ONE word from your snooty mouths!! 

Be warned. I'm in a fighting mood tonight. 

And yes, on that note, here's wishing you a Happy Gudi Padwa.

A Cut Above - A Frontier Reclaimed

This may well be one of the most politically incorrect things I'm about to do. As the whole world (and it's aunt) glorifies International Women's Day I strike a note of defiance and discord.

Ever since last Saturday I've been restless. Sleep, too, has eluded my nights. I wake up each morning, bleary eyed, and look at myself in the mirror. It is not a pretty sight - never much to look at, to begin with, I have been looking even more disheveled these past few days. 

It's the hair. It's all wrong. Wavy patterns. Sticking out like weeds, especially around the ears. It's too long. That's the problem. Too long. It's grown to all of two inches, by God! 

I need a hair cut. And so, today morning, a Sunday, I go over.

There was a time... My neighbourhood had a barber. Yes, a barber. Exactly one. Exactly the quantity required. This was not too long ago. 

And then things changed. The n.hood now has more than several, which is many. All of them nice, fancy, air-conditioned places. Offering more than a hair cut. 

A manicure. Pedicure. Streaks. Bleach. De-tan. And a lot more. I can - and have - tolerate these, without succumbing. 

But... All these new and hep upmarket places have a feature that leaves me uncomfortable. They are all *Unisex* "parlours" 

And there lies my problem. A serious one. 

It's as if the last frontier has been breached. The last bastion has fallen. There's no place left where a man can get his haircut in quiet peace. 

To the left there's chatter. To the right there's chatter. One feels like one is in the middle of the charge of the light brigade. Colouring to the left, curlings to the right, volleyed and thundered.... And even the men who come there?! It is as if no one goes for a plain hair cut any more... They want to perm, they want to make three strands long, they want a small bit of goats hair below the lower lip... And the discussions are endless. 

So, today, I went for a haircut. To THE barber. Who, seeing me after almost a decade, nods silently and quietly points to a seat while attending to an already seated client. 

I look around. Familiar surroundings. Simple. Basic. Nothing fancy. Not a sign of female presence. Not even on the walls. Silence prevails, except for the occasional snip of a pair of scissors. And once in a while, a comment. 

Conversation. Not chatter. About the state of the economy. And corruption. And politics. The customer and the barber dwell, briefly but wisely, equally dismissive of Sharad Pawar and Modi, equally contemptuous of Rahul Gandhi and Kejriwal. I keep my silence. Do not interrupt "Men at Work"

Once done, he turns to me, looks at my reflection in the mirror, nods and asks a decade old question, "Ek dum short, hai na?" and, without waiting for my response, begins.

I feel at peace. A frontier has been reclaimed. 

Murder... (not) most foul...

When I woke this morning, I saw a murder. Right outside my living room window! It was bad enough that today, being a day after India's 64th Republic Day, there were no newspapers! But to see a murder?!!

Thankfully, this was an unusually quiet murder - no noise, at all. You could actually hear a pin drop.

The wife, in the kitchen, getting my morning dose of filter cofee, made a lot of noise when I called her to see what I was seeing - "Rohini", I called, "come here, look out of this window. There's a murder happening right now!" So she came, noisily, eyes blazing full on, all agog and excited.

"Murder?" she asked, "What murder? Where?" 

I pointed. Outside my window. There's that rain tree? I said "Look, there?"

Her voice went up a few more decibels. A higher octave altogether. "What?! Those crows?!! I can see only crows!" 

So I asked her, laughingly, "How many do you see?"

There were a large enough number to safely say that one needed more than the fingers of both hands..... perhaps around 15 or 16. So I said to her, "What do you call a large number of crows?"

Those wide eyes went impossibly wider, that voice even one octave more as she did a small gig in excitement.... "Aaaaaaaaahhhaaaaa?!! A MURDER of crows?!!!!"

My coffee tasted a wee bit more fresh this morning. :)

From the Strange, Weird Land of my Dreams

The fortress was on a cliff overlooking a rocky bay. 300 feet below, waves crashed onto the shore, leaving a milky froth that smoked and spewed. 

The rampart walls had little opening for archers to shoot flaming arrows out. But that is an aside. 

I'm scared of heights. Terrified, is a better description. 

I was crouched, knees bent, looking down at the waves crashing far beneath me. 

I was crouched, as I said, knees bent. On the OUTSIDE, my back to the wall. Sweating in terror. Holding on for dear life. Not with my hands. 

My BACK to the wall, pressed into it. My feet resting on two half foot long bricks protruding out of the fort's wall. 

In my hands a fucking pressure cooker. Which I'm washing, scrubbing, removing the grease, using rain water flowing down a gutter. 

Using both hands i throw the now cleaned cooker over my shoulder, up across the wall, and hear it plonk perfectly into place. 

I smile in relief and then fall. The ocean rushes up to swallow me.

I'm piss terrified and feel my bladder open loose.

Eyes snap open. Need to pee.

Dream over. 3:13 a.m.