Meet Love's Enemy No. 1 OR Papa versus Pyar

Pyar = Hindi word for love; and for those wondering, the chick in the pic is not Pinkiji but the beautiful Madhubala (long gone though), one of Hindi cinema's most beautiful actresses.
Indian Culture Rule 3: Broad-minded parents send their children to co-ed schools but prefer if boys and girls don't talk to each other. Education is to make the children think but parents prefer to think for their children. Of course that’s a generalization and perhaps unfair too, but only if we were to restrict that generalization to that little percentage called ‘urban India’. For most of India, the decision of the parents is not just sacrosanct it’s also unthinkable to not listen to your parents and perhaps have an independent view. Is listening to your parents necessarily wrong? Not at all since given their experience parents can usually be counted upon to give the right advice, suggest the better of two paths and generally think for the benefit of their children. However, when children and parents grow in different directions – something that is commonly happening in a lot of Indian families – parental advise might not always be right or for the benefit of the parties involved. I have written much on the issue above when we discussed arranged marriage, child abuse and even the Rizwanur Rehman murder. Wont say much here except present to you the current situation in the Mishra household… not good I say and the wily old man is blaming it all on yours truly!

Mishraji’s Musings 2. Meet love’s Enermy No. 1
The mood in the Mishra household has been somber for the last two days. For those who missed the earlier post (Kamasutra, Krishna and cultural crisis), Mishraji's 19-year-old daughter - Pinki ji - declared she was in love with a 'Sam'. Now most would know that 'Sam' is a non-Hindu name unless you are US/UK-returned or are called 'Saminder'. Both those options don't appeal to Mishraji. Firstly, he would not expect his daughter to fall in love and if at all she were to entertain 'such' ideas, he would prefer her emotions to be inclined towards some 'Shyam', preferably Hindu and vegetarian.
So the mood in the Mishra household has been somber for the last two days... At least till Mishraji leaves for work. Once he steps out of the house and one can hear his scooter turn the colony gate – he refuses to get the silencer fixed – two distinct sounds can be heard from the Mishra home. If on one hand there are rebellious Hindi movie songs playing – the pyar kiya to darna kya (what's to fear, when your love's here!) variety – the other would be Mrs Mishraji frequently screaming out her daughter's name, trying to compete with the blaring love songs. If at all the songs stop, Pinkiji can be heard bawling with frequent "Oh Sams!"Each time Pinkiji says "Saaaam", Mrs Mishraji responds with, "Have some shame. If your father hears you taking THAT name, hell will break loose and you will still be locked up. Oh why did you do it Pinki?"
Mishraji is really angry. He doesn't care if Pinkiji does not complete her three years of college - she is in second year - but he will not have "some Sam" near his daughter. Pinkiji has been grounded and despite her being a rather spirited girl, one doesn't think she has tried to run away from home again. Since the last interaction with the patriarch - where Mishraji accused one of putting ideas into his daughter’s head - yours truly has been in hiding. This morning as one discussed increasing water problems in the colony with nosy Mrs Kohli who knows everything about everyone – she is retired Colonel Kohli's wife, more about them later – Mishraji came out of his house.
It was too late for one to duck behind the boundary wall. He glared, one smiled back politely. "Don't smile madam," he wagged an angry finger. One stopped immediately. "Because of you and your media and all these promoting-love and all that, my daughter is behaving like some love-crazed hippie. I will not allow it." One was thinking of a response to that when Mrs Kohli decided to speak up instead.
"Ajji Mishraji, in today's world, be broad minded. Children are very smart today, they know what they're doing," she said and was about to launch into a story – Mrs Kohli always has a story to support another story – Mishraji responded with more fervour than one thought him capable of. "Mrs Kohliji, I know all about broad minded. My daughter studies with boys, wears jeans, does not cook and listens to songs that say hips don't lie. My son listens to gangsters who talk bad poetry and call it music. I am broadminded. But if you think broadminded means allowing a 19-year-old girl to be fooled by some crook who comes from a background completely different from hers... I will not let it happen. You kindly keep your nose out, Media Madam here is enough for that."
One was stunned (one hadn’t done a thing!) while an offended Mrs Kohli responded, "But you are not allowing your daughter to go anywhere, that's broad-minded?"
Mishraji scowled a very scary scowl and said, "Mrs Kohliji. IF my daughter was in a state of mind to listen to sense, I would talk to her. Till such time she does not get that sense to discuss things with her father, she stays inside. I would also appreciate you minding your own business, thank you. I have seen what happened to other daughters who had broadminded parents." Mishraji started walking away.
An even-more stunned Mrs Kohli replied, "You will not talk about my daughter like that. You don't know her," she said gritting her teeth.
"Exactly. You don't know my daughter, me or my family either," replied Mishraji without looking back, "I don't know your daughter, but I know I don't what THAT future for mine." Mrs Kohli's oldest daughter was married to an NRI and is now a divorcee; and divorce in India is a taboo topic…(To be continued)

Kamasutra, Krishna and cultural crisis

Most Indian gods have multiple arms and many have multiple heads too; yet we are the first to get uncomfortable if someone with physical disabilities is around and poor Hrithik Roshan was made fun of for being polydactyl. We made pornography into an art form through the Kamasutra and exported it to the world and yet we’re the first to have fainting fits at the mention of sex. While the 21st century Indians apparently “don’t do dirty things in bed” and mere cheerleaders have political undies in knots, the Kamasutra-age Indians read graphically descriptive chapters on lesbian sex, fellatio, cunnilingus AND men-making-out-with-men.

Single mothers and premarital sex is deemed a “Western influence” and you’d have a mob uprising if you were to hint at Indians girls having and raising a baby without marriage; yet the first record in history/ mythology/ however-you-take-it is that of the Pandavas mother (refer Mahabharata), Kunti who “prayed” to the Sun god and was “blessed” with Karna. Strange isn’t it that the Immaculate Conception in Christianity leads to Jesus being revered as God’s son, but Karna is put in a basket and left to the care of nature. Why wasn’t he worshipped?

So Shakti, Durga, Jagdamba are all forms of the Supreme Goddess, the seat of all Power. She rides a lion in some versions (Durga, Jagdamba) and a tiger in others and yet the lion and particularly the tiger are both on the brink of being wiped out from Indian forests. And we raise hell when a cow is killed? YET we leave the cows out on the roads to chew on plastic and die of swollen intestines? While we shy from killing the Holy Cow, we have no compunctions killing unborn daughters, burning daughter-in-laws for dowry and had the Sati system not been abolished, widows were also supposed to burn atop the pyres of their husbands. Burnt alive that too. On a lighter note, while the goddess of wealth Lakshmi rides an owl, ‘ullu ka pattha’ (son of an owl, not literal) is an abuse?

The rant is because I’ve heard “India is so rich in culture and all that,” just a little too many times from too many people who don’t have any clue of what they’re talking about; Indians included, me included. Is the Indian culture the arranged marriage where two people confuse college degrees for degrees of compatibility? Is it the system where girls pretend to listen to their parents till 42-years-of-age and yet have no problems lying and getting out of their houses in salwar-kameez only to change into a backless or something to celebrate their own birthday? It’s not any aspersion on any of my friends or me – who’ve done something similar – it’s trying to understand how we acquiesce and rebel in the same breath, how open secrets has become a way of life and why this confused culture of ours still doesn’t make sense to me.

And somewhere wondering about all that and myriad other Indian things, I met the Mishra Family comprising the 50-something father, Mr Mishra (or ‘Mishraji’ as we Indians would respectfully call a senior person), his wife Mrs Mishra and their two children, Pinki, 19 and Tinku, 22. The Mishra family is a typical Indian, middle class Hindu family that is trying to preserve the roots of an ancient culture while trying to imbibe the new culture of the Internet and 24/7 news channel.

Through the mishaps that occur within the Mishra Family (sometimes unfortunately involving yours truly), this is an attempt to understand what goes on in the mind of the Indian middle class families as they grapple with more money in their pockets, new ideas beamed into their houses and as the old and the new generation try to come to terms with the changes and with each other… Not necessarily always in agreement with each other.

While those who might have read ‘What Goes My Father’ on ibnlive.com will be familiar with Mishraji and Co., some of you will meet them for the first time. As I put out the past experiences with Mishraji (not daily yet) here to get everyone on the same page, those who know him, please bear with me. Soon enough, I will give you the latest juice on Mishraji’s Musings. Here we go…

Indian Culture Rule 1: Before you fall in love, always ask your parents.
Indian Culture Rule 2: If at all you fall in love, keep it withiin your religion.

Mishrajis Musings, Chapter 1
But I love Sam, Papaji!
The wedding season has been good for one. It has kept Mishraji quiet busy and the patriarch has not found much time for our regular let's-bash-the-media (that would be me) sessions. But then, everything that has a beginning, has an end...The knock was a soft one and given that it was 11.30 pm, one was duly alarmed. A furtive, behind-the-curtains peep further upped the alarm levels. Miss Mishraji (aka Pinkiji) was standing at the front door, in her nightclothes. She had a pillow in one hand and a stuffed duffel bag in the other. Even as one opened the door and before one could say a word, Pinkiji blurted, "I have run away from home. I can't live there anymore. Please help me."

Under normal circumstances, one would have gladly helped a damsel in distress. However, the idea of dealing with Mishraji - especially when his daughter had run away (even though it was next door) - was not a normal circumstance under any circumstance. As various visions of Mishraji brandishing his rolled newspapers flashed before one's eyes, Pinkiji's eyes dangerously brimmed over. If that weren't enough, the final straw was when Pinkiji said, "They won't understand, please help DIDI." (Didi = older sister) Those who live alone and away from their families will understand that the use of such relationship-building terms DO something to you. Pinkiji was duly invited inside and two cups of ginger-tea and a hot bowl of instant noodles later, one asked if she wanted to talk about it. Pinkiji was only too willing.

"You know how Papaji is," she asked and stated at the same time. One firmly bit one's tongue. Experience has taught that criticizing a woman's boyfriend/ father always backfires: Women will agree with the criticism for the moment and hate you for a lifetime. Since Pinkiji was waiting for an answer, one safely ventured that Mishraji was a good father.

"Yes, yes, I know that; but Papaji has his rigid ideas about caste..." She suddenly clutched one's arm and said, "Didi, I love a boy and Papaji won't approve." After confirming whether the guy had a job, was not part of any mafia and was not the son of one of the many neighbours Mishraji detested, one pointed out the positives of positive thinking.

"Oh, I know Papaji," she said, eyes brimming again, "But didi, I really love him... But he is a Catholic and Mummyji just found out and she read my diary and she didn't even ask me anything and said we would discuss it in the morning and that she was sure Papaji won't be pleased." One knew the Mishra family was seeking a groom for Pinkiji – a Hindu groom – and given those circumstances, her falling in love, without consulting her parents and that too with a boy from another religion, would not be taken kindly. Yet one could not help but empathise with young love. Since there wasn’t much to be done that night, one suggested a good night’s sleep…
Even before one's alarm could go off the next morning there was Mrs Mishraji ringing one’s doorbell insistently.

"Tell Pinki she should come home before her father wakes up. He won't like it," was all Mrs Mishraji said. A night's sleep seemed to have cooled down some of Pinkiji's ardour as she meekly followed her mother outside. One followed too, courtesy demanded one see off guests. Two steps outside the door and one wished one wasn't as courteous: Mishraji was, arms akimbo and scowling. The newspaper was late and so was his morning chai (tea). He didn't react when he saw his wife walk out my gate, but when he saw his daughter walk out in her night suit, his eyebrows nearly left his forehead when he saw his daughter follow in her night suit.

"Why are you up so early? Don't you have college today?" he asked, while looking pointedly at yours truly.
Pinkiji stammered, "I... I came to consult Didi on something." There was that word again and from the look upon Mishraji’s face, it was clear he didn’t want one to be any relation of his…
"What ideas are you putting into my daughter's head?" he demanded of one vehemently even as one silently, vigorously denied all charges.
"Let's go inside..." suggested Mrs Mishraji meekly, uncertainly.
"What prompted you to go to HER and not ask your parents instead?" Mishraji asked Pinkiji, relentlessly, still glaring at yours truly.
"I... I..." stuttered Pinkiji, eyes-brimmingly.
"What are you hiding?" Mishraji asked, softly, "Out with it," he added, sinisterly.

As one cursed one's good Samaritan-ness that had lead to one getting involved in someone else’s family drama, Pinkiji blurted, "I love someone Papaji..."
Mrs Mishraji breathed in sharply. Mishraji noticed. Finally looking at his daughter he asked, "What's his name?"
"Sam," Pinkiji muttered. Mishraji took a long, deep breath.
"I have always supported you in whatever you have wanted to do," he told his daughter, "I just want to clear one thing... I didn't get his name right. What was it again?" He was smiling.
"Sam," Pinkiji answered somewhat louder, bolstered by her father's smile perhaps. She had not noticed his cold eyes.
"Sam or Shyam? Is it Sam or Shyam?" asked Mishraji hopefully.
And one knew that this story had just begun...
(To be continued…)

Lecka cocka, bullfrogs and missing buckets

Day 1, May 9, 2008: Kuala Lumpur

It was an overnight flight on Malaysia Airlines and early morning on May 9th, we reached the Kuala Lumpur International Airport (KLIA). The flight was pretty uneventful except that my hair was irritatingly FULL of static and standing at all ends. Also, while I have not flown other international airlines – but have seen and met enough hostesses – I found the hostesses on Malaysian airlines to be very rude and have a peculiar ‘we know better’ attitude. Initially I thought it was my “black armband” as Partner calls it, but over the trip it proved to be more a case with Malaysian Airlines. More on that later…

<--- Kuala Lumpur International Airport
Since we were flying into KL in the morning I could have a birds’ eye view (or plane’s window view) at Malaysia. My first impression was of the country being very, very green. Actually manicured green since all the trees seemed to have the same height. Before it could register, Partner helpfully pointed out that the trees were palm tree plantations for palm oil, one of the biggest sources of income for Malaysia with India being one of the major importer’s. As we got off at KLIA, I was a bit surprised to realize that there were no ‘buses’ waiting to herd-in the passengers, instead you walk out to the terminal, get into a swanky train that then takes you into the main terminal. That was just the beginning; Kuala Lumpur is ALL about efficiency.

The in-flight ad for KLIA says, “It’s impossible to lose your way at the airport,” and they were right. That’s something that super impressed me about both KL and Melbourne – the signage on the streets and the detailing in the road maps – as long as you can read English, even a first-timer to the cities will manage her way around. The same cannot be said about Delhi though: Imagine asking a new-in-town person to find Jhandu Singh Marg*, or locate the right house number in Greater Kailash 1. Once out of immigration, I was further pleasantly surprised that there was no rushing, stomping or fighting over taxis. It’s smooth and was smoother still for us since we had the hotel limousine service waiting for us.

<--- Renaissance Hotel that stands in the KL Golden Triangle
During the ride from the airport to the hotel, we got a complete lowdown about Malaysian economy, politics and a rush-through of places to visit from our cab driver, Malay with origins in Tamil Nadu. Both Partner and I were super impressed with his knowledge of the situation in Malaysia and his individual perspective. Also, unlike Delhi, cabbies in KL don’t keep looking into their rearview to see what’s happening in the back seat. Education, awareness and an opinion were something in common to all the south-Indian-Malay cabbies we rode with in KL. We stayed at Renaissance hotel that was neighbour to the Petronas Twin Towers and Partner took the piss out of me since for a first international holiday, I was having a shamelessly luxurious one. And he should know, his first visit to India was way back in 2000, as a backpacker and here I was staying at a posh five star and then moving to an exclusive, manicured resort for the next four. Funnier still is how fast a human being can adjust to luxury… like showers.

Pic courtesy: http://anneromano.com/images/india_bucket.gif
Some of you might laugh at this – and I do sound like a yokel, but not going to lie – but after having lived in rented accommodations for the last 10 years (17 house shifts) and before that in Army accommodations that aren’t really examples of architecture or amenities – what REALLY struck me were, er, the showers in the bathrooms. Haha, it’s so funny, our perception of how things should be and the kind of things we take for granted. Like in our first winter together, Partner was shocked to find me washing dishes in cold water. “Don’t you have hot water for the dishes?” he had asked incredulously. I had looked at him even more incredulously and pointed out that we didn’t even have a geyser in the bathroom and used an emersion rod for heating water and it was a bit too much to expect hot water for bloody dishes.

ALL my experiences with showers in India have included either houses not having showers at all, or the shower not working, or the shower head skewed at a weird angle where it spews water everywhere but on you, or the knobs rusted with disuse, or the water pressure being too low for the shower to work at all. Or if at all the shower works, most of the holes in the showerhead would be blocked and of course, the faucet head will ALWAYS leak, as a rule. I don’t think we realize, but the balti (bucket) has become SUCH an integral part of the Indian way of life ( also because we are not as toilet-paper friendly). If once I had laughed at Partner because he had been perplexed at the entire procedure of heating-water-bathing-from-bucket, he got his chance when he sweetly laughed at my excitement over “such nice showers”. Ha, ha, no amount of reading or watching movies can prepare you for some things, even if they are just showers. (It’s nice to have a comfort with another to not feel like an ignorant dunce all the time)


<--- KL monorail service makes travel far easier but there is debate on whether it conserves fuel or not
A little rest later we headed out for our first taste of Kuala Lumpur. My first impression of the traffic in Kuala Lumpur can be summarized in two sentences: “I want one of those bikes!” and “What are such young kids doing driving around in such posh cars?” Cabs, few buses for intercity travel, 135 cc bikes, cars, local trains and the ‘monorail’ constitute the transport in KL. Since Renaissance was located bang next to one of the monorail stations, moving around KL was a lark. As I wrote earlier, the maps make things pretty simple and the cab drivers are knowledgeable. From Renaissance we got off at Bukit Bintang, which would be the main shopping area in KL. From small stores with good bargains – we caught 50 per cent clearance sales in almost all stores – to showrooms for the biggest retail chains, KL is like any other major city the world. However, Partner said that the city lacked in “soul,” it was much later that I would be able to make my own judgment of that… For the first few shops, after a long while I was DELIGHTED to find clothes my size. We roamed around for an hour or two in the market and headed back to the hotel since we were to catch up with the family there. Post lunch it was pool time and the beginning of my love affair with the pina colada.

After lunch and burning that lunch in the pool -- constitutes me flapping around -- we all headed to the main market area for some dinner. That’s when I realized that KL comes to life at night. While in the morning people had been out on the streets, it seemed as if the entire city had descended on the roads at night. With lights all around, shops and young people dressed to their heels, it was with surprise that I realized it was 12 am. While the nighttime crowd was mainly young people or families out for a meal, it took only a glance to know that the girls dressed well. If the Chinese girls wore designer outfits, the girls in hijab did up their eyes in the most beautiful way. However, I hardly saw any Indians out…

We were a group of 12 and our dinner was an assortment of fish, bullfrog legs and Malaysian curries. Since I had been practicing using a chopstick in India – simply because Partner could use choppies and I of course was insulted that I didn’t know and therefore HAD to learn, heh – I insisted on having all my meals with chopsticks. For first time chopstick users I would suggest keeping a spoon (even if you have to hide one in your purse) as things slithering off your plate and landing on the floor is not very graceful. Oh yes, bullfrog legs are kinda crispy-chewy... and not something that I would be trying again, no matter what the French say. After dinner some of us headed towards China Town (open 6-11 pm and supposedly has awesome bargains but everything is fake) and four of us – Partner, me and his aunt P and uncle M – went out to check out some nightspots.

Our first stop was this restaurant/bar called ‘Lecka Lecka’, which thanks to my being blind – I am shortsighted and had sat on my specs the night before the trip – I read the sign as “Lecka Cocka” (the logo, look at the bloody logo!). Amused, I also pointed it out to Partner’s aunt, like five seconds before I bit my tongue and realized that that’s NOT something you point out to someone’s relative five hours into meeting them. (scowl) Next time I shall learn to keep my amusing observations to myself. After my initial reluctance at stepping into the place, which was alleviated once I read the sign properly, it turned out to be quite nice. In both Melbourne and KL, I realized that street side cafes are huge business and special care is taken to make the outdoor seating as attractive as the indoor. I couldn’t help but think how a little paint job, some lights and inviting outdoor seating could change the face of Connaught Place in Delhi. For instance, United Coffee House has such a forgotten British charm to it, clean out the exterior, put some umbrellas and chairs and we might just have a truly international shopping experience in CP.


As we smoked our hookah/sheesha at Lecka-Lecka, which was playing some Latino tracks, we all got into the mood to salsa. The fact that neither of us knew how to salsa was not considered and we thought it wasn’t important… We were to be proven wrong. The first salsa place was ‘Q Ba’ where there was a rocking live band belting out tunes with such gusto that we all were dancing even as we approached the bar… However, before we could order a drink we were asked to leave the place as M was in shorts and the place only allowed formal clothes. The seriousness of salsa! While I appreciate keeping the ‘integrity’ of a dance alive, snobbery because some others might know the moves and yet want to revel in it, is not so right… For me dance is about letting go and having fun. Anyway, disappointed we decided to find another joint and after some enquiries, headed off to the Federal Hotel and its bar called ‘Havana’. It was no match for ‘Q Ba’, which was quite obviously a happening place, but it had its share of salsa followers shaking it on the dance floor.

Again, I noticed the lack of Indians both at Q Ba and Havana. KL is supposed to be a multicultural city with many Indian immigrants and locals and yet all day, I had hardly seen any Indians. Senior people I could understand, but didn’t the young Indians go partying? I HAD to ask and cornered the salsa instructor at Havana; he turned out to be Punjabi! My suspicions were right, according to the dude (unfortunately have forgotten his name), most Indians in KL are VERY conservative and do not approve of their kids learning salsa or such. If at all the Indians there party, they apparently usually head for ‘Bollywood’ bars!

Indians abroad being more conservative than those back home is something many people who travel have told me. To me, it seems that it’s either a case of wanting to hold on tight to what you have left behind or a fear of learning new things. Like going to a new restaurant and ending up ordering Indian food all the time. Or it could also be a case of not valuing what we have till we step out of our comfort zones. Hmm… I think I need to travel more to figure that one out. Ha, ha.

After the sojourn on KL streets, it was back to the hotel and sinking into a very tired but happy sleep. My holiday had just started…

PS: Jhandu Singh Marg is the left turn (if you’re coming from South Extension side) before the Hyatt Regency left turn.

PS2: While there weren’t any salsa-ing Indians that I met, it made me very proud that our very own Kaytee Namgyal is VERY well known in the salsa circuits. And to think that I had written about him in the obscure Around Town (published by Ogaan that also publishes Elle, the magazine is now dead) makes me feel real nice. Shows how people with true talent will always prosper…as long as they pursue it with all their energy.

PS3: The other posts wont be this long!!!!