Swings & Roundabouts

After years of dithering, I finally took the plunge, literally, and signed up for swimming lessons. I had been wanting to learn for a long, long time. In fact, my school had this really fabulous pool and the water would look so blue and inviting. But after standing awkwardly in my pink swimming costume and feeling gloriously out of my element, I found other interesting things to do during my swimming periods.

But it has always been something I wanted to master, especially because it is a major dream of mine to go white water rafting. Since moving to England six years back, I have been quite keen to start lessons but when the push came to shove, something kept me back. I kept telling myself that once I rid myself of my podgy middle, I shall jump in the pool before anyone could blink.

Well, making my tummy disappear was easier said than done and I gave up trying to imagine myself in a costume but just decided to bite the bullet and do it. Signing up was the easy part. Getting out of the changing room to pool side on day 1 was the hardest journey I had ever done in my entire life, bar none. After shivering away for a few minutes whilst I waited for the ladies from the previous slot to make their exit, I finally waded into the warm teaching pool, all the while aware that the water level barely reached mid thigh. So scrabbling about like a crab was the best way to hide myself in the water.

First objective: to float, which in my case became try not to sink. Whilst I couldn’t do any strokes or anything during my school swimming lessons, I could at least float competently. Fourteen years and twenty kilos later, I sank like the proverbial stone in a teacup of water. After swallowing about half the volume of the pool, I came up for air and thankfully my head hit the bobbling floatation device. Grabbing hold of it for dear life, I tried turning the various tricks my teacher suggested I did.

It was day 4 yesterday and whilst I still haven’t learnt how to float from end to end without the aid of the brightly coloured pieces of foam, I am loving every minute of it. I will never be a threat to Ian Thorpe but for the first time in my life, I don’t care. I have finally rid myself of a personal demon – of constantly comparing myself with the others in the class and coming up short. Last night, I really enjoyed my time in the pool and though I did swallow couple of mugfuls, I felt quite happy.

At the end of the day, that’s what counts, right?

Valentine Day’s just around the corner and I remember how it used to be when I was in college. There was this huge outlet of Archie’ s Gallery opposite my college in Chennai (Chinna ponnunga padippadhu Ethiraja…) and soon after the Christmas-New Year dhamaka finished, the store will get out its Val’s Day stuff. There’ll be red hearts hanging from the ceiling, syrupy love songs blaring out from the speakers and everywhere there used to be this profusion of stuffed toys, cards, cards and more cards.

It was very tough being single and unattached.

The past six years though, the season of ‘giving’ is the biggest date in the Christian calendar – Christmas. It took me a long time to figure out why the folks around me got into a tizz at the mention of th C-word; turkey, presents, trees, decoration, anything related to it used to drive them into a frenzy. My driving instructor told me proudly that he was so well prepared for the holiday season, he finished his presents-buying lark by Halloween. I was amazed at that. The whole concept of making a list of presents, the must-have toys for kids and the expensive thingummyjigs for spouses in favour all seemed a bit too excessive to me. There should be some actual joy in giving, surely?

The actual day, when it dawned, must seem really anti-climatic after all the hullabaloo but swapping presents must surely make up for it, I thought naively. But this year, one of my colleagues got a ‘present’ that made everything else pale in comparison. Her brother had got her a goat for Christmas – well, she didn’t really get it, it was given to some poor and deserving folk in a far-off land in her name. I was about to say ‘oh jolly good thought’ but catching sight of her expression, I swallowed the words. I realised then that there is more to this present giving than I had paid any attention to.

From what I can see, the guidelines generally are as follows:
1.If you are buying for a girl, the price tag is the last thing you must check out. The more flattering, the more eye-catching, the better. This especially holds true if you are the boyfriend or a newly married spouse. If, on the other hand, you’ve made your bones in your marriage, then you might get away with a lesser ‘wowie’ gift.
2.Paying attention is a good thing – and women generally drop an inordinate number of hints when a present giving occasion (Val’s day, anniversary of the first time you clapped your eyes on each other, birthdays, Saturday nights) comes near. ‘Ooh isn’t that bauble nice?’ and ‘does this suit me?’ are the statements that should stick out like beacons as they are generally good indicators.
3.If you have failed at step 2, then window shopping is a good option. Keep that plastic handy.
4. Every women loves a surprise – as long as it is of the good variety.
5.For guys, if you generally get stalled after getting stuff such as leather wallets, after shave, cologne (esp if BO is a big factor!), grooming kits (for the scruffier types), then activity gifts are a brilliant idea. Most men love that adrenaline rush and provided he isn’t scared of heights, a bunjee jumping voucher would be a fab idea. I got hubby a 30 min flying lesson voucher couple of years back – he still hasn’t managed to top that!
6. Most of all, always, always make sure the wife’s present is at least twice as expensive as the mother’s and three times as that of the sister’s. If you want to live, that is.
7. Lastly, though charity is a good thing, showing your philanthropist nature a la colleague’s big brother is not the way to win the game. Get a decent gift and give this rather nice gesture as an extra addition, if you want to save your skin and still be a persona grata.

Happy shopping!

Yesterday afternoon, while I was on my lunch break, I decided to climb Cardiac Hill (our name for the rather steep Primrose Hill) and wander around the High Street shops, as you would. As I was standing at the junction of Primrose Hill and Crown Street, a car stopped next to me and this senior-ish desi man asked me if I knew which way Rose Valley was. For once, I did and I was only too happy to show him the way. It was, after all, just down the road and tiddly road that went off the roundabout.

But translating this into motorese proved to be tougher than I bargained for. I have a problem differenciating between my left and right. When I normally say ‘take the left’, folks go ‘oh you mean the right – okay, got you’. Of course, this innocent stranger didn’t know that. So, when I said, ‘go down this road and at the roundabout, take the left and then turn into the first road on your left’, he took my words to be gospel and proceeded to do so.

Even as I watched indulgently, he indicated left at the rounabout and proceeded up Queen’s Road. That was when it hit me – I had told him left, instead of right! Typically, I saw the bloke come bowling towards me as I walked up Coptfold Road. I flagged him down, apologised profusely and said ‘I meant right when I said left’. He gave me a ‘I forgive you, lady’ smile and asked me ‘okay now which way?’ So I started again ‘you go down this road and then you take the…’ I was waving my left arm like mad when he went ‘right, right’ and I said ‘yeah take the right, and then take the right at the roundabout’.

He waved me a cheerful bye, took the right and proceeded towards the direction of the High Street. That was when realisation dawned on me – I had meant left and when the bloke prompted ‘right, right’, I had got confused and sent him the wrong way – again!

So, all you good folks of Brentwood, if you see a poor, harassed man, with wilted flowers in his passenger seat, asking you the way to Rose Valley, please point him in the right direction. And do not, I beg you, do not tell him where I live!

Map of Brentwood – with Primrose Hill and Rose Valley

Alarm goes off – brrrr! brrrr! Shit! Forgot to take it off the annoying vibrate mode. Grope under the pillow to locate it before it starts waking up the neighbourhood. Aha! Found it! Shut it, you stupid thing!

Trudge to the loo. Bang into the bedstead, slip over a stray Tesco bag, curse, close the door and sit on the bog for blessed peace. Brush teeth, try to get a semi-kip whilst brushing. Got to change the bettery on the bloody toothbrush – I am doing most of the work, myself.

Stand on the scales, on the balls of my feet, a little bit to the side, squint at the needle. Damn! Still the same!

Start loping off towards kitchen, sidestep a nasty looking Thomas the Tank Engine and switch on the perculator. Soon enough, the fragrant whiffs of coffee slowly prise closed eye lids open. Sip first mouthful of coffee standing at the worktop – ahhh, heaven. Trudge back to the sofa, step on a lego block – damn, it hurts! Wince, hop and sit gingerly on a book, trying not to upset the coffee on the carpet.

Finally! A moment to enjoy that surrealistic experience of the morning coffee.

Thud! The postie is early today. Oh well, better get cracking. Change into running gear, where’s that bloody sock gone, gosh this shoe stinks better clean it before it clears the room. Ipod – check.

‘Roobarooo… Roshini…..’ well, good morning to you too, ARR. Oh! go away, sniffy, mangy, doggy! Look at that bloody time! Argh! Puff, pant! Where’s my keys gone? Drat! Oh good morning, nice neighbour.

Whew!

Where’s that shirt I pressed last night? Drat! Was there a spot on it then? Oh hell! Well, this one here looks reasonably uncrumpled. Do I have time to steam it? Natch! Would get crumpled en route anyways. Trousers – black or grey? Blue. BOut five minutes early today – cool! oy is the boss man going to be pleased with me today or what?

Doddering old man, out of my way, please. Why did I pick this silly shoe out of all the silly shoes in the shoeniverse? The bloody thing’s hungry all the time. Chews my poor feet to pieces every time. And why does the light change to green the minute I go near a crossing? Jab the button, please change, please change to the little green walking man.

Hmm, traffic is light today. That’s rare. Oh well, more space in the road for me. ‘New York Nagaram, urangum neram…’ man! do I love that song or what. Puts a nice spring on my step, that song does. Whoa! Why are you cleaning the pavement today, man? That’s what the weekends are for!

Finally! Made it – ooh! Where’s the stupid security man gone? I ain’t that early – they haven’t even opened the bloody joint yet. Gawd! Well, I might as well trot off to the newsagents and get me a paper. I feel like Daily Mail today.

Smile at the lech at the tills – where’s the stupid paper when you want it? Daily Mail, Daily Mail.. Why are there silly Mail on Sunday everywhere? There’s just stupid Sunday papers in every…. Oh no! Oh no no no! Don’t tell me – it’s bloody Sunday today!

*** SPOILER WARNING: While I have tried my best not to give the plot and the ending away, you might come across some surprising bits from the movie Fanaa, so please be warned ***

Last night, I went out to see Fanaa with my family. After a long time, we went to a movie hall to see an Indian movie, rather than waiting for the DVDs to arrive and catch the flick sitting comfortably in our lounge. But this time, I wanted to make up for missing RDB on the big screen so I decided that we shall make the trip to the cinema and catch Kajol & Aamir in action.

I ‘prepared’ for this outing by listening to the songs so I can get into the groove. It gave me an idea of what the movie is going to be – you can guess that there’s a kid in the movie after listening to the song ‘Chanda Chamke’; ‘Des Rangila’, the typical NRI song (which makes our expat hearts beat fast with its strains of Vande Mataram), is bound to be an on-stage number – well, you get the picture.

After the movie, my first thought was ‘hmm, not a bad movie – good timepass’. There were bits were the implaucibility of the plot was almost laughable but I thought, well, let’s not nit-pick here. Let us excuse poor Mr Kohli of his minor misdemeanors and rise above it. Kajol looked amazing; Aamir looked super cool as he strolled across the airport and the locations were pretty fab.

Of course, by then, the songs were buzzing non-stop in my head and I was playing them in my iPod on the way home as well. Had a discussion about the movie with the half a dozen mates I bumped into at the temple and the restaurant we went to afterwards and heard favourable noises from most.

Then I logged onto the ‘Net today morning and one of the first things I read was the review in Rediff. Suffice to say, after reading it my enthu levels dipped. I began questioning myself – did I really enjoy the movie last night? Was it worth enjoying? None of the reviewers had said much in favour of it. They had taken it apart bit by bit and it wasn’t a pretty sight.

Am I such a bad judge of movies?

Then I sat thinking of all the times I had gone to the movies and come back to find that none other than me liked it much. After that, I didn’t like that movie either and this trend has continued pretty much on and off over the years.

But what is the point of a movie anyway? Is it to take you to a different plane, a different zone as such for 2.5 hours? Is it to make you forget the marital squabbles, exam results, work deadlines and all the other strands of reality for the span of the movie? And what makes it a ‘good’ one? A great storyline, fantastic plot execution, brilliant cinematography, a fab casting, feet stomping music – or should it leave you with a feeling of not just having spent £6.80 on tickets plus £10 on popcorn, fizzy pops in return for a thumping mad headache?

I think from now on, I shall decide if a movie is good or not by checking with my internal monitor – do I like it? Yes? Then it is a good movie. Was it a bit of a blah? Then I shall give it a 10 on the headacho meter. And bully to the critics!

Some of my most favourite songs in Indian movies are those from the Tamil movie ‘Alaipayuthey’ (Saathiya was a very diluted effort in Hindi, IMHO). A R Rahman’s music was fabulous, as always, as he elevated even the wedding mantras that are oft repeated by the purohits in a bored monotone, to the heights of cooldom, with his ‘Mangalyam’ number.

But today, as I was listening to it while washing the dishes, I couldn’t help but wonder about the whys and wherefores of the lyrics. The ‘hero’ character sings about his beloved in such poetical and glowing terms that it is guaranteed to make the knees of any desi girl go weak. It is either ‘endless smiles forever, I was born a hundred times just for this day’ or the ‘love kabaddi’ (a la ‘Shikdum’!) where the girl is to taunt and tease him with her various antics. There is also this evergreen song where he compares every single colour in the spectrum to his lady love.

All this is great, just dandy. What I do not understand is, what is the inspiration for all this? These big-time declarations of ‘luurve’ that are nowhere to be found in our society. All these men who woo their dilbaras, whatever happens to them once the objective has been reached? Boys who supposedly chased the girls till she gave in seem to give up on them once the mangalsutra is on her neck. I have never seen a husband voluntarily hold his wife’s hands, especially in front of family. In fact, the norm is pretty much to pretend that you don’t really know each other all that well. Why? Ma won’t be happy, will she?

My friend recently forwarded a ‘joke’ to me about the difference in a romance at various points in life – 6 weeks, 6 months, 6 years. The change, of course, is quite dramatic, from ‘Hi honey‘ of 6 weeks to ‘hey you!‘ of 6 years!! What a shame!

Last night, I watched this Telugu blockbuster ‘Nuvvostanante Nennodantana‘, starring RDB’s Karan Singhania, Siddharth, in the main role. The things he does to win the girl’s hand is unbelievable. This boy, a rich NRI kid from London, chucks everything away and settles down in his sweetheart’s village, where he suffers untold agonies in the form of eating really, horribly spicy food (he is afterall, an NRI yaar, go easy on him!), cleans the cow sheds, milks the cow and gets doused with its wee while he’s at it – and the list continues. As I saw himtry to catch a good night’s sleep on the hard ground, my heart bled for this young man who so carelessly gave up his Down-stuffed Silent Night mattress.

Okay, okay I know movies and reality can and should never be clubbed together even in the same sentence. But the moviemakers cannot be extrapolating things to such a degree that the result is a 180 degree ulta of real life, can they? Not to a nation where the menfolk aren’t exactly pampering their wives silly by getting them flowers everyday and romancing the be-jesus out of them?

So why are our lyricists and movie makers still feeding the poor girls of today such overwhelmingly beautiful scenarios wherein the man of their dreams will woo them to the ends of the world? Aren’t they setting everyone up for a rather steep fall?

Or is it just my cynical self coming to the fore?

PS: Can I just say this isn’t an attack on the desi men around the world so please do not slag me off too much. I just would like to understand the fundas of the masala we are fed on a daily basis, that’s all!

Also available at http://desicritics.org/2006/05/18/143846.php

Last Spring, I happened to spend about 8 days in Switzerland with my family. As we went on our own, we did pretty much our own thing. This meant that we managed to see most of the things in Switzerland the way we wanted to – plus we also had a glimpse of the Swiss way of life. Marvellous experience, though it almost blew the bank away!

As we traipsed up and down the snowy mountains, drove by lakes, gawked at rusty armours in archaic castles, all I could feel was anger – and a little bit of despair. And those feelings were directed at the state of tourism in my own country.

India has a phenomenal number of national monuments, castles, lakes, caves, beaches – you name it, we have it. The Himalayas are some of the most beautiful and the tallest mountain ranges in the world. As I stood on ‘Top of Europe’, I couldn’t help thinking ‘this mountain is like a third of Mt Everest!’ The land is littered with castles and forts left over from the days when kings and queens ruled us. They have also left behind some fantastically carved rocks and caves in Mamallapuram (or Mahabalipuram), Elephanta, Konark, Ajanta and Ellora.

We can boast of the world’s second largest coastline –but filthy and unkempt isn’t the look to aim for if we want to attract travellers from all over the world. From Kashmir to Kanyakumari, we have an abundance of beautiful spots, to attract every single type of holidaymaker. But does anyone know of them? No. Do we market any of these fantastic spots? Not really. Is any of it maintained attractively enough for people to say ‘You know, I would like to go to that place again’? No way!

Why? What is our Ministry of Tourism do anyway? What are they promoting? How are they selling the beautiful gems of our country to the world?

Marketing and merchandising are two words that don’t necessarily exist in our dictionaries. Well, merchandising certainly doesn’t. You go to any place in the world, you will find shops selling stuff from fridge magnets, key rings, scarves, carvings, stuffed toys, masks – you get the picture. What sort of tourist merchandise have we got?

Last month, when I went home for my holidays, folks at work wanted me to get them some fridge magnets that depict India. Try as I might, I couldn’t locate a single one. I finally settled for a small carving of Lord Ganesha’s face, which had a piece of sticky tape on its back!

When is our Tourist industry going to wake up?

Also appears at http://desicritics.org/2006/05/16/115355.php