India Reloaded - Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous

Bangalore – The population ranges from the mildly rich to the extremely prosperous. Most IT bigwigs get paid obscene salaries and they spread the goodness around resulting in obscene salaries for their drivers and maids as well. I see a cellphone in every hand, unfailingly. Every new condominium which comes up for booking gets lapped up instantaneously. Money is being spent, no burnt.

I went to the I-Bar at The Park Hotel. Many of the city’s movers and shakers were present of course and more poured in as the night progressed. The bar was overflowing with people demanding booze at a faster rate than the bartenders could supply. The dance floor took a while to warm up but once we started, there was no stopping the crowd. Everywhere designer shoes, designer clothes, designer bags – I wondered whether I was the one from Singapore here. I seemed to be too ordinary. Someone stopped me and asked whether my bag was an Aigner original. I earnestly nodded yes to gain that instant look of acceptance into the hoi-polloi. When the lady turned away to talk to someone else, I confessed to my colleague that I had bought my Aigner original for all of S$35 at a Rock Bottom price sale.

The disco crowd of course gets younger every day and it was distressing to see 14 year olds (or perhaps they were 12) smoking a sickly sweet substance. I wonder what it was, but it made my head spin and I had to get off the dance floor.

Outside, I looked at the line of cars. All big. I think I must be the only senior manager in Bangalore who owns a puny Santro. But compared to my life in Singapore where I didn’t even own a car, I am doing good (I think)

Then I was at a birthday party with Arya today evening. Again, the prosperity is so in your face. This was a luxurious 3 bedroom flat with a lovely terrace garden with actual artificial grass laid out all over. I hadn’t stopped reeling from that fact when the women with their sparkling diamonds chirped all around me, only interested in the fact that I was from Singapore. Every man of every age was wearing a pink shirt. I was wondering why that was, when it suddenly occurred to me that it was a fairyland theme. I can’t imagine for the life of me – the Indian men in Singapore complying with the rules if they involve wearing a pink shirt. I am tempted to try it out with Arya’s next birthday party.
Everywhere I look, people are withdrawing thousands of rupees from ATMs, spending thousands on meals (and they are not all expense accounts), squandering away tens of thousands on holidays, clothes, what not!An Indian girl who’s lived in Singapore for a longish time went to Delhi to shop for her wedding trousseau. She came back in a state of shock saying that while she was hesitating about what to pick and checking out the price tags (despite the fact that she was earning in Singapore $), it was shocking to see locals not batting an eyelid while shelling out upwards of INR 50000 (SGD 2000 approx) for their wedding dress (something that you end up wearing only once in your life). I couldn’t relate to it then, but you bet I can now.

Junya Athvani - 1

3 years after my brother Atul was born, my mom was pregnant again, and this time, I told her I wanted a sister, no matter what. She told me that such things are not under our control, etc,etc.

However, I was 6 years old then, and started thinking of creative ways in which I could indeed influence God to give me a sister. I used to be an avid reader of Amar Chitra Katha and I found out that Aditi is the name of the mother of all the Gods. So I started bribing God (at that age) in my daily prayers, every morning and every night, for almost all the 9 months saying that God should give me a sister and I will name her Aditi in honour of God's mom.

So when a sister was born, of course my joy knew no bounds and I felt complete, now I had a sis in addition to a mom, a dad, a bro. All relations in the family. When the day was decided for my sister's naming ceremony, my mom told me that our Atya (dad's sis) will decide the name, just as she did for me and my bro. That's when I went into panic mode, yeh toh maine socha hi nahi. The moment my Atya arrived at home, I got her to my room, she told me she had no time to play with me, and that she had to discuss the names she had so carefully researched with my parents for their approval. This is where I had my first debate (never knew I was setting the stage for many debating competitions in future) I put forth so many arguments on why my sis should be named Aditi that my Atya was completely bowled over but she said - "Baghu, ata tu zaa tayaar ho"Then she went and told my parents that this time the name was a total secret and she wasn't gonna discuss it with anyone.

My mom told her I was counting on the name being Aditi but it's ok, it didn't matter. I was crying, telling God that I am really Sorry, I can't keep the promise I made, my atya wasn't going to listen to me. I was shit scared as to what God would do to me as punishment. Then it was Atya's turn to pass the baby to the my other Atya and she had to whisper her name in her ear- She called out, " Prita, tu sangh, tujhya bahinachanaav kai" Gosh, that must have been one of the happiest moments of my life as I shyly said "ADITI",in full view of 100 odd family and friends.

India Reloaded - Citibank India Sucks!

First of all, Citibank was recommended by my employer as the default and so I needed to get an account with them whatever happens. They sent one pin to my home address, another to my office address, for about a month I didn't know what was happening and of course I didn't get paid for 2 months, since I didn't have a Citibank account.

Then today I realized that I need a cheque book urgently. Why oh why do they issue only 20 cheques?????? So I went online. My H-Pin didn't work. So I called their customer service to request for a chq book. Now this customer service officer called Jitu asks me for a T-Pin. I tell him I don't have one, it never was issued to me. So he asks me for my last 3 transactions and mind you he wants exact amounts. Add to the fact that their statements are only available ONLINE (duh!) So I tell him patiently, Jitu, didn't I just explain - I don't have my online password which is why I am using the phone to request for a chq book. How will I be able to get online and check for my last 3 transactions?

Simple - It was 5 am in the morning and Jitu said - Madam please go to your nearest ATM and get a mini statement. So just to play along I did. Guess what - the Statement machine did not work - Are you surprised? I was not. I went to their phone and called the customer service hotline again. This time I got a Prashant online. Another smart alec-y idiot, nevertheless, I explained my problem to him and included my conversation with Jitu in it.

Now Prashant told me that he didn't know whether getting the last 3 transactions would solve my problem and why didn't I wait while he called his technician and meanwhile why didn't I log in and request for a chq book.......Grrrrrr!

So finally, I asked him is there a branch I can go to to get a chq book issued and he said I could go to any branch and do it. But I needed to wait till HE asked me the necessary verification questions. Ask him why and he said it's regulatory. After wasting my time some more, he told me that he could not guarantee me a chq book, but he will send a T-Pin to me so that I can call up and apply for an Internet Pin (H-Pin). Again, duh!!! So why don't you just apply for my H-Pin straight away, I asked him, now that you have verified all my details? He says - No madam, this is the procedure. (Don't ask me why)

This is when I just blew my top and let it loose. As part of the verification, he made me go to the ATM and do my last 3 transactions, so that he could have his #$%^*^ last 3 transactions. He also asked me the exact amounts of my last 3 transactions and the exact amount of my salary credited - In this land of the heavy and random tax deductions at source, who the hell knows what salary is credited to their account every month? You can just sit back and pray.

I have already had quite an experience with Citibank Credit Cards. THEY identified me from my salary account and sent a form for me to fill. The guy who came asked me to sign on fields which requested Additional Card. When I refused to do so, he kept insisting. I said, how can I be sure that you will not fill in your own details and take my additional card. Besides I don't need one I am not signing. Then the verification checks. Oh my God - You would have thought they are handing me the key to Fort Knox. Someone landed up at my house to ask for my birthdate (which my father in law didn't know of course). I got 2 calls on my cellphone and 1 call on my home land line and 1 more on my office landline and each time they asked me the doggone same bloody questions.

After my experience with their customer service, I have decided to call it quits with Citibank. So I will be cancelling my card before its arrival (pity I had to go through their stringent security measures). Of course, my salary account is something that I will have to live with, but I will make sure that I do all my transactions in the branch now. They can take their H-Pin and T-Pin and shove them!

Please don't be a Citibank India customer if you can help it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Poem - Time (written when I was 14)

As an infant, I'd eat and sleep
Time would creep
When I was a child, I'd play and fall
Time would crawl
In my teenage laughter and talks
Time walks
When I will be a full-grown woman
Time will run
And faster as the days go by
Time will fly
Soon enough in the daily grind
I will find
Time - it has left me behind!

Poem - Arya ( written when Arya was 1 )

She believes in fairies
And all my stories
She claps her hands when I dance
And moves to music as if in a trance
She knows just when I need a hug
And when she breaks the coffee mug
She can melt me with a tear or two
As for shocks she's given me a few
One day, she got lost walking on the street
Me n her dad our hearts missed a beat
We searched for her high and low
And found her gazing at the store window
Then once, she fell down and grazed her knee
A drop of her blood I couldn't bear to see
She shook her head at the medicine I had
Mommy, kiss it and make it better, she said
She taught me to give all that I had to give
She made me cry and laugh and live
She turned me into my own mother
Now I wonder how I ever lived without her

Poem - The Splendor of Color

I still remember the wonderful sight
On her forehead stood a red dot's might
And with her songs cheery and bright
She made all our loads light

I shudder at the sight I missed
When the sun hid behind the miserable mist
And the bangles slid off her desolate wrist
Another rainbow crossed off the list

Her splendor in red was her right
Yet it was snatched away one night
But she didn't give up without a fight
Today how well she carries white!

My Mummy Papa & 30 years

I wrote this on the occasion of my parents' 30th wedding anniversary:

I woke up this morning feeling really special. It's my parents' 30th wedding anniversary. They have spent 3 decades as man and wife, raising us 3 kids and magically granting our little wishes. On Wednesday, I had 2 final job interviews, and I pressurised both managers to give me an answer by today, because I know that this will be the best anniversary present that they would want-that I still had a job. While walking back home that day, I thought of the many days at Opera House and Amboli, when I stood in front of the Grey Ganapati and shining circular frame of Ambika, looking at one and then the other, beseeching them to help me in my exams, although I hadn't studied regularly, and later, asking them to see me successfully through job interviews and promotions. I thought of all kinds of things then, of the 5 wooden cupboards, the study desk in the gallery, the first Camel geometry box I owned, the Marathi essay Papa wrote for me "majhya unhalya chi sutti" for which I got a remark "mulani aaple nibandh svata lihave", the countless dictations mom used to give me, and how we used to jump on the black sponge bed in the gallery, as if it was a trampoline and how i used to take refuge on that very bed, when I wanted to cry myself to sleep. Infact, I even remembered my first responsibility-to be with Atul on his first day at Santock nursery and KG school, and everybody had a jigsaw puzzle to complete and he just couldn't do his 12 piece puzzle-the last 4 pieces wouldn't fit. Everyone finished and it was time to go home, and he looked tearfully at the teacher, who insisted that he could only go after he had finished. She looked in my direction and said- "I am sure your sister will wait for you to finish" With steely glares from me, and some whispered pointers he did finish, but that was the first time, I got into trouble with my mommy-for getting late. Since then, I fought with her 100 times or more, for challenging her curfews, but it took me a good deal of 22 years to learn that it was all her concern, for her little girl out in the big bad world, which made her raise her voice. I remembered the little girl who used to look at me from the shadows and go back into hiding behind her aiyaa's pallo. Little Aditi, who was Kumta's little darling, and Bappa's gundu. I remember the tearful decision to keep Aditi in Kumta, wasn't an easy one for both my parents to make. There were days of silence, I spoke to neither of them, but I didn't notice as a 6yr old that they weren't speaking to each other either. As I struggled to reach out to my brother and sister, I think I lost touch with my parents, especially Papa, who doted on me, as his Paili beti, dhanachi peti. But they wanted me to set a good example to my siblings, rather than to be the model daughter. When I got my 10th Std result, my Papa came to my school, without any warning, and treated me to Thums Up, my favourite drink. He called his father and said-My daughter scored higher than any Nayak so far. I know it as his proudest moment, it was his result he was holding in his hand, not mine. Mummy's face when Papa was in ICU at Hinduja flashed before me, me giving her the weak reassurance that everything will be OK, she did not know what food or drink went down her throat and I struggled to keep her afloat, she kept talking of Bappa's lethal heart attack, she was in shock then. I saw a shadow of the man who could instill mirth as well as fear in me, attached to life support machines, but with his eyes he told me, he was ok, and he was going to make it. I held his hand when his parents died one after the other. It was the first time, I had seen my Papa cry, Aji's Ballu, whom she always had a special - Ballu Neet zaa for, and he always said Yeto never zato to her, and taught us to say the same. The Chinese dinners, the games of Rummy, and Trade and Scrabble, the movies at Super and Central, the Republic and Independence day picnics with Prakashkaka's family, visits to Mithibai, all those Mudkavi and Kothare jokes, shopping at Linking Road and treats to Friendly ice-cream, always strawberry, always cones. And when I got married, my Papa cried again, as he hugged me Byebye, his little girl, whose hair he used to dry and set with the white hair dryer, but only after he had vigorously rubbed my hair with a towel, and I had said "aa-aa-aaa-aa--a--a" My mummy's fervent prayers when I was operated for a cyst, her look of utter relief when the doc read the report and said it wasn't cancer, her stories of how difficult it was giving birth to me, and how I had never fallen sick ever, so why this hospitalisation now? My M.S.S paper, and how she half carried me in a deliriously high fever to my final B.E. exams, and waited for me outside for 4 hours, praying every moment of the time. Over the years, I have said many things to them, both good and bad, but I have never thanked them for always staying together, and giving me the joy of both parents, and always encouraging me to find my own true love for leading a life as inseperable as theirs has been. Congratulations Mummy and Papa for 30 years together, and here's wishing you happiness and sunshine always.

Anuprita

Short Story - My friend Radhe

I have known Radhe for a few years now and he must be as ancient as his name sounds. He is rather thin, with thinner hair and wears glasses as he has trouble with his eyesight. In order not to inconvenience anyone on the road, he prefers to walk sideways or just glide away from an animate obstruction rather than just say “Side Please” as they do on the busy streets of the bustling city where I used to live – Mumbai.

The stray dogs of Mumbai panic Radhe and in order to avoid them he constantly crosses the road. The beggars and eunuchs panic him even further and he quickly parts with all his money, throwing it out of his hand into theirs, shrinking from the very thought of their touch.

His voice is barely audible mostly and he has never been able to complete a sentence without being interrupted – I think it is because people can’t tell whether he is speaking at all. Do you think that Radhe minds in the least? Not really, he appears happy to have the strain of conversation being taken off his weary mind.

My friend Radhe has been married for 15 years. His wife is a thin, sickly woman with nervous hands who has a surprisingly shrill and unbearably loud voice as well as a vicious tongue. I think of a lion tamer each time I see her, but then Radhe doesn’t exactly measure up to what we would call a lion. Ahem!

Radhe – you have to wonder how – has successfully produced a child who has been named by the mother of course as Ranavir Rajavir. He is tall, intelligent, sarcastic (especially to his father) and distrustful. Obviously he obeys only his mother and the two of them have decided that Radhe is a burden on this planet and has little to offer the world, so they choose to ignore his rarely expressed opinions.

I think Radhe has worked at the same place for years – a dismal exporter of marble and granite. His boss is a burly old man with strong forearms and he looks as if he could split a stone slab with his bare hands. He regularly gives Radhe a pay cut to subsidize his other employees pay increases or so he says. Radhe’s entreaties are often met with violence. Unable to bear the ferocious looks he gets from his boss, Radhe regularly works late hours in his crumpled old suit. He owns only one suit, the one he had stitched for his wedding 15 years ago. He also has just one tie, which is frayed at every conceivable point along its edges. Since his wife will probably kill him if his shirt gets dirty, he always works with his jacket on.

Just after the burly boss decided to cut Radhe’s salary one more time, his wife has decided that Ranavir Rajavir cannot go to the government polytechnic with such good marks. She has registered him at an expensive institution in a posh Mumbai neighborhood. In view of the additional outlay of funds required, Radhe has stopped buying his daily newspaper and his only monthly luxury, Readers Digest (a considerable sacrifice). His sacrifices could not have been timelier. His wife has recently exhorted all the neighborhood wives on how they should train their husbands to suppress their overwhelming desires in order to provide for the family.

That is Radhe for you – docile, dumb and depressing. You wonder, could there be anything remarkable about this man. Well, wait till you see him get on the crowded Mumbai suburban train network.

Here is what happens:

He wants to buy a ticket everyday. He stands at the ticket window before it opens. Then he fumbles with his change for as long as he wants, especially when the hollering starts from those in the queue behind him. Invariably he will hand at least one outdated coin which is no longer in use. He will also make sure that he never has the exact change despite paying with the largest number of small denomination coins, always delivering a few at a time. He seems to derive mild pleasure from the ticket clerk’s exasperation. When the guy starts shouting, Radhe in his usual serene manner starts inaudibly muttering about his rights, presenting arguments so contradictory that no one really understands what point he is trying to make. He usually succeeds in getting a ticket without ever paying the full fare, because the ticket clerk just wants to get rid of him the minute he sees his face at the ticket window.

Once on the train, Radhe has the penchant of opening the windows if it is raining and closing them when it is not. All the other passengers who admonish him to do otherwise are met with a silent steely stare. Smoking is not allowed on Mumbai’s trains, but Radhe makes sure that he holds in his hand a cheap beedi, which he lights but does not smoke. This, despite the fact that Radhe himself hates smoking.

I have always known Radhe to be a sedentary person without the slightest interest in sports, but he will switch on his tiny portable transistor radio full blast in order to follow some insipid hockey or football match or even a cookery show, subjecting the fellow passengers to a noisy broadcast full of static as he tunes in to a godforsaken channel. However when people want to hear the latest cricket score, he will pretend the radio has stopped working.

The seats in the train are meant for 3 people, yet the people of Mumbai are accommodating enough to allow a “4th seat” passenger to precariously balance half of his backside as the train journeys are long and arduous. Despite his small size, Radhe will take up the full space he is entitled to – exactly 1/3rd of the long seat. However, when he is the one standing and there are only three people on the seat, he demands his 4th seat and manages to take up an excessive area simply by putting his hands in his pockets and poking his bony elbows into his neighbors’ sides. The few occasions that he has to travel standing, he keeps his jacket unbuttoned, adjusting his height such that the flaps of his jacket hit the face of the seated passengers. He is delighted if someone is reading, he will stand against the window or whatever is the poor fellow’s source of light. As if that is not enough, he will withdraw himself for a brief spell just enough for the reader to open his book again and read a couple of words before Radhe moves back into position.

On the evening rush hour, Radhe makes sure that he is eating a “Bombay sandwich” all through the journey. Then with breadcrumbs and threads of tomato, onion and cucumber hanging from his mouth, he will walk along the length of the compartment saying “Side please”

My friend Radhe gets off the train in a jolly mood. Timidly, he walks home, staying out of the way of anyone he meets. He is not allowed a key, so he has to ring the bell. If anyone is home, they rarely refuse to open the door to him. But if neither his wife nor his son are to be found, Radhe sits on the doorstep until someone arrives.

The Unposted Letter

Yesterday, I came across a letter to a friend that I had forgotten to post. In it, I had chided her for not being "online" and stated that I was doing her a favour by writing a letter instead of the normal email or chat communication that I had with all my other friends.
The letter contained a lot of stuff about my daughter who was just a 1 year old then. Arya and I read it together and it was a barrel of laughs. I had written about how Arya had started walking properly and even running about in short spurts. I had written about how she spoke some words and a whole lot of nonsense. And most importantly, I wrote about a funny incident which somehow I had forgotten - we were all watching a Hindi movie with it's typical fight scene, when Arya leapt into action, jumped off the sofa, attacked my mom with her fists saying "Dishum Dishum". Fond memories came racing back into my mind.
I started scavenging the box in which I had found this letter for more such blasts from the past. The search yielded nothing. But Arya requested me to write letters to all my friends now so that she may discover these several years later and we can have fun reading them. My daughter is a sentimental fool and gladly, so am I.
I remembered with lots of regret, the email box I had set up for her and the emails I used to religiously send to that mailbox hoping that someday she would read all about her first smile and her tiny fingers and the way she looked at me when I caught her with my palmtop which she had removed all the keys of. Her first piano lesson and the first time she was on stage - the list was endless. I forgot to sign into that email account for a month when I was on holiday and hey presto! they erased all that stuff.
Coincidentally, yesterday my brother's friend asked me to write about my recent experiences of moving back to India after living in Singapore for 8 years. He also referred me to this site. I was reluctant at first but discovering the unposted letter and thinking of all the memories which I was flushing down the drain by not recording them anymore (after the unfortunate email incident) made me certain that I definitely wanted to chronicle my life.
So here goes...!