Sunday, February 1, 2015

My Father - A Short History of his Salad Days

My father will be turning 72 years old on March 6th 2015. This means he was born in 1943.
The truth is, he was born in 1942. It was common practice in pre-1960s India to register a child's birth a year late. Contrary to what we believe today about giving children an early start, old India seriously considered the advantages of being older among one's 'peers'.

I'm not sure how this could be explained if and when the child stuck up like a tall poppy in class. Perhaps he was hailed as a giant. Or perhaps being tall gave him some undefinable advantage (proven by studies post-2010) - both on the playground as well as in leadership.

Or did his peers rally around him because he was emotionally more mature? Or perhaps stunted emotionally because he was stuck with a younger crowd? Or it might very well have been that no difference was noted as almost everyone was a year late. I don't know. I'm just throwing out ideas here.

I don't know exactly where my father was born. It could have been Madras (now Chennai)...or it could have been some out of the way place within Tamil Nadu state (the most cosmopolitan, temperate, safe, southernmost state...to which I belong as well :)). My grandfather was a police officer in British India and in Independent India, and as was expected by the police force, he etched his career in the different towns and cities of Tamil Nadu.

I know, however, that by the time my youngest uncle - the youngest child - was born in 1950, my grandfather had settled for good in the Royapettah locality of Madras. Royapettah is a historic place, boasting old schools such as St.William's, the Little Flower Convent, Wesley, and Sacred Heart Church Park Presentation Convent (my dear school!).

Royapettah is rich in wonders such as the Nawab of Arcot's palaces, some of which serve as the Madras University buildings. One can spot the Indo-Saracenic buildings of Queen Mary's College, and the neo-classical gothic columns of the police headquarters. Additionally, there are a slew of >500 year old temples (from ancient India), mosques >300 years old (from the time of the Deccan Nawabs), and churches >150 years old (from British times).

But more than all of these architectural wonders is the hole in the wall Basha's Halwa House, the birthplace of the very distinctive Dum ka Roat - a sweet meat made from cream of wheat, eggs, milk, khoa, ghee, baked in 50 inch round sheet pans till it burns a brown crust, and sprinkled with toasted pumpkin seeds. Mmmmm! There is nothing to beat warmed up Dum ka Roat...plain or with vanilla ice cream...except the heart attack it will induce, of course.

Even after my parents moved into their Anna Nagar bungalow in 1980, my father would bring home 250 grams of this Dum ka Roat every Friday evening. If he couldn't, then we'd stop by on our way home from the beach every Sunday evening. Happy times.

But back to my father...He is the second of 4 brothers and a sister. He attended Madras Christian College School on Harrington Road, and MCTM Chidambaram Chettiar School in Purusawalkam. There were times when, after school, my father and his brothers would go to their dad's police station. There, crouching under the wooden tables and sheltering behind the chairs, my father and his brothers would more often than not watch hardened criminals being brought in handcuffed, beaten black and blue with laathis (wooden batons), and thrown behind bars. Did all this graphic violence affect my father somehow? I think so.

I believe my policeman grandfather had a strange hold on my father's psychological development and self-esteem. From what I hear from my own father, I have reason to believe that my paternal grandfather raised his sons on a regular diet of war stories, beatings, militaristic discipline, distant authoritative parenting, and more beatings. I believe that most fathers of the time were like this.

That generation which witnessed the ravages of the World Wars certainly parented a generation of crazy baby boomers! For some reason, men of my father's generation the world over, seem obsessed with the World Wars. My father, for instance, often described the terror experienced by Madras upon being bombed by the German sub 'Emden' in 1914...as if he had witnessed it first-hand. Of course, he was only re-enacting his own father's terror, eyes wide open. It was as if he were trying to seek a connection with his father by donning his role, or what he remembered of him.

Like all Muslim boys, Abba (which is how I address my father) went on to the New College (named after the New College of Oxford, a comedy of errors for sure). He studied Chemistry, bunked classes for the NCC (the National Cadet Corps), conjured up names ('pipette' and 'burette', for example) for the long suffering Profs, and enjoyed the perks of being naturally handsome. Psst! My younger son resembles him very much indeed.

He and his bunch of friends also bunked classes to watch matinees - Bollywood, Hollywood, Kollywood...They joked about the actors' names - "Henry Fonda, yeddu da bonda!" (Fonda, pick up that fried doughball!), "Giri-giri Peck" (for Gregory Peck), and "Kiriku Douglas" (Kirk Douglas). The all-time favorites were Jerry Lewis, Raj Kapoor, Dilip Kumar, MGR, Nagesh, Mehmood, Mukri, Johnny Walker, Clint Eastwood, Cary Grant, and Gregory Peck, in no particular order. Alfred Hitchcock and Woody Allen films were highly sought after. James Bond, Dracula and Sherlock Holmes were iconic figures.

Actresses were only to be ogled, not admired. Simi Garewal, for instance, was referred to as "a slab of chocolate, with 2 raisins" (I typed those words with my eyes rolling up). If actresses were not ogled, then they were worshipped. Yes, the objectification of women as saints or as sinners was alive and kicking in 1960s India! My father, for instance, spoke of (strangely!) Marilyn Monroe, Nargis, Greta Garbo, and Vivien Leigh in a very respectful tone. I don't think my father and his friends ever really understood women, to be honest, from my observation of my parents' marriage, over the span of 39 years. Four decades later, when he read in TIME magazine about Marilyn's possible murder by a forced intake of barbiturates, my father was most pained that anyone would want to harm this beautiful, innocent woman. He was quite disgusted with Robert Kennedy, for sure.

Soon after my father graduated, my policeman grandfather passed on. Since the first and the third sons were both in medical school, someone had to pay the bills...Enter my father, the second son. My gung-ho father eagerly tried to join the Indian army and was rejected. With his natural optimism and general good charm, he jumped into - voila, pharmaceutical sales! In the early 1960s, Sarabhai Pharmaceuticals was producing generic drugs at affordable prices, and its genial salesmen (such as my father) were increasing its market reach well into the rural areas of all the Indian states.  

During my childhood, my father often recounted this story of a foray into rural Tamil Nadu. One night, after making his calls to doctors' clinics and on his way home, my father rammed his Royal Enfield Bullet motorcycle into a cow standing in the middle of the road. It was a dirt road with rice fields sloping away on either side, it was dark, and my father was dead beat.

The cow gave a pathetic low and fell dead. My father sat stunned. A farmer shouted and rounded up his farm hands to attack my dad. Even at this moment, my father kept his wits about him. He knew he wouldn't be able to fight a gang of angry men who wouldn't listen to reason. So he wheeled his bike over the cow's tail and sped off as fast as he could.

My father didn't relate this story to crow about how quickly he got away. I think he felt guilty for having left the farmer in the lurch. Hence the repeated storytelling, akin to a confession. My father knew all too well what hunger pangs felt like, as he had often gone to bed without dinner after his father's passing.

In 1960s India, when 'famine' was a well-known word, and patriotism was on fire with the incursions from China and Pakistan, I believe Indians truly winced at another's pain. I believe that my generous father truly meant to repay the farmer for his loss, but never really worked up the courage to face that gang of hardy men.

Fast-forward to 1975, when my parents had an arranged marriage, and moved into a 2 bedroom cozy flat in Lloyd's colony, Royapettah. I popped out 9 months later, in October 1975, a Libran, born a daughter but in reality, my father's son.  

Wednesday, January 28, 2015

The Quality of Mercy

This week, I was voted the 'Best Speaker' at my local Toastmasters meeting. I attempted an organized speech, with an introduction, a body (with 3 main points), and a conclusion, from chapter 2 of the Competent Communication manual.
 
 
I believe my audience was listening as some were taking notes. From the little chits that were passed over to me, when I had concluded, I felt very much appreciated and encouraged. Thank you, fellow Toastmasters, for your guidance, mentorship, for listening, and for your affirmation! Without further ado, here is my speech:
 
 
The Quality of Mercy
 
You all have heard of Shakespeare, the Bard of Avon, who lived 500 years ago and who has enriched our lives with his plays and poems. He wrote a play called ‘The Merchant of Venice’ in 1598. This play contains one of the most well-known of Shakespeare’s persuasive speeches – ‘The Quality of Mercy’, made by the leading lady Portia.
 
This speech is addressed by Portia to the court in general, and to Shylock, the villainous usurer, in particular. It is an appeal to the moral conscience of Shylock, to spare Antonio’s life. Antonio has stood guarantee for a defaulted loan and now risks losing, literally, a pound of flesh as punishment for the same. As we know, losing a pound of flesh would lead to certain death by bleeding. Hence, Portia’s appeal to Shylock’s compassion.
 
What is this ‘The Quality of Mercy’? I quote a few lines to capture its essential meaning:
“The quality of mercy…
…droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
…it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:…
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
…When mercy seasons justice.”
 
Throughout his plays, Shakespeare presented the qualities of mercy, compassion, and forgiveness as the highest possible values that could be upheld by the powerful and the rich…be it the power of a Governor over his subjects, the power of a professor over his students, the power of a parent over his or her child, or even the power of a husband or wife over his/ her spouse. The most obvious reason why is because the wealthy and the strong could crush those beneath them with a few words and deeds. Therefore, it is imperative that they practice compassion and forgiveness, that they season their justice with mercy.
 
For instance, a parent who repeatedly harshly disciplines his child in public will produce an adult who is afraid to stand up for himself. A parent who over-reacts harshly to his child’s inappropriate behavior will produce an adult who lies often and does not confide in the parent. A parent who keeps lecturing and crushing his child’s spirit will produce an adult who has poor self-esteem. Forgiveness makes us human. As long as there are relationships, there will be a need for forgiveness.
 
But here’s a thought – those who are materially prosperous and those in positions of control are not the only ones who are wealthy and powerful. Shakespeare points out that those who absorb and develop these qualities of mercy, compassion and forgiveness gain power through the exercise of these qualities. Such people are rich in moral wealth. They are evolved human beings whose wealth cannot be measured in terms of dollar value. They may be materially poor or they may not occupy any high social position, but they are wealthy in terms of their moral compass and dignity. They are values-driven leaders who understand that any rule is to be applied in spirit and not in the letter.
 
To explain, a kind and forgiving person may be laughed at for having been taken in time and again. However, one can see it this way – a kind and forgiving person is not a fool. He is just lucky to be blessed with a beautiful heart that not many have. Zen, yoga, motivational teachers, and psychologists have for years encouraged us to shed the baggage of anger and hurt. If one were to carry a glass of water for 1 minute, it would be easy. Try carrying that same 8 oz. glass of water for 1 hour and watch how your arm would hurt! By carrying around our zealousness, self-righteousness, and grudges for years, we are hurting only ourselves. Sometimes, these negative feelings have resulted in diseases of the mind and body – such as schizophrenia or cancer. Forgiveness is a great release. Forgiveness sets you free.
 
Lastly, I wish to point out another angle to this cycle of forgiveness – namely, the roles of the giver and the receiver. In other words, the person who shows mercy and forgiveness and also the person who receives it. It could very well be that although a person is ready to forgive, the receiver may not be prepared to accept this mercy. For instance, in a divorce, an abusive spouse may not be willing to be forgiven, seeing this act of forgiveness as an accusation instead. A perpetrator of violence may scoff at the forgiveness offered by his victim, seeing it as an insult or as an affront that challenges his rightful aggression.
 
“The Quality of Mercy” speech describes how one prays for divine mercy and also how one dispenses it. The act of mercy, therefore, demands that both the giver and the receiver evolve and be humble enough to give and to receive the same. What does one do when the receiver does not acknowledge one’s forgiveness – perhaps to cover up his or her wrongdoing through denial? Does it mean that the act of forgiveness cannot be complete? In that case, one must forgive oneself for holding on to the hurt for so long, and for having been vulnerable. Then, one must move on. They don’t call it ‘water under the bridge’ for nothing. Forgive (don’t forget), and make a fresh start. For yourself.
 
In conclusion, one might say that the qualities of mercy and forgiveness are indicative of an enlightened and cultured society. Note, I did not say a ‘materially rich’ or ‘technologically advanced’ society. I also didn’t refer to an instant and forced forgiveness. I meant – a society that thinks before it acts and that values integrity.
 
To forgive is to be human. The act of forgiveness and compassion is a great equalizer. It reminds us of our shared humanity – that we all are not perfect, that we all are capable of slipping up – both the giver and the receiver...for one day, the roles might be interchanged.
 
History is not destiny. We always have the choice to embrace a positive and constructive future. Choose the quality of mercy.

Monday, December 8, 2014

CFA Level 1 Exam Experience. December 6th 2014. Chicago.

Saturday, Dec 6 2014 was quite sunny, though cold. It was not depressing and gloomy. This helped keep spirits up.


The exam was held at the Donald E. Stephenson convention center near Chicago's O'Hare. The other event at the convention center was a kennel show. Therefore, the CFA exam candidates passed several folks dressed as dog mascots in the walkway from the hotel to the convention center, with super size, furry, fanged heads, and large paws. It was unsettling. I later learnt via a TV news report that they are called 'furries'.


I was early, @ 720am. Reporting time was 8am. The exam's 1st session was between 9am and 12pm.


The candidates were people of all sizes, colors, shapes, styles...(some of them peculiar styles)...in various zen moments. Some of them were still cramming their notes. I have no idea why. It felt like walking into a hallowed electric exam experience @ Monster's University. I of course was Don Carlton, the old guy. In addition to feeling outdated, I also had a tornado in my stomach.


Then I noticed older candidates, with greying and white hair, in various stages of tension. One seemed apathetic, one was trying to coax epiphanies from the air around him, and this one was the best of all - he lay himself out on the floor immobile while the rest of us trudged towards the exam hall.


There were also perfectly gorgeous specimens who were apparently blessed with both good looks and brains, AND who were taking the CFA level 1. Well, imagine this - a young and muscly Ben Affleck in blue jeans and a red checked shirt who seemed as though he could tackle a tough exam, plough a field, fix a car engine, and fight a bull, with ease. There were several of these specimens who appeared for the CFA level 1. It was baffling and unfair.


We waited in a corridor before they allowed us to proceed towards the doors. I was right in front, facing the fire. At that point, I felt like Aragorn before the Battle of Pelennor Fields. I was praying that the dead (my mother, to be specific) would help me win this battle. I admit that I was hoping for miracles, that the answers would be whispered into my ears.


We were seated at collapsible wooden topped tables, 2 per table. There must've been at least 500 in the hall. Of which 150-200 would pass, as per the historical statistics. We were only allowed to bring in HB2 pencils, an eraser, pencil sharpener, a calculator and some batteries, for emergencies. No pouches allowed. Money and credit cards could be carried on one's person as the exam proctors could not guarantee the safety of one's personal belongings in the storage area outside. The CFA institute forbids guarantees. I remembered an Econ line - "The only certainties in life are death and taxes" ;).


I was seated next to a Chinese junior at UI-Urbana-Champaign who would NOT stop chattering. She was extremely bright but still, a child at only 21. I thought of how I could be her mom, at 39. It was depressing. However, her sunny nature cheered me up and gave me hope. She did not stop talking till the last moment and started up again the second the exam was over! Wow. I was worried that the proctors would pull us up, but they were cool as this Chinese girl was careful not to break the rules. Here's a vague advantage of having a last name that begins with 'A' - you get to sit right in the front.


If one felt thirsty, one could drink at the water table, after handing over one's book to the proctor. Bathroom breaks required the same procedure - one took one's exam ticket along for re-entry.


Session 1 was a breeze. This was the universal opinion, judging from conversations around me, as I hurried from the convention center and back to the hotel room to warm up my lunch. My husband and sons had gone off to IKEA where they were having fun choosing study tables. 


Apparently, one can go easy on the reporting time. This time I checked in @ 130pm for the 2pm-5pm  2nd session. We were assigned the same spots as before. This was convenient because some candidates had forgotten their calculators at their seats! I'm not kidding. Those instruments would have cost $100 each I'll bet. Who forgets expensive stuff at moments like these?!!!


As usual, the green vested proctors handed out the exam books after which the head proctor (in an orange vest) read out the instructions. The microphone sucked. Nobody understood what he was saying and did their own thing, for which some of them were chastened (e.g. - my Chinese friend). My young friend was super sleepy and communicated this fact by spreading herself all over her section of the table, groaning loudly, and sulking at intervals. This was not helping me at all. Thankfully, the gorgeous CFA candidates were sitting at a safe distance so there were no further distractions.


Session 2 was a killer. It was as difficult as Session 1 had been easy. Why did the CFA Institute schedule this tough exam for the afternoon session when everyone would be sleepy? I don't know. It was devious. At the most trying parts of the exam (and there were many such parts), I could hear - not my late mother's voice - but the thick accented drone of my Thunderbird Data Analysis professor (!!!).


There seemed to be not much universal discussion about Session 2 because everyone was in a hurry to get home. Plus they looked struck by the wrecking ball of the CFA level 1.


As I walked back to the hotel room, I thought of my sons and husband. It was fun to see some kennel mascots who looked more like werewolves rather than dogs. They may have been werewolves. I don't know. From the conversations around me, I realized I wasn't alone in this experience. Although there were young investment banking hot shots who were super smug and 'with it', there were also scores of candidates who were doing it because they wanted a step forward, or maybe their companies had some skills requirement, or just for fun (like my brainy Chinese friend who was still doing her bachelor's in Accounting and Finance, no less)...Whatever. I thought of my 1 month's speed reading prep and told myself - "If people with 10 years of investment banking experience can retake the exam with 4-5 months hard work, so can I!"


A gorgeous CFA specimen held the walkway door open for me with a smile. He was a major stud muffin. I saw some shaggy big lovable dogs and their rightfully proud owners. The hotel was playing old time Christmas songs. It was a peaceful twilight. As I entered the room, my husband embraced and kissed me. The kids said they'd missed me. They told me my IKEA Princess Cake was in the fridge. It was a zen moment.

Tuesday, July 1, 2014

Delayed Gaga Over Gaga

Yesterday evening, my husband and I set out on our first date (sans children!) in 8 1/2 years, to watch Lady Gaga in action during 'Summerfest', at  Milwaukee's lakeside Marcus Amphitheater.

The leather jackets of late June in Milwaukee, WI - the home of Harley and Buell
I am a great fan of the Lady, as she is original, unapologetically self-proclaimed weird, and a passionate perfectionist...not to mention compassionate, empowering, and inspirational. I personally was expecting high standards and to be honest, I wasn't disappointed by Gaga herself. Her show was energetic, arty cool, flamboyant, even kinda touching (when she played the piano and sang 'Born This Way' with heart, legs splayed, with no other accompaniment)...ok, that sentence didn't quite turn out the way it should have...
 
Yet, my husband and I left an hour into the show quite disappointed - not with her performance - but with her sense of punctuality .
 
So, the show was scheduled for 7:30 p.m. on June 26th 2014. We hurried to the venue an hour in advance, as we had read of long queues, milling crowds, parking nightmares, etc. - none of which we encountered in the mighty fine Midwestern city of Milwaukee.

The infamous scalloped bra...
We had great seats - the best seats, in fact - about 50 feet from the stage and at a higher elevation. Perfect. Throngs walked up and down the aisles cheering their fellow audience members, braving the 50 degree chill and the fog rolling in from the lake abutting the amphitheater. And so we all sat, shivering and waiting for Godot as it were, and slowly going gaga.
 
Crayon Pop, the helmet-wearing Korean girl band opening act, were fairly entertaining, saccharine sweet, eager to please...Their music was a mix of dance, disco, techno...I suppose 'bubblegum pop' would be a fairly apt description. They gave it their all, bravely attempted to speak American with clarity, and bopped off 45 mins later.

Crayon Pop
Then came Lady Starlight (who could pass off as Gaga's twin). She was very cool and edgy, wore a deep blue mini dress with a sailor collar, and played club beats on her Roland, jerking spasmodically. She was clearly into the music and enjoying herself. Her crinkly eyes and smile were infectious. For a while. The crowd danced occasionally when they could (note - they were anywhere between the ages of 13 and 70, many of them tottering about resolutely for their star).
 
One of our neighbors, a pudgy lady in her 60's, dressed in a sequined top, black leather leggings, and black kitten heels shook her Mohawk and creaked about in stern camaraderie. The audience was as colorful as the much anticipated entertainment...In fact, with their costumes and wisecracks, they provided better entertainment than the opening acts. 
 
After 45 mins of drum beats, Lady Starlight turned boring as well. The swirling club lights, flashing spots, and occasional pink and green laser displays grew jaded. My elderly neighbors were actually yawning and set us off too. Security kept promising us that Gaga would open at 8pm, then 830, and finally 9pm (!). Alas. My husband and I realized at that point that we would have to leave midway, as our kids were home with a babysitter.
 
So, when Lady Starlight bowed out, the crowd breathed a sigh of relief that went up like a nimbus cloud in the freezing cold. Lady Gaga didn't disappoint - she was right there in our faces at 9:30 p.m. - "G.U.Y.!" - with her incredible vocals, style, flamboyance, and totally cool song and dance show with flashy fit dancers, spandex, balloons, gyrations, squid suits...and expletives...lots of them in a vain attempt to wake up the audience.


Mama Monster...Note the alien orb on her chest.
And yet, the crowd (including the mosh pit) drooped from end-of-day tiredness (it was a weekday after all), from having had too much to eat and drink, and from the biting cold. If Gaga had indeed moved fast through the opening acts (45 minutes each) and started at a warmer 8:30 or 9:00 p.m., many would have moved to her beat, instead of standing frozen in a state of near hypothermia, hugging themselves in the frosty night.

The domed, tentacle-ridden, Santorini style set.
An hour into her show, at about 10:30 p.m., many of the 35+ crowd walked out with us, presumably home to their children. As we were making our way to the doors, we could hear Gaga's impassioned commands, "Raise all your mobile phones, you fucking crazy kids!", "You are beautiful babies! And do you know what beautiful babies get? They get to have a fucking good time!" Ho hum. Well, good night darling. When the mobile phones come out, you know exactly what level of interest your show has garnered, even in this day and age when mobile phones are practically attached to everyone's hands.
 
You know, Lady Gaga, you are one artist who commands a DIVERSE fan base. As a Mama Monster, YOU should know better than all others that your fans and admirers make a great effort to attend your shows. Your fans come from all walks of life (we even spotted Gruber of Gruber Law there - yes, the "One call, that's all!" guy), and from all age, income, class and lifestyle groups. Don't you think you should respect their time, interest, and love for you by starting your show somewhat on time? You are a world-class professional for whom we pay top dollar. Carelessness is something I'd expect from someone shallow...but not you.
 
Although my husband and I enjoyed ourselves very much indeed, and indeed have wonderful memories of the show, we were disappointed by the wait. Seriously.
 
I was especially put off as I had made the choice between Motley Crue (with Alice Cooper) and yourself, simply because my husband would have preferred your youthful entertaining show rather than to have watched a bunch of grandpas belt out a headbanger's ball (that I personally wouldn't have minded at all, actually).
 
I continue to believe in you and your originality. Just don't be terribly late again please.
 
For those interested in watching Gaga - I'm sure this particular show was a one-off...so I would give it a 3/5 rating. I believe the general response to Gaga concerts has traditionally been phenomenal...
 
Bottomline: The show itself was great throughout. The songs were all from her latest album Artpop, but snatches of several earlier hits were sung as well (Telephone, Bad Romance, Poker Face, to name a few). It was still worth braving the cold for, although I would opt for an indoor performance the next time. Let's face it, I am growing older and would like more predictability in my life. I don't want to attend a concert and face pneumonia the next day.

Saturday, February 8, 2014

Oh Those Russians!

Men in smashing uniforms...who can sing...and dance with deadpan expressions. What more can one ask for? :)

Here are the very cool Russian police singing 'Get Lucky' with their 'Gru'-like accents...http://www.nbcolympics.com/video/russian-police-choir-performs-get-lucky-opening-ceremony?ctx=top-moments
They're so very bad...they're good. Oh those Russians!!!

Friday, January 3, 2014

Hilarious Homophones/graphs

Depending upon how the future unfurls, we might make the move to the big, buzzing metropolis a 100 miles away...In the meanwhile, even as the First Mate has decided to cross the bridge when we come to it, the obsessive-compulsive yours truly has already begun an anxious research of the city's safe neighborhoods, the best school districts, homes and condos for sale, their proximity to the office/university, pediatricians and GPs in the area, public transport, conveniences available, and so on.
 
Did I mention that all this is being done without any concrete decisions having been made? Well, I say what is a man (or woman, in my case) without a dream? This city dweller is ready to move back into her natural habitat.
 
Some funny moments have popped up thanks to google. A query such as - "Which _______ neighborhoods are saturated with desis?" is met with numerous responses - "Which _______ neighborhoods are saturated with disease?" HAHAHAHA
 
I must say google is not very far from the truth.
 
Here's another cross-cultural homophone/graph I heard long ago on London's desi radio. The DJ went - "Coming up, it's 'Kholee kay peek'" He meant 'Choli ke peeche' (pronounced 'chcholee kay peechey', and meaning 'behind one's blouse'...yes, a rather unsubtle sexual innuendo, in true Bollywood style). Again, even with a mispronounced song title, the DJ did send the message home.
 

Thursday, January 2, 2014

How to Get in Touch With Your Feminine Side...Indian Style

My husband brought each of our sons a lungi as a gift from Madras (yes, I am one of those old fogies who still refers to Singara Chennai by its older - and more fitting - name). The First Mate is one of those Dekkani Muslim men who prefers a lungi to the pyjama kurta (that my father favors). Something about a pursuing a 'sense of freedom' and allowing air to freely circulate, he says. Well, each to his own.

I suspect (and know!) there are other conveniences that accompany the wearing of a lungi, but those need not be dwelt on right away. As long as one exercizes a moderate amount of imagination, one may no doubt divine these lungi-bound perks...
Tamizh Superstar Vikram whose well aired ... are well covered by his gold bordered lungi
So, the Singapore Singaran - who, as an infant, was once indifferent to his father's sleepwear, and  has now become very curious about it - was delighted to have a lungi of his own! It is patterned in a merry green and blue plaid, perfect for a young man of 8...a pattern known to the world as 'Madras checks' - as we discovered, when we were given a carpet swatch by a representative of Empire Carpets.
 
How did we describe the design in Madras itself? Simply, as 'checks', or by the less popular 'tartan'. Actually, if you mentioned 'tartan', the shopkeeper would probably have mistaken it as 'tartar' and maintained a respectful distance...Not that anybody could identify the tartans themselves in the 1980s and 90s...or today, for that matter. After all, Madras back then was just good old, laid-back Madras - plain calm, and cool, where nobody got worked up about the accuracy of names. They dealt with it by just getting creative and churning out more checked patterns.
Madras Madness
But to return to our son's absolute thrill in teasing his lungi from its snug plastic wrap...He was ready for it, we could tell. Of course, he wore it with a t-shirt, and we wrapped it around him, making a pleat and folding over the top twice so it wouldn't come undone (very important, that). Once outfitted thus, our Singapore Singaran was joy incarnate! He jumped from bed to bed and finally skipped down the corridor to look at himself in the mirror. His first words? "NOW I know what it feels like to be a girl!" LOL
 
He is such a darling.