Narratives of the Food Casanova

A true food lover possesses a Shakespearean passion for food. A secretive hot and heavy relationship that sizzles in the dark of the night. Floats in the light of the day. And offers that entire mix of temptations, indulgences, and even a spiritual liberation when you just want to drop to your knees and prostrate to the almighty in fervent thanks for this heavenly pleasure on earth.

Food is just not food.

It’s art. It’s music. It’s nature. It’s balinese massages. It’s all that the senses need to come alive.

Only a true food Casanova can understand the passion that it evokes. The nuances of this torrid affair. The ones who eat because it’s a necessary part of life – they are on a completely different wavelength. They cannot comprehend the emotion. They cannot comprehend the tears that well up at the end of a wonderful meal that makes up for all the wrongs that have been committed against you in life or perhaps just on that day. It may just appear to be melodrama. But oh what glorious melodrama. Oh what joy there is when something wonderfully tasty lands on your thirsty tongue and the juices in your mouth just jump in joy to hug their long lost friend. Might be that spicy fried chicken or that mushy chocolate mousse or just that single morsel of hot soft rice drenched in dal and dipped in ghee.It’s a big fat magic pill. It’s the hug of a hundred mothers. Hush my little baby. It shall be okay. It shall all be okay. Just eat and sleep and heal.

Yes amma … Yes..amma ….. ..

Loving food has little to do with the stomach and more to do with the mouth. Ok that sounds a little gross so I am just going to refer to the oral equipment involved as the Littles. The Lips, The Tongue, and The Teeth. All of the Littles have their opinion on what they like and what they don’t. At any given point any of the Littles can start pleading for a treat. And as a food lover you know that if you ignore their pleas for long – they react like children. Turning stubborn and demanding until the only way out is to get them what they want. And you might have to upturn a lot of things to get them what they want. I am sure tons of memories sprung to life right now. Sure did with me. The midnight Seven Eleven runs for that  one ball of Ferrero Rocher. The one hour train ride to get to the supermarket that carried the brand of beef I liked. The waits to fly to a destination and go straight to that restaurant that steamed the fish just the right way and garnished it with the right amount of green chillies sliced just to the right thinness. Oh – I have million such experiences. And fellow food casanovas – I am sure you have too.

But pay heed to my warning if you are a recently turned food casanova (perhaps due to a hormonal change or a recently change in state of affluence)- Learn to keep them in check. By them I mean the Littles. If  you don’t master  them, they will master you. Promise.

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The Lips

The Lips usually yearn for the soft soft cool cool smooth smooth stuff. Bear in mind that it’s the inner lip that’s active. You know that soft part that rests against your teeth? Now these are the Lips that crave. The outer ones are utilitarian. When a craving hits the Lips, it comes slow. Very leisurely. Like that little breeze that sneaks out of the corners of the trees on a warm day. That little breeze slowly but steadily turns into lots of little breezes. Dancing about like Aishwarya Rai’s extras in a Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s song. And if you don’t satisfy it soon enough, Salman Khans of the mouth ooze out from the point where the Lips meet the teeth. Filling up the swirling space between them with their teasing movements. And if you still continue to ignore the Lips, the mouth Salman Khan will start signalling his army which will start dancing around the white pillars that grace the palace of the Littles. Juicy mango. Cool chocolate mousse. Hot chocolate fudge. Ghee dripping rasagulla. Amma’s homemade pudding. Thinly sliced Kiwi. Rasperry sorbet. Just give it. Give it what it wants before the the little Salman starts tearing his shirt off!

The Tongue

I love indulging the Tongue. Because it’s the most mysterious. It’s the poet of the Littles’ Palace. The wandering Sufi. The meditating Saint. It lives in its own world. It’s own realm. I sometimes tend to think that the Tongue reflects the yearnings of the heart. It never thinks of something concrete. It just wants – something sweet – something sour – something soursweet – something liquid – something spicy – something sweetnspicy – something hard – something soft – something ….. something. It’s always a something. And not all of the Tongue speaks at once. Sometimes it’s the right underside that craves the sweet. Sometimes it’s the root that craves the spicy fried. Sometimes it’s the top that craves that sweet liquid. Or Sometimes it’s the way back that craves the sweet and sour and tangy. And it’s the bang center that shouts for the salt. Some of you just had the “Oh Yeahhh” moment right? If you are a true Casanova – you would already be attuned to these nuances. The tongue would be your favourite mistress to indulge. Because she keeps you guessing and never fails to bring that smile on your face with her reactions. And with the tongue – it’s always leisurely. It’s always a stroll in the palace. You take your time. Savour everything. Enjoy - every. little bit. And if you don’t indulge her – there are no tantrums – just a quiet sadness that sinks a well in your heart. And in time you’ll make up for what you denied her.

The Teeth

The Teeth – well what can be said about the Food Casanova’s teeth? I am sure you find them coming alive fellow casanova when Mel Gibson energy is bursting out of you. When the Teeth want – there is no denying them. No sir. No ma’am. You can’t do nothing to keep them in check. When they grind for that pound of flesh or that crunch of nuts or just that tearing and slicing into something tough – bow down before their will or they will go on a rampage – chomping on anything and everything that comes their way. And tragically they may not even injest it. Just chew and spit until the right stuff finds its way home. Steak. Deep Fried Chicken. Sugarcane. Find one of these three. If you are desperate – then just hunt for some carrot. It will calm them down for a while. But just for a while. But head straight for the tough ones or you will surely end up pulp yourself. Or someone else around you. Hey, the rule in my book is that if my boss is craving some chicken. I order it some chicken. Because I know if it doesn’t get some chicken – I’ll  be it. The harried hen in the pen.

Sometimes all the Littles get hyper. Clamouring for attention. There are some foods that are complete foods for all the Littles. Like Ferrero Rocher. Biting through one is like biting through earth itself. The grainy top layer that gives way to the soft clay-like encasing that paves way for that molten heavenly chocolate with a surprise hazelnut in waiting. Aaaah …..

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No life as a food Casanova is complete without those explicit tales of food. Recounting each little detail like it’s your dream wedding or a hostage rescue in the Sea. It always easy to spot true blue-blooded food Casanovas. No, don’t go by size. Remember it’s all about the palace of the Littles? Casanovas eat to indulge the Littles not the tummy. So some of them may eat lots – but in variety. Not in quantity. You’ll know a food  Casanova when food comes up in the first three conversations you have with them. You know a certified Casanova when they suggest a restaurant not because its good, but it’s got this something particular that tastes something particular, and blows their mind something particular, and you just have to have it or they just have to have it. And you’ll know a food Casanova with a PHD when they will spend twenty minutes telling you what they are planning to eat for dinner. The precise combination and quantity. Their eyes will light up, their faces will beam, and their voices will gurgle with an excitement that one usually experiences only when they are setting out to do something for the first time. Like sail. Or jump off a cliff. Or feed a crocodile.

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Life as a food Casanova is exhilarating for me and I could write a thesis on my trysts with food. But for now this will do.

Of all the passions in my life – my passion for food is the most consistent. Most faithful. I don’t know if I am the mistress or if it is the master.

All I know is that I am crazy in love.

Always have been.

Always will be.

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Going Down Tone

People who have music in their souls can’t ever give it up. I feel all those auditioners who bray their souls on national television. I understand that intense burning desire to stand before a mike and let the world hear you. To feel the heat rushing out your nose like it’s funnelling through a high voltage hair dryer...

I am constantly amazed by the amount of musical talent in this world. I recently began watching X-factor India. Wah wah. Some of the contestants are just amazing. Truly gifted. But it’s the unmusical singers who offer true entertainment. And to be honest I see myself in a lot of them. Or at least the me that was. Hugely passionate about singing – but completely, completely tone deaf. And my family is worse. While they are not so passionate about singing (apart from my black and white movie song singing dad), tone deafness seems to be a genetic trait. So, take a tone deaf singer, put her with a tone deaf family, and there you have a superstar in the making for a tone deaf audience. But God was kind enough to provide me the realization of my musical abilities before I embarrassed myself on an X-factor stage.

It was in a modest classroom of 80 students. A teacher at the new high school I joined had taken a liking for me. As a favourite, she favoured me on many occasions. But unfortunately that backfired when she decided to hold a singing session in class. She asked for volunteers – and I jumped in excitement and she chose me first. And so I stood up and confidently opened my mouth – turns out to bray - raat kali ek khwaab me aayi. I didn’t realize it was not in fact music, but very sweet braying (cos hey I am not that bad, just not that good either) until I saw the is she kidding us? expressions of my classmates and the buried laughter from the boys. It didn’t sink in until Soumya took stage and sang the same song in the sweetest most musical voice I had heard until then. And then it sank in. Truly. God bless that day of self-realization.

I don’t sing so much now, but even until a couple of years back – I was hugely passionate about it. My life was a song. Literally. Even in the oddest of situations a song would run in my head in the most dramatic way. Whether it was a funeral or a wedding or just that unexpected shower of rain. There was always a song defining that moment. Articulating it with all the feeling it demanded. I was the antakshari queen. The picnic radio. That odd broken record that you would hear wafting through the AC vent in office. So passionate was I about singing – that I used to sing myself to sleep or rather just fall asleep singing. Hey when I was still like eleven okay? Anyhow, one of my favourite memories is of the time that my grandmother (who at that point we were terrified of) woke up one night and royally scolded my siblings for the loud TV volume. Turns out it was not the TV, it was me – sleep singing!!

See, people who have music in their souls can’t ever give it up. They can’t help but express themselves through it, in it, with it. I feel them. I feel all those auditioners who bray their souls on national television. I understand that intense burning desire to stand before a mike and let the world hear you. Let that voice escape through those vibrating prison bars inside the throat. To feel the heat rushing out your nose like it’s funnelling through a high voltage hair dryer. To scrunch your face up so intensely that one might not be too wrong in thinking that you want to squeeze the skin off your face. To sing with so much heart that you are in the danger of puking your intestines out. I know. I have been there – done that.

The high school experience didn’t deter me from taking on a stage again. A big one. In my first year pre-university I really wanted to go up on stage and sing. But I didn’t have the guts to do a solo – so I managed to get into a group. Now this group – was as singing challenged as I was. But we all shared that common confidence in ourselves. The song we chose was Nothing’s gonna change my love for you. Our practice session turned out to be intense girl talk in somebody’s maruti 800, and the makeup-friendly painting their faces. So engrossed were we with our ‘practicing’ that we lost track of time. So we ran to the auditorium, and after much begging we managed to get ourselves on stage. It was beautiful. That full auditorium. The panel of judges. Natasha Pinto who had so sweetly volunteered to play the piano for us. The holy light coming in from the audi doors. I’ll never forget that moment or what followed afterwards. 1.2.3. Iffff I HAAAADDD TO LIVVVVVVE MY LIFFFFE WITHOUT YOU…… Bray bray bray. Oh how magically we brayed. Bray bray bray. Me with the loudest voice and the nastiest cold (on top of that musically challengedness). We brayed so beautifully – Nat just looked at me and gave up the piano with a shrug. She couldn’t find the scale to fit in our musical genius. But I LOVED that moment in time. I sang like never ever. Like all those hopefuls on the music shows. I didn’t stop singing even when the rest of them did. I didn’t stop singing even when the judges started waving their hands, or the audience started laughing. I sang until I had completely let it all out. Because I just knew that this college would never let me get on stage again. Talent like mine threatened the very existence of the music community in that college. Had it been the age of the Internet –  they would have probably put me on every music blacklist possible.

These days my musical genius only wakes up when I wake up. I am now a certified bathroom singer. All of Cooke Town knows when I wake up. But I don’t know if they know whether its me or the neighbourhood rooster. My favourite song to murder these days is Tu Jaane Na.

Tu jaaaane naaaaaaAAAAAAaaaaa

aaaaaaa

aa-aa

a-a

And truly the bathroom is the best place to sing in. The acoustics are just am-azing. And I find that I actually sound good in there! I have decided that when I eventually do have kids – I am going to train them in bathroom singing. Tadap tadap ke from Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam, and I will always love you by Whitney Houston are great songs for constipation. You have to sing them with feeling. Put your heart and stomach into it.

And Aaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

Will alwaaaaayssss LOOOOVEEEeeee YOOUUUUUuuuuuuUUUUUUuuuUUUUUU

Of  course Nothing’s Gonna Change My Love for You will always remain my favourite cos it gave me my X-factor moment. If only we had camera phones in those days!

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Truth Upon Truth

There are two qualities that (if present in a person simultaneously) can be a recipe for disaster, comedy, and supreme embarrassment. Honesty and the urge to always be right. You will know people who walk around with these, or you yourself may be one. I am one such crack and trust me, there is no end to the troubles  I endure because of these two.

Take for instance my latest experience. I went shoe shopping. I liked something. And it cost just 550 rupees. The owner of the rather snazzy store was serving me. We went to the counter. I asked if I could pay by card. He said yes. I handed him card number one. Declined. I handed him card number two. Expired. Ok no problem. I fiddled with my cards trying to figure out which one to swipe next, but there was an intense silence in the room so I started to look for cash. Err, I couldn’t find anything. I started to look in wallet number two…nothing inside. Umm, getting to the point of awkward. The shop keeper was staring at my wallet. The assistant was staring at my wallet. I was staring at my wallet. My cousin was also staring at my wallet. Hoping that somehow I would manage to pull out five hundred and fifty rupees and be done with it. But unfortunately there was no bunny in the bag.

So my cousin offered to pay. I let her. You may have heard of how a lie upon lie screws things up. I'll now tell you about how truth upon truth messed things up. As we were making the payment, the shop keeper made a comment on why it’s better to use debit cards instead of credit cards, and yours truly who always has to be honest and always has to be right went on to correct him and share with him that those two cards were indeed debit cards. Then I realized how it sounded so I explained to him that I was trying to empty the accounts. Ok. Fine. But then I went on to tell him that I wanted to empty the accounts because the banks kept charging me for not maintaining the account balances. That was the point at which I realized I had shared too much, and that combined with the whole penniless scenario, sent this burst of rarely-felt mortification coursing through me, and I dragged my cousin and hurriedly walked off. He must have thought I was some poor woman down on her luck and someone else had to buy me the shoes to save me the embarrassment. What I failed to share with him was that those two accounts were my NRI accounts – which I was barely using these days since I had turned resident Indian again. I didn’t have cash in my wallet because all the TEN ATMs we visited that morning were down (some global failure). I didn’t bother to pull out any other card because everyone was staring at me and then my cousin offered to pay. And I let my cousin pay because she owed me money.

I could have saved myself some embarrassment if only I had kept my big mouth shut. But nooo I couldn’t just let the dude think that they were credit cards when indeed they were debit cards, could I? Stupid me who doesn’t know how to nod along. Something my mom has been trying to teach me since I was born, but she doesn’t understand that people like me are genetically wired to not nod along.

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You know the other attribute in people like us? We always have to be right. We are the Rosses from Friends. We are the Teds from How I Met Your Mother. We will correct you at every given opportunity – not because we want to prove you wrong; but because we want everything to be right. We can’t help ourselves. I mean really. I can’t let you call a donut a vadae can I? And who can sit quietly if somebody keeps pronouncing  fiancé as fiyans or Dove in the south-indian Dow style? And really I can’t keep quiet if you keep referring to Gadafi as the Italian Prime Minister.  And it’s a great test of patience when the ‘elderly’ (50+)  from the family proclaim so confidently about how something works and refuse to accept that they are wrong. And you can’t let go because you can’t let them believe a lie. Particularly when they clearly talk of things they know not of. Like computers. Or mobile phones. Or just take the much familiar scenario:

Elderly person: “Why did you do it this way?!!”

Young person: “Because you told me to.”

Elderly: “No, I did not. What are you saying?”

Young person: “You told me to. Just then when I was explaining the procedure to you.”

Elderly: “No no no no no. You have gotten confused. I told you to do the other way. You are the one who wanted to do it this way.”

Young : “No I didn’t.”

Elderly: “Yes, you did.”

Young : “No I didn’t. “

Eldery: “YES YOU DID. “

Young: “How can I accept I did when I didn’t?”

Elderly: “Next time I’ll record and show it to you. Stop being so argumentative!”

Young : “Sure. Please record, then we can see that I didn’t.”

Elderly: “Y-E-S Y-O-U D-I-D”

Young : “Okay never mind. I did”

But I didn’t.

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See, I am quite capable of lying through my teeth. I'd be lying through my teeth if I said I don't lie :p. But when your first instinct is to be honest, you try to make the lies you make up as close to the truth as possible. So much so that, you can't keep track of what's the truth and what's the lie and that is when you have dug yourself a nice pit of quicksand. And there's nothing more awkward than being caught in a lie.

And if you know us people – please dear God, never offer us a sales role in your company. We will probably sink it to the unknown gallows with our revelations of truth or our attempts at the much required ability to sell with half-truths. Either that or you will soon find us in the psychiatric wards of environmentally induced schizophrenia. We start believing that client number 1 is at the next table while we are lunching with client number 2. We keep looking over our shoulder. Are they here? Can they hear what I am saying? What if they catch me? We start thinking they have spies all over. I better be careful with what I convey, they may just find out somehow.

Honest people who always have to be right have lots of other problems too. Like they go in super detail while explaining things. Say for instance their description of a surgery will be so graphic, even the surgeon will want to throw up. Or will be so honest about their opinions that they end up offending others half the time. And even if they are not honest, their eyes will betray them.

“Do I look fat?”. Honest person: “Of course not”. Honest person’s eyes: “Is that even a question?”

“Who farted?”. Everyone looks at the glutton. Honest person looks at the glutton. Glutton looks at the glutton. But honest person blurts: “I did”.

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Imagine such a stupidly honest person with the urge to always be right in a hostage scenario.

Criminal: “I am going to shoot you with my pistol.”

Rabia: “That’s not a pistol, it’s a rifle.”

Criminal: “Shut up you bitch.”

Rabia: “I am not a bitch, I am a woman. A bitch is a female dog.”

Criminal: “Are you trying to act smart with me??”

Rabia: “I am not acting. I am smart.”

Criminal: “Oh you are so smart eh.” Drags Rabia by the hair and shoves her face in the ground. “There can you smell your grave?”

Rabia: “No, but I can smell your socks, and they stink.”

Criminal: Pushes his rifle into Rabia’s back and goes “Now what do you smell smart ass PHD?”

Rabia: “I am not a PHD, I am a Masters.”

Criminal: Cries. “GOD. WOMEN”.

Rabia: “Yes. You men.”

Ka boom!

Criminal kills himself.

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We Are Dog-Fearing People.

I am here to speak on behalf of the dog-fearing people. We are a neglected, oppressed, and suppressed lot. Nobody cares if we die of fang fright or go into permanent woof shock. There is no awareness and no concept of ‘dog-fear enabled’.

The truth is that you know us. We are the people you love to hate. You know the ones who request you to lock your dog up? Well technically speaking we are the Cynophobics, but let’s just call us the dog-fearing people.

But expecting some sympathy is futile. What is more likely is that the Doberman leashers will just laugh and set their dogs upon us. Go, go get those chicken Rambo. And so Rambo goes to get them. And we scramble above our fear soaked pants. And Rambo chases us. ‘Come to papa you tittering chicken’ he sniggers. And then you find yourself running, stumbling, but running at breakneck speed. Rambo is at your heels. You jump above the fence. You clamber around the buildings. You sail across the cars. You can feel Rambo’s breath on your neck. You are hurtling towards the tracks. There’s a train approaching. You don’t care. You’d rather be hit by the train than be kabab to Rambo. And then you slip. You are on your back. Rambo is upon you. You see his big black face wolf down to yours, his fangs drooling that disgusting sticky saliva. Now who’s the underdog? You are rambo’s kabab, you are. And you scream. Your scream sounds like a gargle. Then suddenly it’s all quiet.

You open your eyes, and realize it was just a dream.
A really bad one.
But dog-fearing people know that fear that disintegrates the very bones of your being.

When we are in such states, all else fades. We feel like we are in a hot humid jungle and standing before us is the nastiest wolf in the world. We can’t focus on anything else but the sound of the panting, that little growl. Our eyes are drawn to those fangs, those scary pre-historic fangs. And we can’t stop it - we will look into its eyes and it’s like standing at the brink of hell. Stone-cold fire boring into your very soul. He knows. He knows. HE KNOWS.

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There are some dogs I fear but I love. Like the Shepard variety or Labradors. But you know the dogs I love to hate and fear the most? Pomeranians. God, I am not a violent person, but I would happily shoot a bullet into a pom. Bloody arrogant little pricks. I must have been eight years old when I was chased by one. I didn’t do anything okay? I just looked at it and smiled and then it barked madly and leapt - and I just knew it. So I ran. I ran and I ran and I ran, faster than I ever had. And the pom ran after me. Bloody little arrogant prick. Woof-woofing like a catty bitch. Chasing me, trying to get it’s feline claws into me. Blood pounding, heart racing, mouth drooling. Oh I ran. Round and round the front yard, and the back yard, dizzying around the house. Then suddenly, a door opened and a cousin pulled me in. Finally I was safe. But I couldn’t believe that I was chased by something that was nothing more than a rabbit! A rabbit with nasty little fangs.

That same year, another white dude decided to go mental on me. Literally. It was my owner’s dog Rocky. I loved him so much. Rocky and I were great friends. I don’t know what breed he was, but he was huge, and white, and shaggy. His kennel was just under the stair-case to our first-floor apartment. Once, on my way up I saw Rocky sitting there. I looked at him, tilted my cute little head and gave him a sweet smile. “Rockyyy” I said. And suddenly he jumped up with a bark and chased me up the stairs. Somebody saved me yet again. We later discovered Rocky had gone dog mad and he died in a couple of months. But not before making my life hell. I couldn’t step through the gate until he was locked up. He simply hated the sight of me. I was quite sad too because I had lost a friend. At that point I had to believe one of two things. That dogs saw the devil in my face. Or there was the lesson to carry in life:

DO NOT SHOOT SWEET SMILES AT WHITE DOGS.

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But there are dogs that I don’t fear. Stray dogs. Oh my darling mongrels. They are so nice and friendly and as many of you know - only chase men. Good I think. My perverse revenge for all those years of eve-teasing that we have suffered. It’s really so much fun to watch the whole batch gunning after the fancy young men screaming like little girls and trying to save their heels from the doggies. Stray dogs chasing stray men. Poetic justice.

But oh beware of the “Beware of Dog” sign. Oh, dog-fearing people, you know the nightmare value that carries.

Stupid pet dogs. I don’t know what they think of themselves. Spoilt brats. Remember I told you some time back that your kids are ugly? Well, now I am telling you – your DOGS are ugly. Misbehaved jackasses. Firstly, they think they are like some self-appointed bodyguards with Uzis for teeth and AK47s for paws. Not a second after you approach that dreadful gate, a tornado descends upon that compound. Leaves are in the air. The wind is howling. And there is that unmistakable sound of those hoofs thumping down. Oh, that’s enough to freeze the very breath in your lungs. And before you can even hit the defrost button, the thunderclaps burst through. BarkBarkBarkBarkBarkBark. If you are still outside the gate, well and good. But if you have crossed the border – Oh my God, my flory God! BarkBarkBarkBarkBarkBarkBarkBarkBarkBarkBarkBark. Your option is to either jump back over the gate, or to rush to the door and hammer upon it. Quick Quick open the door pleasseeee. The tears well up, the lipstick all melts, and the hair has electrocuted itself. And then they let you in.

Then you would think that they would take the dog away? But cheh, no. Oh, he’s so friendly and cute. Don’t worry about him. Paapa, look at him, he won’t harm you. So what – did you think I just always walk into people’s houses looking like the roadside crazy?? But apparently. Then that uzi dog will not leave you alone. And you won't leave you alone. You sit on the edge of that sofa constantly afraid it’s going to suddenly jump from behind or sneak through your legs from underneath. He may he may not. But of course he will definitely come and start sniffing at your feet. Stubbing his hot nose on your ankles. Drooling over your leather heels. Ants crawl on your ankles and your fatty calves quivers. And you just know that it can smell your fear. Relaxxx goes the aunty. Shut up aunty goes your head. Can you take your uzi brat away from here? But uzi brat has to stay to watch you eat. Every morsel. Every biscuit. Warning you. Don’t you dare finish it, let me have my piece or I’ll take one out of you. You accede to him. But brat is Satan amplified. He won’t let you leave in peace. When you get up, he starts jumping about without warning – barking like the king of rabids. Almost hitting the roof in excitement. Down Tiger. Down. But Tiger won’t have it. The leash can’t hold him down. Daddy can’t hold him down. Then he breaks free. Standing guard at the door.Ten people shield you from Tiger and herd you out. But Tiger will have the last word. Before you drive away, he will make sure he pees on your car to show you who’s the boss.

Sigh. You are Uzi Dog You are.

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So, did you get that? Did you get what we have to go through when we visit you? And do you know how painful it is when 6 out of 10 people you know are dog owners? You love them. I know that. We are a pain. I know that. There’s too much drama. I know that too. But what to do. The heart fears what the heart fears. The heart leaps, and so does the man crossing your super-energized dog out for the evening walk. I have personally been almost-run down many times in an effort to avoid those leashed dogs straining against their owners to come say a nasty hello to me.

Many a girlfriend has been lost for the fear of a dog. Many a biryani missed for the fear of a dog. And many a man wimped for the fear of the dog.

We are dog-fearing people. We have rights too. Rights to live without fear. Rights to walk on the footpaths without fear. Rights to visit you without fear. Rights to voice our fear without fear of being ridiculed. I dream of the day I can walk about India, without having to change course because of pet dogs, and stray cattle, and jumpy chickens.

I dream of a day when I approach a gate and a dog loves me. Runs to me with his tail wagging, and smiles at me when I smile at him. A day I can turn to you beamingly and say: We are dog-loving people.

But alas my friends, we are dog-fearing people.

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Nude Awakening

Perhaps it is the apathy of people like me, who have the ability to speak out, that just makes it easier for idiots to randomly pronounce and proclaim so authoritatively about a community. And is it any wonder that over time, reiteration of skewed views by the media, slowly becomes the defacto opinion of the larger society?

The newspaper reported about Sila Sahin today. She’s a Turkish-German who posed nude for playboy. Good for her. But the report went on to state that she is “a glowing example of how a modern Muslim girl should behave in a multicultural society.”

I can’t even begin to list all the things that are wrong with that sentence. 

Perhaps it’s just irresponsible journalism, but underlying it is the collective understanding of a society. Some of you see it. Some of you don’t. But here's what I think it suggests. Somehow ‘progressive’ and ‘modern’ are  directly proportionate to the amount of skin shown. So, people emerging from clothes-friendly societies are probably still on their way to ‘modernism’. And girls from such communities (particularly Muslim) could do well by laying themselves bare to millions of ogling men and set a 'glowing example' of how to adjust in multi-cultural societies. Men who have so far driven themselves crazy wondering what’s behind that veil. If not it’s likely that such girls just have to accept the random questions about the harems they have graced and the terrorists they are hiding underneath their burqas.

I often don’t bother commenting or reacting to such obvious ignorance and idiocy on part of the random public. Because well - it seems like pointless intellectual hullabaloo (like on news channels). But perhaps it is the apathy of people like me, who have the ability to speak out, that just makes it easier for the idiots to randomly pronounce and proclaim so authoritatively about a community. And is it any wonder that over time, reiteration of skewed views by the media, slowly becomes the defacto opinion of the larger society?

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In a lighter vein, let’s backtrack a little. Ok let’s backtrack a lot. To when God dropped human beings on this earth or when they sprung from the water (whatever you believe). I understand that the point of clothing yourself was to protect yourself from the elements of the earth?

Except the melanin granted to equatorial people to prevent getting toasted, our creator chose to not give the humans any other form of protection. He probably said, dear sons and daughters of Adam, I am giving you brains, and I am giving you opposable thumbs. Now put them to good use. Let me see what you come up with. So sons and daughters of Adam, first came up with Tools, then they came up with ideas to use the tools to make themselves some clothes. Then they started realizing that tigersaurous skin looked prettier than rhinosaurus. And so man being man, he troubled Vanity to rear her head and give a glorious birth to Fashion.

But now I think Vanity wants Fashion back, so she’s released a nude nerve gas into this world. Going by the afore-recounted statement, in a few decades or centuries, as the ‘multi-cultural’ society ‘progresses’, clothes will be done away with altogether. If God-willing I live to see my great-grandchildren, like all grand-mothers I shall tell them tales of how in my times there existed something called ‘clothes’ and something called ‘fashion’.  And oh what glorious times they were. Fabrics, and colours, and cuts, and shapes, and embroideries, and prints, and sequins and crystals, and God-sent lycra and denim. Probably a decade earlier the garment industry would have collapsed, and I can recount those troubled times as well to them. The Great Garment Suppression.  The largest economic collapse the world had ever witnessed. Millions left jobless and hungry.  Or so I think :).

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Hey, I am not an anti-nudist per se. I have always believed in the adage of to each his own. As long as your actions don’t harm others they are your actions. I don’t have to believe or agree with them, but I respect your right to have them. And just as long as you don’t slink over and start impressing yourself upon my guy, I am fine with your nudity. But I can’t be the only one who is bothered by this obsessively retarded belief that many people in the world, and particularly in India seem to hold. Tighter, shorter, clothes make you ‘modern’.  So if a girl’s wardrobe largely comprises salwar-kameezes, by and large she’s a ‘behenji’. And until she happily dons a cocktail dress or shows off assets in corsets, she’s probably ‘old-fashioned’ and ‘conservative’. ‘Cool’, ‘hot’, ‘modern’ are not terms you will find associated with salwar-kameez girls. And really, does a salwar-kameez girl fit into your image of a ‘babe’? Kinda hard for a lot of you right? There are always exceptions, but I am talking about the rule here. An unfortunate rule. That’s just the way it goes and it’s not something I am going to damage my tonsils over.

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But perhaps I should stretch my tonsils a little. If baring skin is a social response to repression and seen as a freedom of expression, then it should find its own podium. Trampling over someone else’s expressive right to cover themselves can’t be the way to liberation.

But isn’t that the tone of the world events? To liberate one, another is oppressed. Yet another form of dictatorship. Why is it that people think that for them to be right, someone else has to be wrong? It’s not always mutually exclusive. I wonder if anyone will dare report an Orthodox Jewish or Catholic girl on a playboy cover as a ‘glowing example of modern behavior’. Or for that matter any girl from any background. It simply appears that the words ‘muslim’ ‘naked’ and ‘girl’ just jumped out at the reporter and he reacted in glee. Such knee-jerk reactions are nothing new. I suppose any Muslim breaking away from a Muslim norm must be glorified as a hero because of course all the billions of Muslims are crazed fanatic idiots who don’t know nothing about living a progressive life. I am not exaggerating. Just read the raging discussions and debates on online articles related to Muslims and Muslim practices and you will see that's pretty much what the majority believes.

But then such people perhaps don’t notice what really excites them about a Muslim girl gone nude. It’s the fact that suddenly she becomes one of them. The fact that beneath all those clothes you and I. We are all the same. Sons and daughters of Adam or cellular organisms of the waterworld (whatever you believe).

Perhaps that - should be the nude awakening of a multi-cultural society.

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Kya ba so ba – Learning to speak south-indian urdu

Kya ba so ba. Ji. Ji. There. You mastered our language.

:).

I’d like to enlighten all the ill-enlightened Bangaloreans that the urdu you think is the urdu we speak is not the urdu we speak. The urdu you speak thinking it’s the urdu we speak is the urdu I like to call the “autowala urdu”. When we respond to you the same way you speak to us (like confident tannery road goondas), it’s because we are indulging you and having a laugh at your expense. Not because that’s the way we really speak.

It’s not what you say. You have got the gist of it. You just don’t know how to construct your sentences. It’s actually the accent you speak in that’s really funny. For instance you will say “hamme jakko vahn tairya Ta”.

Sorry. It should be “Mai jaako vhan thairya tha.” That is if you are speaking middle grade.
Sophisticated grade would be “Mai jaako vhan khadko tha.”
Crass grade would be “Mai jaako vhan japleko tha.”

And what we speak is not even urdu as much as it is what is loosely called “Dakhni”. Yes, it’s a dialect spoken in “Deccan” India. Snigger if you want – but it has its own grades of sophistication, variations, intonations, and accents. Like the rest of the world, we will judge you on your usages, pronunciations, and sentence constructions. And when Dakhni speakers say something – most often you can place them immediately - based on all the parameters listed above. I can tell you if you are from Bidar, Cuttack, Chennai, Virajpet, Bangalore, Bangalore – Shivajinagar, Bangalore – Jaynagar, Bangalore – Kalasipalya, Bangalore – Cantonment, or Bangalore – confused identity. The way you can place a North Kannadiga by their Kannada? That way only. And oh – what they speak in Hyderabad is ‘Hyderabadi’. It’s not Dakhni. Very distinct. Like Bihari is to Hindi, so is Hyderabadi to Dakhni. Real urdu with its “takalluf” and the “muaf” for the Dakhnis is like Victorian “thee” and “thou”. So it really frustrates me to have to select “Urdu” when filling forms.

If you are a hindi speaker – a good thumb rule to speaking dakhni is merging two words to make one. We are kinda lazy that way. So “Aa kar” becomes “Aako” “Aati hoon” becomes “Aatiyun” and “Ja raha hoon” becomes “Jaroon”

So now that you are sufficiently educated. Let’s get to the fun part! Don’t get so stuck with the so so and ba ba. I’ll teach you some really fun words. At the end of this, you will be able to learn a really fun sentence you can use on your dakhni-speaking friends.

Pissed with someone?

• Masti – Masti for the dakhnis does not mean fun as it does in Hindi. It’s actually used to refer to someone with too much attitude. Equal to the Kannada “kobbu”. Use it like “unku khoob masti” for your seniors or “usey khoob masti” for your peers.
• Maatimilla  (male) Maatimilli (female) – Literally translated means the one who has merged with the mud/one who is worth rubbing his face in the mud.
• Diwani Bala (female) – What your amma will call you when you piss her off. It translates to the mad woman who embodies an evil spirit.
• Diwani Rand (female) – What your amma will call you when you piss her off beyond redemption. It translates to mad erm. Let’s keep it clean. You know what it means.
• Khadmoot(male)  – Literally translated it means 'the man who pees standing'. But it's an insulting word because in our community standing and peeing is considered uncultured and disgusting. So, a 'khadmoot' is an uncouth who indulges in his own pleasures.

 

Want to get descriptive?

• Kangi-choti-haa-hoo – Literally translates to “Comb-plait-ooh-aah”. But what it really means is that you got all dressed up for nothing.
• Martingdi (female) Martingda (male) – Describes a very emaciated person
• Potta (male) Potti (female) – A manner in which to refer to young people. It implies that they are prone to the unruly ways and attitudes and temptations of youth. It can be used both scornfully and playfully. And often used collectively as potta-pottiyan.
• Diwane shah - Literally translated means 'The Mad Duke'. Often also used as "crack shah". So you might just want to call out to someone "Aji, O diwane shah, idhar aao".
• Khadi – Means upright. Typically used to prefix laat which means kick.
• Dum latka le ko – Doing something with your tail dangling. Often shortened to “Latka le ko”

 

Want to get emotive?

• Kheench ko – Describes the way you would cause harm to someone – slap, kick, etc. Alternatively you can use “Thaid kar ko”. But you have to say it with a lot of stress on the vowels. So phonetically it will sound “KHEEEEENCH ko” or “ThAAAIIIDDD karko”. Kheench ko actually translates to pull hard. So your sentence would go something like this “Kheench ko ek laat martiyun”. Which means that I am going to pull hard and give you one kick.
• Chittad – Means Ass. Of the hindquarters kind. So ‘I am going to pull hard and kick his ass’ translates to “Mai use kheench ko chittad po ek laat martiyun”
• Speaking of chittad. There is a fun something we say to ask someone to get lost in a very colourful way. “Bhains ki chittad, kheench ko kattar”. Translates to “Pull the buffalo’s ass hard and bite it”. There is a way of saying it. Imagine you are saying this to a jungle drumbeat. In the ta-ka-takara-takarataka hoo haa hoo haa rhythm.Bhains-ki-chittadkheench-ko-kattar. Bhains-ki-chittadkheench-ko-kattar.

 

So this is how you put it in a sentence

If you are going to speak to a guy say:

“Kya re martingde maatimille. Khoob masti ki tujhe. Ab aako tere chittad po kheeeench ko ek khadi laat detun dekh. Phir pottiyan ke saka ‘kangi-choti-haa-hoo’ karko roleko baithinga” Translates – What you emaciated mud mixer. You got too much attitude is it? Just wait and watch, I am going to come and pull hard, and give you one upright kick on your arse. Then you will sit like a young errant girl crying comb-plait-ha-hoo.

If you are targetting a girl say:

“Kya ge maatimilli. Woh khadmoot potte se baatan karleko ko thi so? Kheench ko ek khadi laat chittad pe maroongi. Ja ab bhains ki chittad, kheench ko kattar. Aur hamna bhi zari lako de.” Translates – What you mud mixer, were you talking to that errant boy who pees standing? I am going to pull hard and give you one standing kick on your arse. Go, go pull the buffalo’s arse and chomp on it. And give us some too!”

If you are truly interested in Dakhni as a language check check this out. And if you want to formulate more colourful sentences, you may contact me directly :).

THE END.

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Bald Men with Full Beards and Hairy Men with Goaties

Bald men with full beards. That's something I never understood. My first response is – uncle you are trying too hard. My second - gravity has lost direction. My third - dear lord in heaven, you are too ironic!

So why would you want to do that? To prove that you are still capable of producing hair?? Dude. We know it. Because I don't know if you guys have noticed - but naturally bald men seem to have unnatural hairy arms. It's not like I go stare at men's arms okay? It's just one of those things that you notice. You notice because it’s really such a cruel thing. Bald man with a moustache - I'll grant you that. Bald man with a razor-edged beard - I'll grant you that too – in fact that’s kinda cool. But a hairy face with a bald head - uncle, it just doesn't work...!

While we are on the subject, let me mention that I have always wanted to see a bearded man eat cotton candy. That would be fascinating! :P

Hey, I like the bald look okay? And it's not like I have beard phobia. A well-trimmed beard can be very attractive. But oh - not the goatie please!! Oh that dreadful very prussian cat fur goatie. I don't know why the human male species thinks hairy goaties are attractive. I don't know if they do it to draw attention to their lips or what! Aiyoh. No offense. But just ask a lady friend what she thinks of your frenchie and you won't dismiss what I am saying that easily. I know many guys honestly believe it looks great and a lot have it in their heads that it gives them a 'serious' and ‘respectable’ air. How many men do you know who became managers, put on a suit, and suddenly grew goaties? Lot's I bet.

And our South-Indian Shankar Mahadevans. Why ya, why are you feeding the chubby South-Indian guy with curly/rough/spiky hair stereotype? (you know the curly techie and spiky sales dude?). Why ya? We should have let the Northies continue with the "Aiyo Rama, ab maiy jaako idli sambar kaatha" mocks. Why you had to reveal the truth to them? I have to tell you -the day my brother shaved off his goatie, I was the happiest person. Now people don't look at our photos and ask me if the guy next to me was Shankar Mahadevan gone the Michael Jackson way!* And I also suddenly realized I had forgotten what his lips looked like! And I know for a fact that he had trouble at immigration! See what all the goatie can do to you?

The only goatie that works on a guy and actually looks kinda cool is the Leonardo DiCaprio and Johnny Depp one. If you can match that - well and good. Else please kindly let the baldies have those goaties.

Now that brings me to the next one. Balding men with goaties. Nothing so unattractive about it. I mean paapa, you should at least grant the balding guy that much no? But man - is that a stereotype from the Guinness book of stereotypes or what? The young-pushing-thirty balding business manager or the middle-aged paunchy company Director? A bald man with a sharp goatie is verrry nice. But a bald- ing guy. Hmmmm. Nothing much to say. Except that, that image reminds me of the totem coconut heads!

My apologies friends, uncles, brothers, cousins, and other male relations. But this the best way for me to tell you that while you can't do much about the hair on your head, please take care while carving that coconut!

* MJ cos he's on the fairer side.

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