SOME ‘STRIKING’ THOUGHTS

As an ‘aided’ college teacher in Maharashtra (‘aided’ means we get our salary from the state government coffers), I am ON STRIKE at the moment, along with the majority of my colleagues across the state, for the selfish-selfless cause of implementation of the Sixth Pay Commission pay-scales for teachers. To coin a slogan:

WE ARE ON INDEFINITE STRIKE
DEMANDING A DEFINITE PAY HIKE.

This has been a striking week for Mumbai. The overworked and underpaid government doctors went on an eight day strike, demanding better pay (but of course), and resumed work only after ministerial promises and some unfortunate deaths.

School and Junior College teachers went on a one-day strike demanding (guess what) implementation of revised pay-scales.

The bus-drivers and helpers and Group-D staff of my daughter’s school were on strike for a day, followed by the teachers the next day, in protest against the private management’s high-handedness.

All in all, a week of disruption, deviation and demands.

What ‘strikes’ me most, however, is the difference between Mumbai and Kolkata in the approach to strikes .

In Kolkata, we take strikes in our stride. In fact, the right to strike is regarded as the second most important fundamental right by most Bengalis (the first being the right to speak – wherever, whenever, on whatever topic whether we know about it or not, and preferably in a public platform like an adda). Whenever strikes are announced (and they are usually thoughtfully scheduled on Mondays or Fridays to give us the benefit of a long weekend) we cheerfully start making plans for the ‘forced vacation’. Everybody is happy, and a festive mood prevails, with boys playing cricket on empty streets and only the businessmen-types and newspaper-wallahs and TV channel people getting hyper about the erosion of work culture. Don’t they know that the term itself is contradictory – if you work, when will you have time for culture? Bengalis have ‘THE BEST CULTURE’ (you know Rabindranath Tagore, Satyajit Ray, and, er, Bappi Lahiri?), so, obviously, dada, we don’t need to work.

In fact, protest is second nature to us (we will always remind the rest of you how we protested against British imperialism long ago). Protest is ‘in the Bengali blood’, much more than work is.

So it was a kind of a ‘culture shock’ for me to see the reluctance of my Mumbai collegues when the teachers' union decided to go on strike. Everybody was upset and worried that the students would face problems, that the syllabus would not be completed on time. Everybody willingly agreed to give up the Diwali vacation to teach extra classes should the need arise. They accept the strike as a measure to achieve certain ends, but are eager to resume work ASAP.

What a change from Kolkata, where we accept strikes as a pleasure to achieve an extra holiday or two till the next call for another strike? And with two obliging political parties trying to break each other's record for maximum strikes and bandhs called in an year, strikes are party time. Literally.

And me? I am caught between deep admiration for Mumbai’s work-ethics and a deeper genetic laziness which is making me enjoy a few days of unemployment. Blame my Bengali blood for that.

DUDE OR DUD?

Do you belong to the PRE-DUDE or POST-DUDE generation? At 36, I firmly belong to the generation which used the Dude-word sparingly, using it to describe boys who had real, genuine, rebellious ATTITUDE.

But this century manufactures attitude along with Yankee baseball caps (worn wrong way around), low-slung jeans (worn with chaddi compulsorily showing), and cheeky-slogan T-shirts. And so, we have a serious case of DUDE-CLONING. Every male under the age of twenty-five is either a cool dude or trying to be one. And the funny thing is, these clones do not appear to have distinctive names of their own, they are all called, you guessed it, DUDE.

Sample this: standing at a slow-moving queue at an up-market garment store, I observed two such clones talking to each other. They were carrying shopping bags full of, presumably, even more slogan-tees, low-waist jeans and baseball caps.

“Hey, dude, didja get good stuff?”
“Not really, dude, these sales are a total rip-off.”
“Y’know, dude, you’re right, dude.” And so on and so on …blah…blah…blah…Dude…blah…blah..Dude. Period. Dude.

Till they came to the payment counter. Then the smartly-dressed shop assistant suddenly became a clone as well, because these young dudes called out, “Lemme take my card out. Dude. Why’s the line so slow today? Dude? Can you pack that separately, Dude?”

The dictionary tells me that the earliest Dude was spotted in 1883 in New York. That limited-edition dude was a “man extremely fastidious in dress and manner.” Well, today’s dude has made fastidious sloppiness his fashion statement. And, he has two more added qualifications – an extremely limited vocabulary (consisting mainly of dude, and a dozen or so words like, cool, yeah, chill, and the like), and a tendency to forget first names (otherwise why will all the Raj-s and Rahuls call each other Dude?). In fact, so linguistically-challenged are they that I was almost convinced that the dude-species must have evolved from Dud. Or D-u-h?

P.S: Any Dude reading this post can dismiss it as the rant of a typical Aunty. Aunties and Dudes, divided by gender and generation, have always been on opposing sides, and never the twain shall meet. Hopefully.

A TREK TO THE UNKNOWN (EPISODE– II)

(This amateurish post has been written as part of a collaborative fiction-writing
attempt along with Pradip Biswas, who blogs at http://pradipwritenow.blogspot.com/ . For the FIRST PART of the story, which is much more authentic and thrilling, as Pradipda is an experienced and accoladed geologist, click HERE.)

The morning dawned calm and bright, in stark contrast to the previous day’s turbulent adventures. But to the band of explorers, it signaled the beginning of further explorations.

“Let us attempt to reach the hilltop as soon as possible. That will give us a vantage point to study the topography and locate ourselves better,” said Dr Swamy. The others readily agreed. Breakfast was a hurried affair, with hastily made tea and biscuits from their rations. Soon they were on their way. In the early morning light, the dense undergrowth of the jungle seemed to hold no fears of the unknown, only a vast unexplored green world of possibilities.

Buoyed by hope, the team, carrying diesel-soaked sticks to ward off any unwanted attackers or wild beasts, soon reached the waterfall. The majestic sight of the falling waters seemed even more beautiful in the morning. The sunlight fell on the leaping streams and glinted, breaking to become a million sparkling rainbows.

Captivated as they were by the iridescent beauty, the trained eyes of the geologists did not miss the anomaly in the landscape in the stark daylight. Deepa exclaimed, “What are those deep gashes along the side of the waterfall?”

“Let’s take a closer look,” said Capt Pratap. On inspection, the gash turned out to be a crater, in fact, a series of craters along the bank of the waterfall. After taking measurements and testing the soil, Dr Swamy said, “This appears to be caused by the impact of a falling meteorite.”

Monica excitedly responded, “Last night I saw a falling star. Maybe it landed here and created the crater!” Deepa said, “Maybe. But do not be too sure. This might have originated long ago. Meteorite showers are a common phenomenon.”

“But yesterday I also saw a strange light, like a searchlight, scanning the darkness of the sky. It appeared only once and then vanished.”

Dr Swamy laughed and said, “That appears to be caused by the impact of sleepiness on an overactive imagination.” The others, too, could not help laughing. Capt Pratap said, “Why didn’t you wake us all up?” Sheepishly, Monica admitted, “I was feeling rather sleepy, so I was not too sure whether all that really happened or whether I was dreaming.”

What she did not say to him was that her dreams were lit by his image. But the sudden sweet blush which crimsoned her cheeks told their own story.

“All this climbing and speculation has made me hungry. What about you all?” asked Dr Swamy. With alacrity, Sonam and Tung cut long slim branches from the nearby trees with their khukris and, tying ropes with hooks at one end, sat down at the edge of the waterfall in the hopes of catching some fish.

The leaping waters responded to this invitation and soon yielded quite a few large fish, their silver scales shiny with the promise of a delectable treat. Tung quickly cleaned and gutted the catch, while Sonam lit a fire with the abundant dry twigs. The aroma of roasting fish was a irresistible invitation, and soon the team were sitting in a circle and enjoying their picnic-style lunch under the shade of some large trees in the nearby forest. Pratap said, resting with his back against a tree-trunk, “One of the best food in the world is freshly-caught fish cooked over an open fire.” “You are right,” said Dr Swamy, “the succulent white fish sure beats any haute cuisine hands down.”

The strong aroma of the roasting fish had other admirers also. As the team were relaxing after their lip-smacking meal, a bear suddenly intruded, intent on having its share of the proceedings. “Oh my God,” screamed Deepa, as the others hastily got to their feet, scrambling to look for some safe cover. The bear, puzzled by the commotion, turned on Tung, who was sitting right next to the remains of the fishy lunch. As he lumbered straight towards the Sherpa, who seemed immobilized with fear, Sonam screamed, “Run, run!” Even as Pratap fumbled for his gun, Monica was quicker.

With the agility and fearlessness born out of years of circus-training, she brought out her diesel-stick, and with one swift seamless motion ignited it from the remains of the fire and threw it at the wild bear. Howling with pain, the beast fled, but not before turning around and lashing at its attacker, leaving a deep gash on Monica’s forearm.

As the others gathered around her, Monica sat down on the ground, white-faced, biting her lips in pain. Pratap, hurrying, as if to make up for his delay in getting out his gun, took out the medical supplies from his backpack and set about to clean and bandage the wound.

“Does it hurt too badly?” he asked, his voice and touch surprisingly gentle. Monica, blushing again under her pallor, shook her head, her eyes suddenly full of tears. The look that passed between them in the eloquent silence made time stand still for a moment. Love often happens unawares, in the most unexpected of circumstances, like a sapling in a desert. “Or a crater next to a waterfall, or a sudden searchlight in a dark forest”, thought Monica, biting her lip to hide a smile. The twinkle in Pratap’s eyes was answer enough.

As the spot was no longer safe because the bear might return, the team quickly made their way upstream, following the tributary uphill. After a few hours of twists and turns, they reached the hilltop. It was surprisingly flat. And they found the source of the tributary – it appeared to flow from an underground spring, bubbling up from under some large rocks. Dr Swamy smiled with the satisfaction of the true geologist whose interest lies in knowing the secrets of the earth. “So now we know, we have just discovered the source of a previously uncharted river," he said with some elation.

“But our job is half-done,” reminded Pratap. “We still have to find a way back from here.” The sun was almost setting and the approaching darkness seemed to gather the shadows around them. “I think it is better if we pitch tent right here only,” suggested Sonam.

That is just what they did. Putting up two tents, one for the man and one for the women, they lit a fire and used the clean bubbling spring water to cook a rudimentary but tasty dinner. “Everything tastes good on a hungry stomach. No great culinary skills required”, joked Pratap, when Dr Swamy complimented Monica on the food.

Suddenly, the sky was lit up by the sparks of a falling star. As everybody looked up, amazed, they all saw the flash of a bright light, like a searchlight, which came and went swiftly.

“Sorry, Monica, we owe you an apology. What you saw last night must have been this only,” said Pratap. Monica was too excited to say, I told you so. She asked, “What can this be?” Dr Swamy said, “Maybe there are some people nearby who are using these lights.”

“But what about the falling stars? How can that happen because of human activity?” asked Deepa.

“Maybe there is an army base nearby,” guessed Pratap, “ and they are conducting some technical experiments. If we go there tomorrow, maybe they will be able to help us find our way back.”


…That’s all for now. For the next episode, we will have to visit Pradipda’s blog sometime next week. Please feel free to trash me in the meantime!

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A FED-LETTER DAY IN A LEAP YEAR

Consider this: It was the longest fifth-set in Wimbledon history. Andy Roddick, who has saved 6 out of 6 breakpoints in this match is serving at Deuce at 14-15. He makes a mis-hit. It's Advantage Federer - the first Championship Point of the match. It has been over 4 hours of see-sawing and brilliant serving bothways and big returns and enough of classic moments. It is late, past 11 at night, and you WANT A RESULT. You move forward on the edge of your chair, biting your nails, praying, as conflicting thoughts scuttle around in your mind late. (NOTE: The kids have obligingly gone to sleep on their own. Story-reading session postponed in view of his-STORY-making session on TV).

"Roddick will hit another ace and get himself out of this 7th break point." "C'mon Federer, hit back, go into a rally, give it one of your amazing running forehands/ sliced backhands/cleverly-disguised dinky lobs, anything, man. Just get it back and in there."

And Federer does. He gets it back at Roddick and readies himself for the rally. You are with him totally, egging Federer on to hit a winner. And Roddick, brave and brilliant till this point, hits the MOST IMPORTANT SHOT OF THIS MATCH
w-i-d-e. It is the pressure of history, the weight of destiny, of the sheer expectations and importance of the moment that does it. Federer does not have to hit the anticipated winner. So with all the pent-up energy and the won't-give-up focus and give-it-my-best adrenalin, he leaps into the air. And screams. Echoing the screams of all us Federer-fanatics around the world. Primal, relieved, exultant.

As the spouse (sharing, among other things, a love for Federer) said, "When you are witnessing history being made, it sure feels good to support the winning side."

I still feel too overjoyed for originality, so I'll just mention these:

As SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE fatefully prophesied, "IT WAS WRITTEN."

And, as the SAMSUNG MOBILE advertisement wonderingly predicts, "NEXT IS WHAT?"

MOONWALKING AMONG THE STARS

In the hit Hindi film, Chaalbaaz, there’s a scene where the heroine, Sridevi, does a few smooth, rubber-necked dance steps. And the hero, Rajnikanth, who plays a taxi-driver, comments, “Arrey, Michaeli Jacksoni lagti hai (You look like a female Michael Jackson)”.

That was the magic of MJ. Millions of people, across genders, across nations, across class or colour or creed, many who had never before or since shown any inclination for ‘English muzik’ knew him, knew his dance moves, knew his status as the ‘King of Pop’. Like my ‘bai’ (the lady who looks after my children and home). She has never heard of Madonna, or the Beatles, or Presley. She does not know English. But she has heard about MJ.

When we were schoolgirls, in the long ago 1980s, whenever we wore jeans in our Bengali backwater-suburb of Barrackpore, we risked being eve-teased by the local parar dadas (neighbourhood rowdies), who would catcall, “Oi jachchhe Michael Jackson sheje (There she goes, dressed as Michael Jackson)”. Jackson’s post-plastic-surgery androgynous looks and high-pitched signature ‘Aooww’ shriek had them confused about his gender. But they identified him with all that was posh and westernized. He was their reference point for American popular culture.

The first MJ-album that I saw was BAD, when Doordarshan aired the Grammy nominees for that particular year. I saw the THRILLER video long after 1982. The never-seen-before dance moves blew my mind, and I liked the foot-tapping music, although, not being too tuned to American accents, I could not make out much of the lyrics. It didn’t matter, actually. The dance, for me, made up for all that.

Over the years, as the newspapers and videos showcased the facial changes and the court cases and the weird lifestyle, I wondered. Why a man, who could make millions feel so happy just by performing his moves and music, would obviously be so unhappy about his self-image as to keep on attempting to obliterate and recreate his own face? Why a man who had the world at his feet since he was a kid, refuse resolutely to grow up? Why a man who sang ‘Heal the world’ continue to exhibit bizarre behaviour in public and private? Why a man who was so confident on stage, be so bewildered and confused off it?

In an interview with Martin Bashir, MJ had said, “All I know of people is the applause.” Just goes to reveal how completely lonely and cut off from reality he was. For him, the stage was the reality. And now, the show is over. The eulogies have been written, the net has crashed, fans have mourned, the songs are being re-played, the mystery of the debts and death is being discussed and debated. But the wide-eyed, lost-misunderstood, tragic-pathetic, vain-pained, talented-tormented Peter Pan has forever left his Neverland to go and moonwalk among the stars.

HEAD OVER HEELS

That, unfortunately, has never been the case with me. My head has, is, and always will be, over feet which are encased in flat footwear. Not heels.

Once upon a time, long ago, I had tried heels. Drastically high platform heels. Wooden ones making a horse-like racket on the hard cement floor. It had not been a successful stride. In fact, it had not been a stride at all. After a failed falter, heels became another one of those allergy-inducing objects which I could see, but could not use.

And, thereafter, I have always been a Cinderella in rubber slippers. No dainty-toed high-heeled glass slippers for me.

So I know all about the platform, the wedge and the vicious/vertiginous stiletto (the lady-boss of all heels). I even know about the non-threatening kitten heels, which are less than 1.5 inches in height. These innocuous-looking low-heels are treacherous creatures, because they can tempt heel-allergic flat-footers like me. But I am, and sadly will always be, a full-grown tabby cat, and no longer anything like a kitten. And so, even kitten heels trip me up.

Any heel, and my ankle rebels. A self-defeating rebellion, as it ends up getting twisted in the bargain. But I end up all in a tumble. Embarrassing!

Any heel-thy person will diagnose my disease as vertigo. For me, heel-thy is definitely not well-thy. I am scared of heights. Not on a rollercoaster (I love them on an empty stomach). But on my heels. I prefer facing life with my feet planted solidly on the ground.

There are distinct disadvantages. Shoe shops are apparently meant for the well-heeled, as most of the shelves are devoted to the sky-high variety of shoes. Whenever I enter a shoe-shop and say, "Flat sandals only, please", I am directed to some obscure corner where a shelf and a half displays the frumpiest of designs in the most boring of colours.

Even when flat shoes are 'in', like they were 'last season' with ballerina-flats, this is usually a passing fad, and women soon abandon their firm-on-the-ground-walk for a balancing-totter. Even the once-flat Kolhapuri chappals have turned traitor and sprouted heels.

I can be the darling of feminists (who rage against the tyranny of heels and the consequent commoditisation of body-image) and the podiarists (who rage against the foot and tendon problems caused by heels). But that is a limited appeal.

Alas, I can never be a Posh Spice, who apparently even goes gymming in stilettoes (I hardly ever go gymming, so I do not wear stilettoes). All heel-addicts will rave about the sex-appeal of heels. How a shoe has to have a 'defined heel' to be in the 'sexy shoe' category. How heels transform us into objects of lust and desirability (check out any heel-vocabulary: 'stripper shoes' have 3" platform heels, 'hooker heels' are at least 3-4",'slut shoes' have 5-5 3/4 " heel...). My head is reeling after all those vertical stats.

To come back to the issue of sex-symbols and heels, I had once read that the legendary Greta Garbo (the reclusive and unattainable silent-era Hollywood beauty) always used to wear a pair of flat and comfy men's bedroom slippers (size 10 or thereabouts) under the long, trailing, lovely ballgowns she wore while filming.

That settled the matter for me. I chose the classic Greta Garbo over the upstart Posh Spice. And I'll stick to my slides and mules and unsexy-but-safe flat Dr Scholl's-type foowear. And my lovely red mojris from Mochi's, which make me feel like royalty. Even when I am not on a pedestal.

LOVE ACTUALLY…

…WAS (once upon a time, circa 1990s) asking the (yet-to-be-) spouse, “Have you taken the class-notes properly?”
(Both of us studied English Honours, so being together in Honours classes was not the problem, but I had Philosophy as a ‘Pass’ subject, while he had ‘History’, and he would shrug his shoulders at my anxious query after the very few History classes he actually attended without me, and state philosophically that ‘History’ was past, so it was better to forget about it.)

…IS (now, circa 2009) asking the spouse (-since-decades), “Have you taken your cholesterol medicines properly?" (I have a job where I leave the home early, and he has a job where he comes back very late, so marital communication, and romantic conversation, is chiefly via a series of questions over the phone - asked anxiously, answered with philosophical calmness and assurance).

As the great philosophers said, "The more things change, the more they remain the same". Class-notes, or cholesterol, I seem to have been in worrying-Mother-mode for the past (nearly) two decades. Pscho-analyse that, if you will.

Love, actually = worry! (Thank God, I don't chew my nails when I am worried, or I would not have been able to write this post.)

OUCH!