Dear fellow human being...

Khaleej Times / Opinion
(LIFE) / 20 April 2012

Dear fellow human being,

I have been meaning to write to you since long, but never got down to doing it. Oh well, it seemed such a task trying to find your co ordinates and track you down. Where have you been? We haven’t touched base in a long time. Is it because we didn’t have much use for each other since some time that we didn’t quite bother to reach out? That’s what our relationship has now come to be, isn’t it – selfish and need based?

While I was caught up in my existential angst, you were busy too, I presume, in your allied pursuits. It seems like a long time since we sat down for a coffee and chatted up. Seems like it was eons ago that we were friends, when we shared and cared selflessly, when we opened our doors to each other even in the dead of night; when we didn’t have to take appointments to see each other, when there was always an extra serving of meal at home should you drop by unannounced. Times when we had no secrets to keep, when we saw through each other and reflected like mirrors, when we held hands and walked long distances. Pray, when did the clasp break? When did we lose sight of each other? When did we drift away? When did we turn strangers?

When did I grow so wary of you that I peep through the door hole, size up the human figure outside and think a dozen times before deciding to not open? Even when my heart said that it was just a fellow human being selling a ware to make a living, the mind said it could be an intruder. When did I grow so frosty that I made my smiles overly pricey and my social manners so picky? When and why did trust become a commodity in short supply? I panicked when someone showed more than a fair share of friendliness towards me. Watch out, there is a sinister design behind it, my head hollered and I recoiled with fright. I missed you so sorely in those moments of panic. I wished I had your hand in mine, reassuring me, “Chill, it’s only me, your fellow human being and old buddy in disguise. “

I wonder when we grew so estranged that my children and your children ceased to be our combined bundles of joy and became barometers of individual recognition, pitting us against each other to decide grades of superiority. From being parts of a whole, when did we fracture and fall apart?

I think of you with longing when I see your namesake somewhere on the way. I look for traces of the old companion in the faces on the street, but most are mere imitations of you, and bear no resemblance to you in spirit; just imposters, now attributed with all that you once weren’t. I sometimes see flashing glimpses of you here and there, and realize that the real you are somewhere out there, alive and kicking, and hopefully looking for your old mate in the crowd. I want to find you, but my myopic eyes and timorous heart make the search doubly arduous.

I know that you are only missing and not dead. I desperately need you back in my life for you are my soul. I want those days of love, trust and camaraderie back. I refuse to buy into the story that you have become a myth. I know you are somewhere out there, lurking in the dark shadows of the new times, just as apprehensive and unsure as me.

I don’t have a postal address to which I can send this letter. I shall just let it fly to find its destination. Someday, it will reach your door step and you will call me. Won’t you?

Eagerly waiting,

Your fellow human being.

The million dollar question

When Sushil Kumar won a million dollars on a TV game show in India some months ago, it was as if the entire country had hit the jackpot; as if the entire population was bound not merely by the ecstasy of winning but by a cord of positivity and a subtle feeling of middle class gratification. The vicarious pleasure of winning manifested itself in the form of hectic discussions - some enchanted by the simple, rustic manner of the country’s latest millionaire, some raving about the ways of lady luck, some others airing platitudes like how every man was worth his salt
and some green-eyed skeptics even suspecting game fixing.
So, what will you do if you had such a windfall? The husband asked as I watched the episode, goose bumps on my skin, tears in my eyes. I must confess it is a question that has struck my head several times, almost every time someone walked away with a hefty cheque, but every time, I felt so overwhelmed by the enormity of the question that I chose to laugh it off than find an answer. A million dollars!
Five Crore Indian Rupees! It was more intimidating than elating. Given my weak appetite for shocks and surprises, I may in all probability kick the bucket even before feeling the cheque with my fingers, leaving the fortune tragically orphaned and open to claims. And if I lived to tell the post windfall tale, my open mouth might just stay that way for the rest of my life. Either eventuality didn’t augur well for a happy, bouncy woman of my age.
Yet, the niggling question remained, and for my own appeasement I had to find an answer.
What if I really found myself in the hot seat and the moot question is thrown at me by the Big B? It would be a shame to look bemused and stutter out of unpreparedness than out of awe for the man with the baritone in front. I tried to recall answers given by past contestants, some of which remain etched in my memory for either their frivolity or for their poignance. The answers reflected personal priorities and gave insight into what essentially constituted the participants’ lives. I knew that the question carried connotations more profound than what it apparently revealed.
I remember how a young man of good means once wished to buy a BMW for his parents if he were to take home the big prize. A BMW might be a great idea to the young man, but I can guarantee it wouldn’t have amused many who watched the episode. Not in a country where farmers embrace death after incurring debts of a lakh or a little more Rupees. To the common man who lived on a meager income from small sources, the game show was a life changer. It was touching when people expressed their wish to win just enough to pay off their home loan or get a
sibling married or get their children into good schools. The modesty of their dreams and aspirations was inspiring.
So, what will you do with the million? The question stared in my face again. Lost for words,
I decided to use my lifeline this time. Phone a friend. I made a call to my all knowing friend who lived in the little log cabin of my consciousness. Here is a transcript of our conversation.

“Hi, I am back again. I am in the hot seat of this game show and I need help desperately.”
“I know. But I am not going to give you the answer. You will find it yourself. I can help you find it, though.”
“All right.”
“Do you live well?”
“Yes, fairly well.”
“Do you own a house?”
“Yes.”
“Car?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sitting on a mountain of debts?”
“No.”
“Do you have enough to share?”
“Yes.”
“Are you putting away enough for the justified needs of old age?”
“I guess so.”
“Children?”
“None.”
“Other commitments?”
“Nothing presently.”
“Pleased with your life?”
“Yes.”
“Then what on earth do you need a million dollars for?”
Time out, the ticker stopped and the connection snapped.
Entranced by what had just transpired, I whispered, “Thank you.”

Sizing up our shopping habits

Whoever said that you cannot sell something to someone who doesn’t need it was a hermit who didn’t know women and their preposterous buying habits. This old marketing rhetoric falls flat in front of our innate weakness for impulsive buying and compulsive shopping, a trait that by now has become almost central in deciding marketing strategies and devising sales tactics in global board rooms. Remember the corny joke about the spending woman that our scrimpy men love to crack repeatedly, a jibe that they take at us given the slightest opportunity? Trust a woman to buy
junk and lug it home just because she got it for a song! Guys, we are not amused, although you are somewhat right!
I say, do the mathematics and see our womanly wisdom before passing uncouth remarks on our
penchant for shrink wrapped, bundle offers. An entire assortment for the price of half! What a steal! And the crystal bowl that was once so prohibitive is selling dirt cheap. Not for me, of course. But it might help to keep it, just in case there is an urgent, unexpected need to gift a friend - a sudden, unannounced birthday bash or a baby shower. It always makes sense to keep
things in stock, for you never know when an emergency would arise. And we like to be prepared for exigencies.
Our men have made such a sport of censuring our buying decisions. What a shame that they don’t factor in needs of the future while making household purchases! I remember how buying
eight kilos of detergent on a bargain almost caused a domestic melt down once.
“Planning to start a laundry?” He asked.
“Nope. Just grabbing an opportunity. Eight kilos and a softener at this price. It is a deal for heaven’s sake and how can we let it go?”
“All this? Do you plan to hire your neighbour’s room to store this? This will last till my retirement.
Do we really wear and wash so many clothes? You use detergents as if I come home every evening after playing kabbadi. No wonder my trousers and shirts wear a bleached look in two months….”
Shrugging off the exaggeration, I rolled my eyes in the way exasperated wives do and growled, “Do I ask you questions about your work in the office, how you go about your business of buying materials? Ever?”
I don’t think we exchanged so much as a glance for the rest of the grunt-laden day. The detergent however came home. The intensions of a determined woman cannot be thwarted, you see.
Come to think of it seriously, regular home supplies might make a case for all our excessive buying and storing, but not crockery and cutlery, lamp shades and candle holders, flower vases and floor mats, bed spreads and show pieces that we often pick up and drop into our shopping carts offhandedly. I am not even beginning to mention clothes and other fashion accessories. We ourselves have been snowed under an avalanche many times while opening our cupboards. Oh! We go so hopelessly weak in the knees at the sight of a bargain board. Throw in the word “sale” and see us up our ante rod straight, turn our blinkers on and gather details.
One only has to stroll leisurely through the aisles of a store to hear couples squabbling over use and disuse, need and extravagance. The altercations that fall on my ears give me the smug satisfaction of not being alone in presenting our men folk their pet peeve.
I have changed homes eight times in fourteen years across three countries and over my multiple experiences of packing and moving, I have wisened up. I have cleared clutters and stopped accumulating. The most remarkable discovery I have made in these learning years is that I can actually walk out of a store without falling for inducements and be happy about it. I don’t regret leaving those enticements behind because they are things I simply don’t need in my life. Yet I go store browsing and window shopping extensively, not just for the love of it, but also to be a shopping guide unto myself in times of need.

Life between people and peeves

Khaleej Times - Opinion

(LIFE) 30 March 2012, 9:13 PM

My neighbour and I have a serious problem with our apartments. We don’t have a room with a view. Being on the inner ring of the building the windows of which open into the middle space, we both are forced to stare at each other if we happen to open the windows at once.

In good old times, such an arrangement would have made for a direct channel for some happy, everyday banter — what’s cooking, are the kids home, and stuff.

Our apartments have yet another deficiency. There is no balcony to grow a garden or dry our clothes or dump our LCD and PC cartons. So we hang our laundry outside the window on strings and hangers, more out of compulsion than choice. Now, our lady and her family across find this offensive because what they see from their living room window when they pull the curtains is our clothes line! We see theirs too, but for some reason it doesn’t rankle us. Call us short sighted. Or severely deficient in aesthetics.

“Can you stop drying clothes on this window? It looks dirty from our living room,” she says one day. “Huh? Dirty? I swear that I wash them before drying.” I pinch my throat. I lean over to make sure I haven’t festooned anything that would hurt their sensibilities – lingerie and such. No fears, I have always been careful about that.

So what gives, I wonder. How awful can some washed, well spread clothes look from a distance of 30 feet across your window, outside someone else’ room?

“We don’t like it. If you see, we don’t do it either on this window, because we know it would look bad from your living room.”

“No, no! We don’t even look.” I begin to say, at which point she says, “Don’t take me wrong. Just that we don’t like it.”

“How about pasting a picture of the alps on our window?” I itch to ask.

“You may use the window outside your bedroom if you want,” she suggests haltingly.

“Blind to that one?” I want to ask. Instead I nod my head blankly.

“Don’t take me wrong,” she repeats and slips out before I can respond.

It is nearing lunch time. The other folks next door are frying fish and the smell wafts in thick and fast. Being vegetarian, it is far from appetizing and taking a cue from the lady above, the head suggests, “Go, ask them to stop eating fish. Tell them it churns your stomach.”

Right! Catch me doing that! Or telling the lady on the floor below that the way her little girl bawls all day crushes my creative instincts. Or impressing upon the guy somewhere downstairs, practicing the same notes on the key board every weekend that his dull, repetitive music grates on my nerves. Or telling the lady sitting across me in the train that her red hair colour blurs my vision. Or telling our neighbour back home who painted his bungalow in an appalling shade of blue that the colour explodes in my face every time I step out. Or confront men who callously spit on the road centimeters away from my foot, and yell, “Hey, you civilized homosapien or what?”

No, I don’t have it in me. It takes genuine guts to tell someone of your peeves upfront and ask them to change their ways just because personally they make you queasy. In a new, hyper sensitive world order, it is better to move on than to leave a bad taste. We had better be martyrs than rebels because we don’t roost in ivory towers. An appallingly slavish attitude perhaps, but verily practical. Call it compliance, tolerance, or plain timidity, but rest assured, you will have that many more people sniffling into their kerchiefs at the end of your term, whispering, “bloke never made an enemy in his life.”