cultural hygiene

 

As the advert on tv goes with the old grand ma telling a foreign couple- “In India yeating with handd and washing also with handd”. Did I hear it right- eating and washing both with the hand… actually she meant washing clothes with a soap bar, with knees bent and washing while uncomfortably squatting on the floor and water all over you. So much so as to give your feet wrinkles and cracks when the ordeal is over, but still people would prefer the same nevertheless. Never mind the washing machine generation, my mom.. I think is still washing clothes sensitive to the machine all by herself. umm!

Coming back to that advert, it is a temple setting where the food is served on banana leaf spread on the floor. Let us walk through the sequence once again- Banana leaf (obviously not treated with a washing soap), a temple floor (where mother earth keeps her favourite germs) and lastly our bare hands to scoop the food and send it forward into our hungry mouth. Sweat dripping while you persist with the exercise and possibly the wind blowing in some dust. Also we are to ignore the process through which the final product has arrived as all mass cooking can only guarantee a breach of hygiene to a certain extent. In stark contrast to the high levels of tolerance all Indians have developed to such common fare, one must also observe the other side of this culture.

My mom insists and before her, her mom too insists and before my grand mother, generations of grandmothers have insisted that we not cook our meals without taking a bath. Close your eyes and imagine holy mother Ganges pouring on your sins. I have known obnoxious washing freaks who at a regular intervals take great pleasure in keeping their hand under flowing water to feel a sense of cleanliness at least if not actually achieving it in reality. Some of my family would be shocked to listen to some of the despicable horrors that take place in my friends house as they would I am sure shall choose to describe such a phenomenon- A half naked boy first prepared beef in the house to feed the dog first and then himself served a generous helping of rice on his plate and sat on the bed where he sleeps of all the places to rid his hunger while watching tv.

Saliva of the dog drips on the floor and the familiar smell of the dog surrounds the house which the owner naturally doesn't get hassled by choice. I have seen people being very particular about their kitchen so much as to making the kitchen spick and span was not enough but to give you a love making scene like temptation. Yeahhhh why not make out in the kitchen man. Sex on the kitchen floor can be quite romantic. Being a chaste Hindu myself I have been witness to several banters that people in these parts follow and make others follow too like a carefully orchestrated drill. But after coming to the south of this country I realised a different style which raises no eyebrows at all, that my breed would be extremely critical of. I was witness to a phenomenon of fisting your morsel of rice and not feasting. One has to hold the morsel in the fist and try to squash and attempt to aim it into your mouth. It actually requires talent for achieving such an aim. In stark contrast I was advised to keep my morsel of rice restricted to my fingers instead. So much for a united country.

But we certainly take pride in the oneness of our criticism of other cultures. We can also choose to look at it as our superiority complex. All Indians have a subtle superiority complex which they don't express but deep down we all know that their ways don't stand a chance in comparison to ours. We eat with our hands you know. We are sala connected to the earth and the physical sensation of feeding naturally gives us a high. Eating with spoon… naahh that's artificial. You have sex with your thing rite and not with a spoon then eat with hand sala why use the spoon.

Not trying to be graphic but these are the arguments I have heard when people defend their Indian-ness. I am just happy that they feel like putting up a fight. Never go down without a fight. Even more the reason why I feel about this eating habits subject is because of a recent experience. Having ordered pizzas worth three thousand freaking rupees which is a lot of pizzas I had literally filled the floor with students and young people walking all around with pizzas in their hand.

Double bus pizza the dominos dame told me and I took it to realize later that it actually has a thick coating of cheese inside and as you bite off the chunks of pizza that you hold the bloody thing drips mann. People kept on eating and the cheese kept on dripping. No inhibition at all and all these years what my mom taught me about  eating habits went for a six. There was vigorous biting and chewing and dripping with facial expressions I had never seen before while people ate. I mean the guys bowling rice morsels in sarvana bhavan in salem were decent people.. now as I imagined the floor turning into a 10000 BC set where the wild hordes have brought down a woolly mammoth and are feasting on the flesh. What am I seeing now… one tribal actually took a vessel kind of a equipment and drank blood to his satisfaction! wowww what is happening here and snappp I am out of it. The fellow just grabbed his coke and drank with an un believable expression.

Never to think of situations critically when you don't quite agree to it. I have a sense of humour possibly that makes it comical rather. The pizza incident ultimately gave me a laugh as I told these fellows not to imitate jughead. I can only imagine eating like that in a very western sense of looking at the situation and imitating jughead. No matter what culture, I am quite content with my ways. Shall probably evolve in embracing some new habits that would surprise my close ones you are never too sure know you as well as yourself. One never knows with future prosperity what's in store. Like my fathers factory owner did, I might too someday take all the fruits and newspapers from the star hotels where I may stay in. Never know??

Religions calling

 

Had a profound experience some time back as I wandered in my thoughts in Goa while my friends newly born son underwent his baptism in the company of all family friends and relatives.

I was actually dumbfound to see the baby so much in peace at the church where the ceremony was being conducted in all its glory. Otherwise don't we know how newly born kids are to react and in stark contrast this guy seemed to enjoy every bit of it including when his noisy family raised a toast in the afternoon for lunch.

Sumptuous it was and we were already pickled in beer as my best mate describes the phenomenon. I was incidentally on of the last ones to crawl towards the tasty lunch after being drowned in all the unique sounds of laughter only men are capable of making. I mean I have never heard women laugh like that and no one can think of imitating a wild wolf pack as ours. Slowly though as fast as the house was filled with guests the desertion took place to complete the party's full cycle. I was by then walking towards the next door Panjim church to catch up with the Christian wedding that was being held.

I had just attended a program a few days back on Rabindranath Tagore's anniversary celebration showcasing his works and inspiration from the Scottish country music and from composers like Burns and so on and so forth. The church was beaming hymns which I suppose was in the Portuguese language, but more than a language it was a beautiful resonance from inside of the church which pulled me towards it. I possibly had the same experience which Tagore had too when he was a kid. I went straight ahead in front of the main entrance of the church as the chorus hymns grew more enchanting to my ears. I closed my eyes and even though wanted to badly do a sashtang pranam, I did its playback in my head rather than physically enacting it. I experienced wet eyes. I don't know why but in silence if we utter a prayer for whatever may be the cause the whole attention seems solely on the party being petitioned to and this case it is god.

In stark contrast my temple experience is that of chaos. The idea itself is chaos. One has to prepare oneself for the moment of truth and it does not naturally come to you. You hustle and wrestle with fellow wretched beings. We realise as we inch closer to the experience that we are indeed wretched and the hands that have carved the structure to house the divine energy must be getting a ticket to heaven whereas we are merely coming here to drop a petition and possibly bribe in cash too. But when I get my deity in my sight somehow like how they show in the movies if one has witnessed and heard, all sound from the background vanishes or is muted. I think every Hindu devotee who has been trained to concentrate with an idol in presence has experienced this. It is a profound experience where you don't just focus on god but actually experience only you and divinity alone. The chaos around you actually helps you to get out all your thoughts on the prayer or the petition whichever way you want to look at it, beforehand. It is an experience whereby you feel the divine presence so fucking overwhelming that you are silenced and humbled with hands folded and eyes shutting automatically not to utter a thought also for some seconds.

When you come out of the trance you feel the sense organs coming back to normal, silence fading and noises increasing and like as though someone has gently brushed the top of your head like affection to a kid.

Is there any religious experience which people claim as beautiful indeed, and when I actually use that adjectives I am myself amazed that my senses are capable of such a divine intoxication.

Not bad…. sometimes I impress myself too.

Sadness is popular here

 

I remember one of my cousins visiting us in Bombay and showing us his newly acquired taste buds, particularly his love for the then popular English pop bands.

I was about 13 then was not used to anything other than cricket and Hindi movies. It was a good experience listening to all the Phil Collins and George Michael that my mom and cousin fed me with. In addition to all such music I have also grown up on a healthy diet of Rabindra Sangeet. A characteristic heart breaking tune followed by some haunting way of doing the vocals- that was Rabindra Sangeet for me as I did not understand one word of what those howlers meant. It was somewhat like the French Opera for me and went like OOaaaaahhhhh eeeeeeeaaaaaooo. God knows what it means and how it had this ability to make listeners sway gently with wet eyes.

Any ways coming back to my cousin- he had a particular liking for Sad Songs sung by Kishore. Listening to those from morning to day certainly drove me out of the house. As if the existing sadness of financial difficulties in my spaceless Bombay flat wasn't less and here I am being fed with sad songs of kishore. I went with mom to buy a new album released by Pet Shop Boys and to generally check out the best in English Music scene. The only shop that time was a small 30 sqft shop inside a shopping centre outside Borivili railway station. After me and mom reached the shop I bumped into a crowd frenzy going through all the cassette volumes from old hindi movie singers and boy o boy it was selling like hot cakes. I asked the gujarati shop owner which is the best selling Item and he poured heaps over us all cassette volumes of all the sad songs of mukesh, sad songs of kishore and sad songs of rafi.

The frantic music lovers scrambled all the volumes of these cassettes and even enquired about some sad songs which were not featured. I wondered while watching their sadness enticed stupor, how can these people remember so many sad numbers belted out by the singers. Songs on moments that are commentary on sad emotions, socio economics, broken hearts, friendship, life being a bitch and so on and so forth. Movies and literature in this country flourish on sadness. Sadness is a hit here and I am trying very hard not to remain sad in life. Like in the movie Transporter the French inspector says that all Russians are lovers of sad literature quoting Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Gogol and more. Similarly I realise the Indian literary scene is induced by sadness. Scores of Bengali novels read out to me have a terrible tragedy to narrate.

Pather Panchali- A movie trilogy inspired from the works of Vibhuti Bhushan Bandopadhya, speaks of a family effected by famine and hunger. Sharat Chandra Chattopadhya made a drunk character famous by killing this character in the end. Similarly there are scores of literary works available in this land that speak of terrible sadness. I wonder where this sort of appreciation of sadness comes from. Some of my favourite sad songs include only hindi numbers. My favourites include kishores koi hota jisko apna hum apna kehe lete yaroo, then the famous amar prem song- kuch to log kahenge, logo ka kaam hai kehena. The song though a commentary on the sad nature invariably brings a smile on my face. The song twists and turns as you go through the painting of the lyrics. It goes- Tu kaun hai tera naam hai kya, Sita bhi yahaan Badnaam hui meaning who are you bye the way to ponder so much on society, as such this wretched society had not spared none other than mother SITA.

The movie Anand and all of its songs remain my favourite despite churning up emotions of sadness and hope every time I watch it. Appreciate all the works which give me goose bumps and make the Indianans inside me more profound as thanks to all their works I am at least able to identify with the Indian flavour of sadness. Essentially all such works are in either Hindi or Bengali but none in English.

So much so for all of us embracing the English, I thing all of us must not loose touch with our mainstream. One thing for sure, crying thoughts are always in Bangla for me.

Characters in class

 

Browsing through my friends list I realise that most of my male friends are last benchers in class or either the notorious noted ones. I remember my schooldays and generally fail to hide the smile of acknowledgement while running through the chapters.

I had a Gujarati friend who used to join me on my way to school and my duty was to get him downstairs on time to catch the Bombay BEST bus to school. School however was a good 15 minutes walk from the closest bus stop. My friend invariably used to start doing his collar and tie when he used to see the bus pass by and bus after bus I watched him do that slowly till we reached late every single day. Fellow used to make me wait in his house till he got his Brahmin precision puja right, doing his bell and hymns ritual to go on to the daily missing the bus routine. Though irritating for my punctual British inspired Bengali instincts, I thoroughly enjoyed my morning conversations with him which were more or less concentrated on to the sex scandals that we were aware off. It was quite a scene for anyone to imagine that we both used to be the only boys walking up to school on the usual path whereas most other kids used to invariably take the deviation to the temple during our exams. We were extremely amused to see ourselves on the road less travelled during the exams and the crowd did recognize us as the twosome who not care for god.

One other character who accompanied me to Marathi tuitions was a well known goon who had origins from Rajasthan and had a reputation to fail in class after class and I finally came to his class. To my delight he turned out be quite protective of me and I had the privileged of flaunting him as my Bodyguard. We both used to sit on the floor of the flat where the stern teacher used to tutor us hopeless souls and we used to patiently wait till the girl comes to give tea and due to the force of the fan her frock used to fly like a Marlyn Munroo scene from posters. Day after day we chuckled and quietly watched by. I started cycling to school by then and one day on my way back I was caught unawares when I saw a mob approaching towards me. As I saw the frenzy come closer and closer fear gripped me and all of a sudden the entire crowd took a turn to the temple next to me. My friend laughed till I frowned as I seemed to be the only one not aware of the miracle that lord Ganesha was drinking milk. I discussed with my friend what if we go in and feed a little whiskey… um um just for the kicks but we dropped the idea.

The guy who sat next to me in class was really a class act as day after day he came closer to being banished out of school and then his house. He ecstatically showed me his tooth of gold and said- no problemo mann…… in case I am shunned also I can buy time for I am going to sell my golden tooth. The maverick that he was I too joined him once in a while to give him company outside of class. He will scare me out of my wits as he would start doing mimicry of a Dev Anand dance and I would watch him in amazement till such time that the teacher could take it no more.     

I wonder how those boys would fare in today's world that I am used too. That was a very different world and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Come rain, come shine my smile was constant with the mischief that my classmates made me witness to.

My bygone classmates!

Kolkata marketplace

summer particularly not the best time to visit Kolkata but it so happens that I have to invariably accompany my mother who happens to be a school teacher in her free time.

Last time round I did have the previlidge to visit the countryside where my father is currently posted. Accompanying ma was pleasantly eye opening in many ways while I surfed through the streets of Gariahaat, a busy footpath market place which stretches almost 2 kilometers on both sides of the main road just like my streets back home in Mumbai or Bangalore. Hawkers are not just hawking but take a keen interest in building relations with the people walking by. Chatting up all the way to the buyers pocket I must say their ways are quite charming not to forget otherwise it wouldnt have caught my eye. It denotes excellent salesmanship unlike I have seen anywhere in this country. Most bouyant hawkers clan I have ever met where some are taking bath on the foothpath, some are having their meal, some are laughing with the customers and some just passing critical comments on the previous customer just left. My maasi took me and ma for saree shopping to a small arcade where the ground floor in amongst many shops I was taken to a small or say a 10 feet by 6 feet shop. A shop my maasi the way she spoke she exercised a certain degree of ownership. I have been coming here since I got married she exclaimed and the same gentleman has grown old from that time. He is not the usual shopkeeper. He wears a dhoti which is tightly rolled up and sports a cotton half sleeve banyan and doesnt come across as agile at all. He sprang in action as soon as he finished asking about my mausaji's health. Sarees from all over Bengal with different border designs started raining in that tiny shop. That man never tired even if the ladies gave their extremely critical feedbacks. His ferocity increased and he all of a sudden burrowed inside a small shaft right on top of the shop, seemingly like a small godown. He brought down a dozen more to my amazement and in a momeent jumped out of the shop to order for some cool drinks as the ladies surfed through the cotton sarees. After the ordeal got over he was happy to get the hard nosed hard bargain from my maasi to laugh and wave his hand upwards in contentment gesturing that he is more than happy to see us again. A village oldman right in the heart of kolkata and still the same as he was my maasi says when she first met him.

I was taken to the countryside where we also roamed the veg market and experienced the best produce in terms of quality as it comes from the sperm of the gangetic plain as I call it. Undoubtedly an enriching experience as I understood why these fellows crib while roaming the markets in Mumbai or Bangalore. Invariably I will listen my relatives scoff about the local produce here in other cities of India. One guy actually comented on my alphanso mangoes saying he has seen much better back home. I always thought of telling them please get a grip and stop comparing.

For once I have keenly observed and concluded that they were not wrong