A QARRRIMMMEEE EXPERIENCE

When I got my maiden opportunity to venture into the mystique expanses of the walled city, I was surcharged with pro-rated measures of eagerness, excitement and enthusiasm with an overdose of trepidation callously thrown in. Diffused with the anxiety to experience a world, till now glimpsed only through historical sagas and epic movies, was the nagging doubt that heightened expectation might surpass rude reality. Added to this, was a dash of adventure, as the visit was planned for a late evening explore. Of course, as the time suggests, the nocturnal trip was not meant to gape at historical legacies generously dotting the hilly encompass, but to savor the gastronomical delights of Kareem’s. For me it proved to be much more than that.
Our carrier, a model ancient enough to be fossilized as prehistoric and lovingly called “The Tractor’ by the owner, was a self effacing predecessor of a modern, much-in-demand luxury brand. Sturdy but stout, the four- wheeler, a prized possession of the family, had to be ensconced in a safe nook before we could proceed further. The day a weekend and parking space in the narrow confines of the city being usually scarce, we decided to leave our chariot in the dark adjacent alley and walk the short distance. The alley-way was a long, winding, undulating stretch vanishing somewhere into the distant horizon. Our car found space in front of the closed gates of a hospital whose façade was but an insignia of an era long gone by.
It was in this bizarre locale that I spotted the most extra-ordinary beauty bordering on the ethereal. Her pitch black locks tamed by an arm length of chiffon, her perfect hair line, the ivory texture of her contours, the arch of her forehead, the cesspool of her dreamy eyes, the perch of her aquiline nose, her immaculate jaw-line and above all her beatific smile disclosing a set of evenly moulded pearly teeth condensed into a spectral persona of measured perfection.
Her long lost youth was draped in white simplicity. Nor was she adequately adorned. But everything about her gleamed glowed and glittered. Smoky scenes floated by as I captured her beauty in my mind’s eye…………..
An infinitesimal moment of endless gauzes of sequined fantasy swirling on marbled corridors, the petal soft footfalls on cold surface, the fringe of deep, dark eyelashes lifting just a little bit to showcase the bottom less ravines of mesmerizing gaze, the misty shadows underlying the hollows underneath the dark pools poorly disguising the pain beneath the mirth, the heavily hooded demeanours, the careless wink of thousand lights refracting from the valuables carefully ornamenting the fragile forms, the seductive beckoning – the enchanting temptresses with their bouquet of ceaseless charms and entrapments.
I could hear the tinkle of glasses and crystals reverberating in the crowded halls, the whispered conversations of the sophisticates and the cumulated symphony of thousand bells loosely tied around the anklets ushering in long evenings of melodious playfulness drawing to a reluctant close in the wee hours past midnight. Against the backdrop of dark silhouettes she was a remembrance of forbidden galore of a tainted past best kept secluded in the pages of historical romances.
We decided to take a rickshaw to our destination. Halfway down the crowded path we decided not to torture the puller anymore. The elevated road and our cumulated girth made onorous demands on the man’s emaciated frame. A city can best be explored on foot. The road was brightly lit, flanked by shops and bar-be-que stalls, selling beef kebabs, on the left and the Mosque on the right - Jama Masjid, built in 1658 during the reign of Emperor Shah Jahan, an ensemble of minars and domes, stood like a dark knight enduring in brooding silence the ravages of history. This was my first close-quarter-view of the behemoth, (which is an absolute shame as I take pride in categorizing myself as the quintessential Delhite).
Kareem, though not comparable with the spatial extravagance and architectural grandeur of the historical assemblage, can still lay claim to fame and antiquity. It was started in 1913 as a small tawa restaurant adjacent to the city wall. It is going to complete its centenary in 2013. I was surprised to find that the motley of sit-and-eat arrangements was located off the main road almost hidden from public view accessed through a sliver of a meandering pathway.
I had heard much about its ambience and gentry but was still pleasantly surprised by the wide cross section of the populace frequenting the spot. From locals to foreigners to tourists from other parts of the country, they were all there. The spotlessly clean vessels to the framed accolades adorning the walls, the understated elegance of the delicacies and the unceremonious attitude of the supervisors spoke volumes. Kareem is the only restaurant in the world which serves the goat foot soup and brain curry for breakfast. Highly recommended by BBC and National Geography, no doubt, it is the much coveted food joint for the West meeting the East. Kareem is the only restaurant which caters to foodies from 7.00 am in the morning to 12.00 pm midnight. I am told that the relaxation in operating time is by a special permission of the Government. It is also a fact that at midnight the horde of gluttons still thronging around the premise are perfunctorily told to leave. Fame and de-fame both attribute to legend.
Our culinary choice included tandoori fish, a dark golden brown slice of unfragmented wholesomeness, raann an enormous hind leg, like the ones you see in English movies poking out of silver salvers, suffused with exotic ingredients, mutton korma, an irreproachable blend of fluidity flavor and taste, and tandoori rotis which melted in the mouth like butter. The difference in class could be made out from the aroma itself which was less of an assault on our sensory organs and more like a lingering caress on our palates.
While coming back, we had to traverse a tricky bend almost blocked by an SUV filled with burqa clad figures with kohl-laced eyes scanning the periphery – a burning example of a society in transition where tradition jostles uncomfortably in the crammed space of modern comfort. I got what I wanted. Walking through the roads, passing by the shops, snatching a few pieces of conversations and looking into the eyes of passers-by, I gleaned fragments of an old world habited by people who looked different, behaved differently and articulated in a different way. Crevices in the cocoon spilled out a culture (tehzeeb) which once formed the bed-rock of the cityscape. Currently, defamed by misplaced fundamentalism, it perhaps bemoans its slow demise, under star bedecked wintry nights, when unknown travelers like me tread past the sands of time.
Post Script: The romantic escapade was followed by a subsequent revisit which was, in short, a complete anathema to my preceding venture. It had rained the previous night resulting in the usual pandemonium which the city experiences as an aftermath to an unexpected downpour. Roads were choc-o-bloc and metro came to a stand still. Stranded at Kashmere Gate and surviving a stampede at the metro station, I decided to take the road which was the biggest blunder of the day. As I came out of the station, I realized that I was once again in the labyrinthine gullies of the walled city but now in broad daylight.
The mud-splurged roads interspersed with ankle-spraining pot holes, the heavy congestion of traffic, the inability to get a transport to my workplace and my limited knowledge of the area added a strong potion of disillusionment to my earlier euphoria. I cursed myself for being a romantic fool and having ever imagined that the rugged landscape of this part of the city could be shrouded in anything but a film of mystique expansiveness.
The transcendence of time was more than apparent. The trot of the cattle’s hooves and the groan of the cart wheels were now replaced by the cacophony of honking horns and haze of polluted emissions. The azaan and the nahabat were drowned in the angry shouts of the rushing multitudes whose feeble attempts at surviving the Draconian drudgeries of modern civilization were an every day priority. The solicitous hospitality had been overpowered by disinterested detachment. The cityscape presented a grey, dirty, dingy, bleak and lackluster facade.
I was lost. So was lost the nightscape of not so long ago when I had trodden these alley ways inhaling deeply the fragrance of by-gone imageries. The stars had winked at me mischievously then. The sun hid in shame behind the dark descending clouds today. End of a lost era…..end of an illusion…………the rude, crude reality cackled with ominous glee as I at last sped towards my destination in a three-wheeled machine leaving behind trails of black dust and smoke………and a sadness which spread vapour by vapour in the quickly evaporating surreality, a figment of my imagination………..

IN QUEST OF HAPPINESS

I am going to make this my Bible......

EIGHT CLUES TO HAPPINESS BY- KHUSHWANT SINGH

Having lived a reasonably contented life, I was musing over what a person should strive for to achieve happiness. I drew up a list of a few essentials which I put forward for the readers' appraisal.

1. First and foremost is GOOD HEALTH. If you do not enjoy good health you can never be happy. Any ailment, however trivial, will deduct from your happiness.

2. Second, a HEALTHY BANK BALANCE. It need not run into crores but should be enough to provide for creature comforts and something to spare for recreation, like eating out, going to the pictures, travelling or going on holidays on the hills or by the sea. Shortage of money can be only demoralizing. Living on credit or borrowing is demeaning and lowers one in one's own eyes.

3. Third, a HOME OF YOUR OWN. Rented premises can never give you the snug feeling of a nest which is yours for keeps that a home provides: if it has a garden space, all the better. Plant your own trees and flowers, see them grow and blossom, cultivate a sense of kinship with them.

4. Fourth, an UNDERSTANDING COMPANION, be it your spouse or a friend. If there are too many misunderstandings, they will rob you of your peace of mind. It is better to be divorced than to bicker all the time.

5. Fifth, LACK OF ENVY towards those who have done better than you in life; risen higher, made more money, or earned more fame. Envy can be very corroding; avoid comparing yourself with others.

6. Sixth, DO NOT ALLOW OTHER PEOPLE to descend on you for gup-shup. By the time you get rid of them, you will feel exhausted and poisoned by their gossip-mongering.

7. Seventh, CULTIVATE SOME HOBBIES which can bring you a sense of fulfilment, such as gardening, reading, writing, painting, playing or listening to music. Going to clubs or parties to get free drinks or to meet celebrities is criminal waste of time.

8. Eighth, every morning and evening, devote 15 minutes to INTROSPECTION. In the morning, 10 minutes should be spent on stilling the mind and then five in listing things you have to do that day. In the evening, five minutes to still the mind again, and ten to go over what you had undertaken to do.

I can add one more to this list.

SAY "DISAPPEAR" TO ANGER, HATRED AND VENGEFULNESS. Once upon a time I used to consider these feelings as great driving forces of life. Not now anymore. They are suicidal. Shoo them out of your system.

TRUIMPHING OVER TVS

I squirmed in my seat. Dr M looked determined. There was no way I could deter him. He explained that the test was beneficial for me and would reveal much more than was discernible otherwise. He, in short, insisted on a TVS - Transvaginal Ultrasound of the Pelvis. Till now I have always had Transabdominal scans. There were many a justifications(excuses??) which I could dish out in favour of the latter. I was unmarried, never exposed to sexual intercourse and above all suffered from a psychotic fear of any form of vaginal intrusion (probe in medical terminology)- be it an impassive clinical examination.

However, this time. no amount of argument or convincing could make Dr. M change his mind. I requested an LA. He looked aghast. "An USG under LA! You have already had a surgery. What's there to fear now?" "You can do anything when I am not in my senses" I relented to be a little permissive. His face changed colours from pink to red to crimson to various hues of purple. "Aise thodi na hota hai!" he blurted. For once, I had the pleasure of seeing Dr. M completely off guard. His confident composure, the patent of professionals, cumbling down like sand dunes.

I remember the last time I had got a Pap Smear done. The gynaecologist had given me a disgusted look and told me to keep my mouth shut as I was in the process of bringing the whole hospital down with my persistent screamings. An once-upon-a-time-white, rubbery curtain separated me and my sister. She held my hand (moral support!) underneath the opaque sheet. I clasped her hand so tightly that my rings dug into her palm leaving hideous marks on the soft skin. I lay spreadeagled on a make- shift stretcher-cum-bed howling in pain, shame and wholesome fear. The doctor, struggling to take a smear, kept on soothing me until her patience gave way to disgust and anger. "What nonsense! I am just doing a test and not raping you," she shouted at last not able to keep her cool any longer. She shared the room with another gynaec, as an OPD arrangement, who kept on examining patient after patient, without any sign of being disturbed, by my constant, more than the usual level of loud implorings of "leave me alone". That day I realized how unemotional and dispassionate doctors could be!

As Dr. M wrote down the three obnoxious letters on the prescription, I feared history might repeat again. This time in Dr. V's chamber in front of the mute USG machine.

I think my sister, after her previous experience, dreads the idea of extending moral encouragement to me on 'such ocassions" and God knows "such ocassions" are no more rare in my life now.

Dr. V headed a well-known radiological centre, in a well-to-do locality, which was filled with professional and dangerously detached looking nurses and assistants. They had a mechanical approach and an unsympathetic air about them. I was sure my hesitation would seem a waste of time and an unnecessary fuss (even sub-normal behaviour) to them.

As I waited for my turn, I could feel the beginning of the jitters. My palms were gradually growing colder and a slight shiver wracked my whole body intermittently. An one-liner devotional song kept on repeating interminably somewhere in the background. I tried to concentrate on it. Failed. I decided to hum a catchy tune of a contemporary Hindi Film song. I did for a while. But the song lasted for three minutes, the wait too long......................in fact, never ending.

It was after a nervewracking one hour that my turn came finally. Dr. V had two slices of chamber (one big room partitioned in two with similar interior/arrangement) with two monolithic USG machines hogging maximum space and two scrawny wheeled beds almost cowering next to the partition/wall. She shuttled from one room to the other scanning patients with bursting bladders.

Inbetwen one such shuttle service, she had smiled a hullo to me while sizing me up at the same time. She was short, fragile and very smart. Grey-haired and bespectacled. A sort of diva (may be an inappropriate expression in so far as her profession is concerned, but suits her persona very well as she is petite and fairy-like and does not one bit look like an authority on radiology) in her domain of competence.

I was ushered in by one of those robot-like assistants. After the initial intro, I added a quick supplementary, "Dr. M has specially referred me to you Dr. V; this is my first shot at TVS." And I am scared stiff.

I was not new to the procedure, given the number of times I had been subjected to the rigours of the test. First, it would be a KUB scan. I had to hold my urine while my bladder protested vehemently under duress. Each time she pressed the probe on my kidneys, I felt like peeing all over myself. But she was kind and understood my discomfort. Sympathy supplemented by the diagnostic figures displayed on the monitor of the mean machine, dominating the claustrophobic interior, which in my present paranoic state of mind, seemed to double as an ultrasound room and an STF (State Task Force) torture cell!

"672 cc of urine, you are holding! she ejaculated, "My God! You must be cursing me. Go and relieve yourself." Small price, Dr. V, for freedom.

When I re-entered after a few minutes, the stage was set for the prime time show. I was told to undress partially. I balked and then surrendered as alternate option was next to nil. My legs were drawn apart under the sheet which covered my lower half. Dr. V pep-talked as she tried to insert the probe into may vagina. She knew her first timers by heart.

"The vagina is a very tensile organ. It gives way by itself" Dr. M had explained to me as he prepared me for the TVS. For him it was just an organ; for me it was a part of my body which had never experienced an external invasion. The probing was akin to trespassing on forbidden grounds. Dr M-style motivation continued, " You have already had a laparascopy which means your hymen has already capsized. You will not feel any pain on account of the probe" To hell with your hymen, Dr M. The fear and pain are figments of the cerebrum and have nothing to do with surgical incisions or hymenal captivation.

Back to Dr. V's chamber. The assistant was giving me strange looks. Dr. V was on the verge of loosing patience. My whole body showed rejection syndrome. My vagina refused to be tensile(Sorry, Dr. M, your prognosis proved wrong, in this case), all muscles were taut, the probe was slipping out. Inhospitable land there, Dr. V. No barging in allowed.

Dr. V at last settled for an endo-vaginal probe (a sort of peripheral search, I gathered). She wished I could open up a little more to allow a deeper probe and a resultant better view. I felt guilty helpless and contrite. I couldn't help her anymore. I could feel the probe moving left and right, the ocassional clicks on the keyboard and soft beeps of the monolith. My sister was not allowed to hold my hand this time. She sat next to the door and crooned softly to me, " Beta, if you are not patient, how will the doctor know what's wrong inside?" My sister, mother of two hulks. The word "beta" comes very easily on her lips, (sometimes, inadvertantly so, while addressing her husband as well which has inspired many a standing jokes in the family) even for her sister , in her late 40s, who is hulkier and bulkier than her two offsprings put together and even more.

At last, Dr. V announced that she was taking the probe out. The ordeal was over........



The second time, after two months......................

I was alone. My sister sat outside. The nurse would not let her in. "Koi zaroorat nahin" she said sternly. I decided to play some mind games. As Dr. V inserted the probe, I was ready to be whisked away from that disinfected room. I was floating.........away..............away...............further away. For fifteen minutes I imagined myself to be somewhere else. The experience this time, though not pleasureful, was not devastating either. When I came out after a quater of an hour and told my sister that it was all over, she was perhaps a little surprised by my stint of bravery, which was not always forthcoming. At least I fought the boghart my own way. Soon I would be a veteran in this game, Dr. M, with your fetish for half yearly TVSs.

Two things worth recording here.........................

My sister realized that Dr. V had done her USG when baby Ashwin was in her womb. Ashwin, my nephew, is now a gabru jawaan of twenty. When Didi told this to Dr. V, her uninterested reply was"Must have". Another example of "serene placidity" of medical proffession. They never ponder upon life's wondrous ways..............medically unsuitable, perhaps, to waste your emotions and feelings in being amazed or amused or just muse over the miraculous twists and turns, curves and full circles , linear or spiral equations and movements of life.

Dr. V, during the first session, had asked me casually whether I had ever had an unwanted sexual encounter which might have left an indelible scar on my mind.





In response, I had promptly changed the topic.......................

SATURDAY MUSINGS

My colleague has introduced me to a new blog .......Chiffonesque. She says her thoughts are like the brusque of Chiffon............soft and whispery, sensuous & soothing ...............like a smooth, cool breeze brushing the cheeks, like a half remembered dream..............distant & beckoning from afar.............like a long lost story, like soft crooning, like a desultory summer afternoon................... like the silence of the snowfall, like the golden sand trickling down through the fingers.,like everything which does not stay for long though you may try to cling to them.

ADVANTAGE OF COEDUCATION

The day God created Adam and Eve, a phenomenal divide sealed the fate of the two genders, male and female, of the same species, the homo sapiens.
Human beings, the most intelligent creature on planet Earth, aspiring and determined to conquer the Universe, fail most miserably when it comes to comprehending their own fellow mates – the other sex/gender. Indeed it’s a lifetime’s quest, and unavoidably so, as in every walk of life both the genders are thrown in together, or in contemporary milieu, would it not be more appropriate to say, pitted against each other, be it in the domestic or the work front.
Since coexistence is preordained, ideally it should be an easy-going, peaceful and harmonious bondage based on mutual understanding and empathy. However, experience speaks otherwise. The relationship on surface may be cloaked with cordiality. However, the layer is thin and a deeper probe reveals an antipathy which is symbiotic and almost epidemic. Without any bias towards either gender, we cannot help but wonder whether this antipathy is borne out of misconception or by default purely genetic. “Men are from Mars and women are from Venus”, as the famous caption goes, is accuracy in brevity.
No wonder Sociologists delight in finding a workable remedy to this malady. Alas! There is no sovereign elixir. Peaceful coexistence, evidently, seems next to impossible. Isolation is fatal. Conjugality is fraught with danger. From time immemorial the situation has furnished all the right ingredients for melodrama and high voltage histrionics (with major contribution from the femme fatale) leading nowhere! Then what of the solution?
Since, survival of both is inseparably interlinked, why not try understanding each other from the formative years itself? Of course, the familial backdrop is a great facilitator in this direction. But kinship has its own limitations and impartial understanding of the male/female counterpart may get tampered by blood ties and emotional prejudices. Besides the family, the Indian society, with its obsessive priority for social sanitization, presents very little opportunity for the two genders to come together and enjoy a conducive upbringing.
Hence, and most definitely co-education, although the plea to it may sound too simplistic, even flippant, to many. Dissecting the word co-education, we find that it is a combo pack of cooperation ‘in’ education. We are fated to coexist, so shall we not cooperate to educate each other and thereby get educated in the process? It is healthy as well - as members of various social strata come together to intermingle and forge bonds. In the process, values get exchanged and imbibed, horizons get broadened, interests get sharpened and extended to arenas hitherto unknown and unexplored for the girl as well as the boy child as both suffer from restricted periphery of knowledge and awareness if left to their own society. Needless to say the process increases understanding of each other as well.
However, no social situation is protected from the Marxian axiom of thesis and anti-theses. While closer proximity of the two genders run the significantly high risk of familiarity breeding contempt, at least, by far it would be a better option than an overpowering and tongue-tying reaction of utter puzzlement in accosting and dealing with one of its own kind who proves to be beyond the boundaries of ordinary comprehension in normal course of routine life.
The Sociologists may attach suitable nomenclature to this process of “breaking the ice between the two”, however, for us laymen, the funda at the grass roots is very simple - growing up together and thereby understanding each other, but of course, under familial/social parentage and guidance. The latter may be heavily underlined and perhaps a little “unduly” stressed, especially, in the Indian context, to avoid all those “catastrophes” which we are nowadays getting used to hearing and witnessing quite frequently.
However, having vociferously championed in favour of coeducation, it may be reiterated that coeducation in Indian scenario is a predominantly urban phenomenon and prerogative of the privileged class. The issue which requires imperative address is compulsory education, irrespective of gender, with a special emphasis on rural India where till date tutoring of girl child remains, more or less, restricted to household chores and grooming of boy child is through the hard routine of enforced labour.

THE GORY STORY TELLER

Nowadays, I am generally in the “eerie” mode. What with the sanguine belief of SCOPE being haunted and the blood curdling evidences of the same being discussed quite often in the department (major contribution from my side), added to this genre of exchange are the supposedly “true” incidents recounted by my colleague with whom I have lunch everyday.

Some have this para-normal obsession with the make believe world of unearthly beings and spirits that are commonly referred as ghosts (a most underrated terminology!!) Strange things happen to them too which reinforce their belief in "The Others'. They may be gifted with what we are not but having said that I also feel that a susceptible mind and fertile imagination are sufficient fodder for optical delusions. Lonely unoccupied minds brooding over the unknown and the unnatural - undoubtedly, the turf is more than prepared for extra sensory perceptions accompanied by a staunch belief and deep satisfaction that a tangible proximity with the supernatural is being experienced on day to day basis - feeling their presence all around including the “frozen touch”.

A cynic’s definition of hallucination may be a very simplistic but pragmatic explanation diluting the “eeriness” of the impact of such experiments to the minimal. But dissection of facts may reveal a repetitive thought pattern attracting similar vibes which the mind craves for. Invites to these spirits hovering on the periphery of life and death may be a fanatic's delight but in this whole episode my position is the worst.

I being the sole audience of the almost daily narrations of white nebulous forms lurking around/ peeping through slightly ajar doors/glaring boldly from one of the poorly lit corners/ just swishing past at times/ breathing down the neck/keeping a watchful eye while she cooks etc. etc. which leaves my heart perpetually in the “sinking” state.

Since, these so called anecdotes are transmitted mostly during lunch time, I confess that I am a little wary about visiting the Ladies Room alone in the afternoons which is quite justified in my case as that should be the desired effect of such recounts on the listener.

But the less comprehensible part is the reaction of my colleague who after having delivered these goosebumpy narratives to perfection ( with vivid descriptions going down to the minutest & the scariest details) retreats into her shell and refuses to budge till the closing hours of the day!!!!!!!

How’s that for a gory story-teller?

ANALYSIS OF CONVERSATION

A conversation, only for comical interlude, is highly underrated and almost as the colloquial phrase goes a “time pass”. A conversation is not only an exchange of dialogues; it is an interaction of ideas, emotions, knowledge and empathy. Conversation is sharing. It is situational and therefore should manifest all the "navarasas" from time to time, including comedy. If it is only a comic relief, then perhaps it is transient and does not intend to hold a permanent place in our memory bank.

Of course, conversation in its purest and most sublime form has been epitomized by Socrates in his quest for the ultimate truth. I feel it is possible to have a little more "meaningful" conversation without indulging in such higher forms of dialogues.

A one sided conversation is thoughtlessness in its extreme. The mainstay of a ”functional” conversation is conjugality of minds, if not perspectives. A conversation cannot meander beyond niceties if inititated with divergent intentions.

A conversation for the sake of having a conversation is wasteful. Again, conversation is not an isolated experience. The full import of words spoken can be assimilated only when combined with gestures, facial expressions and body language. But we should not however forget that sometimes silence speaks more than words and a mere pause inbetween can convey loads more than a loud ejaculation.

The moot point here is that a conversation should be able to satiate the quest of the participants, whatever that might be. The result would yield far reaching benefits, if the conversationists are joined by unity of purpose and thought.

Words spoken should not be taken lightly. They are mirrors of our thoughts. Satisfaction is in venting as well as in imbibing. As we speak, so, we should also listen. As the spiritual leaders say that listening should be prayerful i.e. as in a prayer we concentrate with our whole mind, body and soul, so should we listen to others to take in the best and the most that we aspire for.

Conversation is a thirst to be quenched with the right measure of verbosity. The penultimate conversation is of course divine. but again the process is frought with experimentations. Seeking is an endless endeavour and you may knock hundreds of doors before finding the right one. Till then, you do not permit yourself to be let in. Wander till you have sought what you are looking for and sooner or later you shall be blessed with God’s receipt.