Of horrors and thrills

In the mid 90s, I would often walk past a dreary, white and yellow building.  Owing to its location, the grimy structure had become a big part of my childhood.  Apollo Talkies, Rasta Peth, Pune was a landmark so well known that the adjoining bus stop, the chowk where it was situated, the cobbler and batata wada seller positioned in its vicinity, all were known by the title “Apollo”.  On the grimy front facade of the theater would dangle a large, singular, colorful poster of the picture running at theater at the time.  As if to mock the conspicuousness of the poster, a couple dozen handbills of the same film would adorn the grungy parapet wall that guarded Apollo’s perimeter.  One film that I particularly remember being screened at Apollo Talkies was Alfred Hitchcock’s 1960s horror film Psycho.  That a 60s motion picture was running at Apollo in the 90s was hardly a worthwhile thought back then because the poster of the film was enough to permeate the entirety of my adolescent brain.  A nude woman, censored just sufficiently by a steamed-up glass pane, with an outstretched hand that seemed to thrust out of the poster, surrounded by streaks of blood, and a monosyllabic “A” on the top left corner indicative of the censor certificate type, all screamed out tantalizingly to the deep-seated immorality narrative in my brain that was a product of orthodox upbringing.  Mind you, up until then, my only exposure to the horror/thriller genre was the Zee Horror Show.  As such, this was enticing stuff.

Fast forward a decade, the poster of another cinematic masterpiece adorned the grimy walls of Apollo.  At this point, I am not going to tell you the name of the picture, but only that it was starred in by not only a few GOATs of Hindi cinema but also a bunch of newcomers.  Multi-starrer, if you will.  I did not watch the movie at Apollo.  Actually, I don’t remember exactly where I saw it, but I have not forgotten the chills it gave me when I did.  The movie opens with a completely deserted remote-Indian-village railway station.  Out of nowhere, you suddenly spot three college age dudes, who are meeting for the first time.  One glance at their unsuspectingly happy faces immediately gives you that sinking feeling in your stomach, as if you know that something terrible is going to happen to them in the movie.  It turns out that all three have left home for the first time to attend college in the god forsaken village, which for some reason they willfully chose when applying.  As providence would have it, the boys discover that not only are all three in the same class, but are also roommates in the same dorm room.  The next scene is a college assembly, which in itself is such an unusual concept that it gives you the chills.  To make matters creepier, the only teacher present at the assembly is the college principal.  Not a single lecturer or professor is present.  The principal, speaking in an unusually low-pitched baritone, delivers a particularly sinister welcome address, which consists chiefly of a run-down of the college “rules”, viz. a no dating policy, a sundown curfew for students who might leave the campus, and a threat to get rusticated if the student disobeys even a single rule.  It is against this backdrop that the rest of the movie takes place.

Cut to a few scenes later, you have now come to realize that the college is basically a single building that looks like a haunted English manor surrounded by carefully manicured lawns.  The incongruity doesn’t end there.  There isn’t a single classroom in the manor.  Students are dismissed from classes sometime in the afternoon.  You can only assume that it is classes that they are dismissed from, because like I mentioned earlier, there isn’t a single lecturer or professor other than the principal a.k.a. the Baritone Bogeyman.  Essentially, a bell rings and students are dismissed from whatever takes place inside the manor.  When this happens, the students simply walk out.  No one knows where they go because the cafeteria and the dorm rooms are housed within the manor and there isn’t a single other building around.  In fact, the only structures other than the manor are an unusually large gazebo and a Durga temple, both of which are perpetually deserted.  Students wear uniforms.  You also realize that it is an all-boys institution, which basically makes the no dating policy totally homophobic.  You also realize that it is always autumn on campus.  Trees seem to constantly generate yellow leaves despite constantly shedding.  A menacing looking gate guards the mysterious campus.  

Enter, a guy who looks like a grown up Harry Potter, sweater draped on his shoulders, violin in hand.  As providence decrees (or common sense screams), the college needs at least one lecturer.  So our sweatered violinist walks into the principal's office and solicits for the job of "music teacher", thus setting a precedent for cold calling for a job.  Powered, no doubt, by some sort of voodoo magic, he convinces the Baritone Bogeyman of the dire need of music lessons at the institution.  Within due course, you learn that the sweatered violinist is actually a psychopath with a sinister plan to avenge the death of his lover.  He manages to set up a music class in the gazebo near the Durga temple and uses his black magic skills to instantaneously procure musical instruments, sheet music, and music stands for the students.  However you soon discover that music lessons are a mere facade.  The psychopath's plan is to brainwash the boys and use his powers to not only make them subvert the college rules but also instill in them vile and wicked, anti-social and amoral if you will, values.  He coerces the boys to date girls from the neighboring all girls college by encouraging them to stalk and publicly harass them, get employed at married womens' homes as music teachers and use that position of power to sexually harass the women, break existing relationships to "get at" the girls they want, and deliver hypocritical sermons about sanskaar.  To make matters creepier, there is also the ghost of the psychopath's late lover that keeps appearing, in a singular costume, throughout the film.

I still shudder when I remember the scenes of this film.  I'm sure you have seen the film too.  Here are some stills from the film.  These might jog your memory.

 

     

A Halloween Story

The wharf was completely deserted after the boat had departed.  The sky had only a couple streaks of sunlight left.  She stood at the edge of the wharf and stared wistfully at the angry looking wake the hull of the boat had left behind.  The swirls in the water glistened eerily in the moonlight.

Without warning, she felt a push.  Before she could turn around and ascertain what had happened, she was in the water.  She didn't know how to swim.  In fact, she hated water.  She felt herself sinking.  Time seemed to slow down, so much so that she found herself wondering how she was able to hold her breath for so long.  

Then she saw them.

A shiver of sharks was approaching her.  Horror engulfed her.  In that moment of terror she realized that the sharks seemed to belong to the same family.  She could spot a large middle aged male shark, a slightly smaller female, two little ones presumably of opposite genders, and a couple of aging sharks.  What was strange was that each shark was being ridden by those unpredictable two legged creatures.  The two legged riders looked more menacing that the sharks themselves.  The one straddling the large male shark looked particularly terrifying.  He was carrying a net.  Was he going to catch her?

She closed her eyes shut and turned around.  Instinctively she began swimming.  Swimming really hard.  She could feel the water around her get more and more turbulent as the sharks and the two leggers got closer and closer to her.  She had to do something.  They were clearly faster and stronger.

She opened her eyes.

A carcass of a whale lay sadly on the sea bed.  Oh the horrors of the sea!  The sharks must be absolute monsters.  To think that they slayed such a huge whale!  

She had to make a split second decision.

She swam directly into the ribcage of the dead whale and found a hiding spot.  Her heart was pounding.  The sharks and the two leggers were right above her at this time.  She stayed there trying her best to not disturb the water.  In about 10 seconds, the sharks left.

She rejoiced!  She thought she had outsmarted the hunters!  Out she swam, feeling triumphant!

But that wasn't the end of it.  Before she knew it, the two legger with the net made a dash toward her on his shark.  The next moment she was inside the net!

~~~ If you are thinking to yourself what kind of a morbid tale this is, take a moment and watch this video.  It is supposed to be about a baby shark and his family.  Yes... scary... ~~~

Awwal Number (1990) - A Review

The Hindi Film Industry has churned out plenty of memorable sports films.  A sports film is generally trope-laden, and truth be told, audiences watch sports films knowing this and expecting this.  The story of the underdog.  Trial.  Misery.  Pain.  Tenacity.  Hard work.  And victory at the end.  We all love this.  You know the Chak De Indias and the Lagaans.  Even the biopics, although sometimes more like extended skits of anecdotes and recreations of actual videos from the past making you wish that you were watching a solemn documentary instead, give you the buzz of euphoria you expect from a sports film.  And within this genre, you will sometimes get a Dangal that has a narrative that transcends this cliché by addressing the human condition, a Bhaag Milkha Bhaag that deals with the sensitivity surrounding the Partition, and a Paan Singh Tomar that is raw and honest with incredible acting.

And then you have Awwal Number.

Remember how India as a whole felt proud and honored when Lagaan was nominated for Best Foreign Language Film at the Oscars but failed to win?  I think that is just gross underestimation of talent and a false sense of mediocrity.  Do you really think we don't make Oscar worthy films?  Let me tell you that the only reason we have never won an Oscar is because back in 1990, Dev Anand never cared to submit his masterpiece Awwal Number to the Academy.  In fact, Awwal Number outclasses any film that has ever won the Oscar.  

Awwal Number is a story of three men, Vicky, Ronnie, and Sunny.  Vicky, played by Dev Anand, is the President of BCCI, chief selector, cricket coach, and a retired Director General of Police who is on the Home Minister's speed dial so that he can be pulled out of retirement whenever needed because of his brilliant terrorist catching abilities.  He is a skilled helicopter pilot and can accurately shoot villains with a rifle using only one hand while flying the helicopter with the other.  He knows that the only effective way to interrogate a male terrorist suspect is by injecting sach ugalwane ki dawaa into him and a female terrorist suspect is by flirting with her.  He also knows the names of all the cricketing shots, and shouts them out at random while coaching his step-brother Ronnie, thus turning Ronnie into the world's best batsman.  He is also emotionally very stable, evidenced by his lukewarm reaction when 10 year old Ronnie shoots a man dead.  To top it all, he is also a man of principle because he drinks exactly one scotch and soda before dinner and smokes exactly one cigarette after dinner, votes to drop his own step-brother from the cricket team despite having been partial to him when selecting him the first time, and also has the gall to override the Home Minster's orders when it comes to following his usool to carry out his duties as a policeman.

Ronnie, played by Aditya Pancholi, is Vicky's younger step-brother.  While Vicky was born to an Indian mother, Ronnie was born to Cindy Crawford.  Yes, you heard that right.  Cindy Crawford.  Legend has it that Dev Anand asked his assistant to go buy the first photograph of a European looking woman he saw on Ranade Rd Dadar West, and the assistant returned with an exquisitely framed photo of supermodel Cindy Crawford, who then Dev Anand cast, uncredited and unaware, as his deceased step-mother.  Having those Angrez genes, it is no wonder that Ronnie has cricket in his blood.  With top class 1:1 coaching from his brother, he becomes a superstar cricketer who is famous for hitting sixers, because that's all really matters in cricket.  He is also a bad person because he is arrogant, disrespects his fans if they aren't pretty women, sleeps with them if they are, and also drinks a lot of beer (as opposed to drinking exactly one scotch and soda).  He usually scores centuries when he is in form, and gets out on zero when he is out of form.  He is currently out of form because of his aiyaashi and lack of focus.  He is jealous of younger cricketers who can also hit sixers, and generally wants to kill them by planting dynamite under the pitch, right around the good length area.  His MO for carrying out this operation is wearing a hat and a fake mustache and yet making no effort to hide his identity so he can use his name to get a free seat on a helicopter to fly over the stadium and press a button on a remote to activate the dynamite.  And as I said earlier, he is also a juvenile murderer on the loose.

Sunny, played by Aamir Khan, is an up and coming cricketer, which basically means he is a sixer hitting batsman.  He makes it clear right at the beginning that although his name is Sunny, he isn't the great Sunny Gavaskar.  However, he and his aging father, played by Bharat Bhushan, once receive an autographed bat from Sunny Gavaskar (not shown in the film), which our young Sunny, played by Aftab Shivdasani, then brings back to his chawl, starts playing cricket with, and grows up into a sixer hitting Aamir Khan.  Sunny is a good person, because he drinks neither beer nor scotch, he has never killed anyone in his life, and his behavior toward female fans is appropriate, i.e. he falls in love with them, sings songs with them in swimsuits on the beach, eats bhaang waale bhajiya with them on chowpatty, and eventually promises to marry them by meeting their aging mother.  He is also a big fan of Ronnie, but doesn't shy away from getting into a bar brawl with him when the senior cricketer speaks cheaply about women.  He also carries a tape recorder in his pocket, given to him by his girlfriend Aarti, played by Ekta Sohini, with "I love you, I love you, I love you" recorded in her voice in varying pitches.  Sunny uses this recorder like the Sanjeevani herb whenever he gets injured on the field, so that he can jump back up on his feet and resume hitting sixers.

Awwal Number is not just a movie.  It is a grand journey.  It is an adventure that traverses from cricket selection comprising of 5 people choosing between Ronnie and Sunny, to flash backs of cricket coaching accomplished either using a cricket bat if you are rich and by running on the streets on Mumbai if you are poor, to bad Tamil accented Punjabi actors playing LTTE members (the "Ayyo, umm tho thum ko jaantha hi nehi hey ji" kind), to Punjabi Tamil groundsmen named Kundi because apparently it is a South Indian word, to buxom women who pose as air hostesses in order to smuggle gold bars in their bras but end up becoming bar dancers without ever being arrested, to an Australian cricket team that consists of mustached white-face brown actors and just a single fast bowler that bowls every single over of the match, to policemen who are able to converse with villains in helicopters using some sort of mysterious telepathy.  Staying true to the sport film genre, India finally wins the match against Australia.  Sunny scores a century in his first ODI and achieves the rare feat of breaking Ronnie's test record in an ODI.  He is also named the Man of Match and is awarded a Mercedes Benz car, which then he gives Aarti a ride in.  Oh, and also, Vicky kills Ronnie, and the Tamil villains lose.

Worth Five Rupees

Today was different.  Sundar's pockets jingled with exactly five one-Rupee coins - the minimum autorickshaw fare back in 1996.  He had spent all day at school checking his pockets to make sure they were still there.  He hadn't ridden his Atlas city bike to school today, thanks to a flat tire.  His dad had given him five Rupees when he had dropped him off at school that morning, with the intention that he would take an autorickshaw back home instead of walking.  However, as the day progressed, alternate plans had brewed in Sundar's head.  As the final bell rang, Sundar strengthened his resolve.  Today was the day.  He had had all day to work out the logistics.  No one would know!, he thought to himself.  

Without saying a single bye, Sundar left his friends behind and began walking in the direction of his home.  He passed the autorickshaw stand.  Rikshaw wale Kakas looked at him expectantly, but he wasn't going to take a riskshaw today.  No sir.  His focus was completely different today.  Making sure no one was watching him, he quickened his pace.  Within 5 minutes he reached the intersection, the venue for today's covert operation.  He paused and took a moment to contemplate the scene.  As always, the street sounds began to instantly fade out and time seemed to come to a standstill.  The lone tapri on the corner began to get larger and larger in his frame of vision, sort of like the "dolly zoom" effect used in psychological thriller movies.

Snapping out of it, he began moving quickly toward the tapri.  As always, the tapri looked discordantly serene.  "Kachori - Rs. 2.50/- only", the little chalkboard easel in front of it screamed.  Cheap.  Even in 1996.  Notwithstanding the fact that not once had Sundar seen a soul around the tapri, munching on the said kachori, he started walking faster.  The unpopularity of the kachori vendor raised absolutely no flags in Sundar's foodie brain.  Besides, he was also incredibly drawn by the mystique that surrounded the tapri.

Sundar wasn't what you would consider overweight by today's standards.  Mind you though, he wasn't a particularly lean kid by any standards either.  In fact, back in the 90s, kids with his kind of BMI were a rarity.  Heads usually turned, not in a kindly way.  Kids like Sundar were usually picked on and hazed by the skinner ones.  They were often chosen, rather callously, by physical education instructors in schools as exhibits of abhorrent body types.  Thankfully, Sundar was pretty comfortable in his, what many Indians called, "healthy" body.  He loved food.  Homemade meals, restaurant fare, or street-side pick me ups, it didn't matter.  He just loved food.  His parents took pride in that he wasn't a picky eater.  He took pride in that he never disappointed his friends' mothers when they offered him food when he visited them.

Every afternoon on his way back home from school, Sundar would always stop pedaling his bike when he approached intersection, and take a moment check his pockets to see if he had two rupees.  He never did.  Obviously.  He was 12.  He didn't carry money that his parents didn't give him.  And his parents didn't give him money he didn't need.  Today was an exception though.  He had five whole Rupees in his pocket today.  With that kind of money he could eat two kachoris!  He had it all planned.  He would buy one kachori first.  He would first make a hole in the top layer, then ask for chutney.  He would then pour that chutney into the hole and then sink his top teeth into the deliciously crisp and flaky kachori.  After the first kachori, he would then buy a second one.  This one would be sans chutney and "for the road".  What a plan!  He put his right hand into his right pants pocket and jingled the five one-rupee coins.  Feeling wealthy and twitching with nervous excitement, he walked right up to the counter and squeaked, "Kaka, ek kachori dya na…"

Sundar then peered into the tapri.  Something felt off at once.  Tapri wale Kaka looked less like a kachori vendor and more like an investment banker.  He was dressed in a crisp white dress shirt, blue silk tie, expensive looking trousers with a rather fancy leather belt, and shiny black dress shoes.  Faithful to the 90s Indian male business fashion, he wore gold rimmed glasses, his beard was clean shaven, and his mustache was carefully trimmed.  Sundar rapidly started becoming skeptical about his grand plan.  Unlike typical vendors, there wasn't a single kachori in display.  In fact, barring the chalkboard easel that said  "Kachori - Rs. 2.50/- only", there wasn't a single indication that the tapri was a kachori store.  All it contained was a singular table with a glass top and nothing on it, and an expensive looking chair on which Tapri wale Kaka sat.

Tapri wale Kaka slowly rose from his seat, and smiled at Sundar, revealing his perfectly white and even set of teeth.  In a baritone and a totally unexpected British accent, he asked:

"Would you fancy one or two kachoris, kind Sir?"

Hearing the word "kachori" in a British accent made Sundar instantly panic.  Instinctively, he turned around and bolted.  The five one-Rupee coins jingled uncontrollably in his pocket as he went hell for leather.  He ran faster than his legs could carry.  Not once did he turn around.  He didn't care for the traffic.  He charged through the intersection, causing all the Baja Chetaks, Hero Honda Splendors, autorickshaws, PMC buses, and Maruti 800s to honk simultaneously at him.  Sundar didn't stop.  He cursed his Atlas city bike for having a flat tire that day.  Had he biked to school, his dad would have never given him the five Rupees, and he would never have succumbed to the lust for the kachori.  Panting his way to the sidewalk, he decided to hold his Atlas city bike responsible for anything bad that might happen to him today.  Just as he thought he had abated danger and had begun slowing down, he heard the British baritone again behind him:

"Care for this awfully delicious chutney on the side, sir?  It's bloody exquisite, I must say…"

Panic returned like the devil.  Without turning and looking, Sundar simply started running and cutting through the wind like a bat out of hell.  He ran and ran until he felt the ground give way under him.  Then he felt himself fall into a never ending abyss.  He wanted to scream, but his lips wouldn't part.  He felt gagged.  He tried vocalizing with his mouth closed, but there was no sound.  It was as if his vocal cords had ceased to exist.  He began flailing his limbs helplessly.  Defying all laws of physics, he felt being drawn into the earth faster than terminal velocity.  For some reason, he could also hear a distant beeping that seemed to echo limitlessly in the bottomless pit.

The alarm clock jolted Prabhakar awake.  He sat up sweating and panting.  Wasting no time, Prabhakar threw back the covers and ran out through the front door of the apartment and down the stairs.  There was his teenage son Sundar's Atlas city bike, safely chained to a side rail and both tires nicely inflated!

The Proposal - Part II

"Sit", the rider said and motioned to him with an almost undetectable wave of the hand.  

Before he could fully process the unsought invitation and the brusque manner of the rider, she exclaimed, "Appa!"

He hadn't considered this possibility in his mental playbook.  He froze.

"Sit", her dad reiterated.

"Appa!", she reiterated.

A moment of uncomfortable silence.  

A battered tempo passed them.  The clunking noise its wheels made as they rolled over the railroad tracks eased the silence for a bit.  Her dad looked at him through the face shield of the red and black helmet he was wearing.  Clearly, he was being expected to show some reaction.  Quick, say something!  He unfroze.  His brain prompted him to say Namaste! and Oh okay! at the same time.  He ended up blurting out: 

"Namaste! Okay?"

Bad start.  He refroze.

Luckily, the battered tempo honked obnoxiously at the exact same time and drowned out his fumble.

"I'll walk", she said and started walking.  His frozen brain took too long to process what just happened.  Before he knew it, she had disappeared leaving him alone with her dad.

"Sit", her dad repeated patiently.  He immediately felt an unforeseen sense of warmth.  Her dad wasn't smiling, yet he felt a sense of kindliness, in the face of which his botched "Namaste" seemed all the more imbecilic.

This time he simply followed the instruction and decided not to open his mouth.  The motorcycle started its journey uphill.  They passed the battered tempo.  The poor thing was whining its way uphill.  Seemed pretty symbolic.

Suddenly, her dad asked him a question.  Unfortunately, the battered tempo honked again, drowning out the question almost entirely.  All he heard was: "… bus … time … … … … village … auto?".

Awkward.  He knew it was a question because of the upward intonation on the word "auto", but what was the question?  Was it a wh- question or a how question?  Maybe he was being asked if the bus was on time?  But what did autos and villages have to do with that?  He began panicking.  He looked at her dad’s helmet.  It had red streaks on a black background.  Or were they black streaks on a red background?  If only he could get access to the helmet later, he could then take some measurements and … Shut up and focus!  He had to respond. Quickly.

"Yes, Appa", he said irrelevantly.

"Eh?", her dad retorted.

He froze again.  Maybe he shouldn’t have said Appa.  Uncle was probably more appropriate.  But why did he say “yes”?  What was he agreeing to?  

This wasn’t going well.

They turned onto a smaller road.  The gradient got steeper and her dad switched the motorcycle to a lower gear.  He realized that this was the private access road that lead to their home.  He breathed a little easier when he spotted her standing on the front porch.  Her mother and grandfather were standing beside her.  His breathing quickened again as their motorcycle pulled up.  He got down.  Expecting them to look resentful and displeased to see him, he summoned his best Namaste and opened his mouth to convey it.  But before he could, she exclaimed, "Amma!"

"Eh?", his tongue failed him yet again.

"Ajja!", she exclaimed again.

He just realized that she wasn't having a field day with words either.  Somehow, it didn't help that both her mother and grandfather had unexpectedly warm smiles on their faces.  He hadn't considered this possibility in his mental playbook either.  Time to say that Namaste!, he thought.

"Wash your feet!"

He was caught unawares by this order from her dad's direction.  He turned around and blurted out:

"Namaste?"

"Eh?", her dad retorted.

He started to feel the situation fall apart.  Panic returned.  But then suddenly, her mom said her first words:

"Have you eaten anything?"

If you are an Indian, you know these aren't just words of cordiality.  You know the sincerity behind this question.  And the question had been asked with so much tenderness that he immediately began breathing easier.

"Let him wash his feet first...", her dad said.

"Was the bus on time?", her grandfather said his first words.

"Come, it's almost lunch time!  You must be tired...", her mom said.

"We have a little tap on the other side of this bush, you can wash your feet there...", her dad said.

"Did you walk here from the bus stand?", her grandfather asked.

"I'm not sure if you like balekayi, here we use balekayi for many items...", her mom continued.

"The tap is somewhat hidden, come let me show you...", her dad continued.

"I used to walk from the bus stand too when I was younger.  Nowadays it has become hard...", her grandfather continued.

"I hope you like our food, you may not be used to our taste..."

"Your feet will dry, don't worry.  Come, let's go in..."

"Ours is a small village, but it has become so easy these days with buses and autos!"

"Do you mind sitting on the floor for lunch, or do you want to sit at the table?"

"He's young and healthy, of course he'll sit on the floor!"

"Sitting on the floor is the best posture for eating..."

An overwhelming feeling of warmth engulfed him.  He glanced at her.  She was beaming with happiness and pride.  Things were going to be alright after all!

The Proposal - Part I

The tortuous route that bisected the mountain massif didn't exactly help his nerves.  He stared blankly out the rusty bus window at the lush green trees pass by.  The unmatched splendor of the Sahyadri ranges that disappeared into the horizon nested against an unperturbed blue sky did nothing to comfort him.  The beauty of the landscape felt jarring to him.  The late morning breeze that hit his face felt uncomfortable.  He felt queasy.  

She didn't say a word.  She held his arm tight and rested her head on his shoulder.  She understood.  She was nervous herself.  Thoughts raced in her head, as they always tended to.  How would the rest of the day go?  How would they react?  What would it all culminate in?  She tried to clear her head.  Bending down, she extracted a little Frooti carton from her backpack and waved it at him inquiringly.  He shook his head.

She recounted in her mind all the events that had transpired over the last two years.  Within that short span, their relationship had endured an elaborate arc traversing from their eyes first meeting, to the initial infatuation period, to the enlightenment of love, to long distance dating, to painful separation, to patching back up, and to finally deciding to commit to each other in marriage.  His parents had agreed for the most part, but they thought he was too young and not ready to get married as yet.  On the other hand, her parents had not agreed at all, but thought she getting older and was on the verge of entering the desi-girl-unmarriageable-age-bracket and had to be found a suitor within the community (i.e. not him).  They were both the exact same age, by the way.

Teetering down the meandering ghat section, the bus finally made its descent onto the low elevation plateau.  She felt a slight sense of comfort as the bus entered the small town she had grown up in.  For him though, this was the first time in the region.  Normally he would have been taking in the surroundings cerebrally by observing the streets and shops and asking questions.  Not today though.  He was too keyed up.  She thought he might feel better if she chatted with him about her city, so she began jabbering.  He pretended to listen.

The bus pulled into the bus stand and rolled to a stop.  Debarking with their two backpacks, they walked through the noisy bus stand and exited into the busy street.  She had stopped jabbering by now, and was lost in thought.  What would her dad say?  She knew her mom sympathized.  Deep down she knew her dad did too.  She understood that it wasn’t them.  It was societal pressure.  Relatives.  Neighbors.  But she wasn’t going to knuckle under all that.  She was a fighter.  She had always been.

As they maneuvered past a pack of haphazardly parked two-wheelers, he felt a dozen pairs of eyes on him.  He looked around.  Not a single familiar face.  Yet, he felt watched.  He felt they were both being watched.  He immediately understood the importance of being formally committed.  She had harped on this subject one too many times.  That was exactly what this whole plan was about.  His trip from the US.  This idea to go and meet her parents.  That was the proper thing to do.  Right.  Still and all, would he walk away with a yes?  Or would this be the end of it all?  Was this all worth it?  But then again, what other choice did they have?  He felt a single bead of sweat trickle down his forehead.  Positive thoughts!, he told himself.

A hasty auto-rikshaw dangerously careened around the corner as they both made their way toward her childhood home.  After being momentarily startled, she went back to her thoughts.  The circumstances as they stood at the time hadn't just come by.  She had fought for the situation to be the way it was.  And she was ready to keep fighting.  She was certainly glad that his parents had agreed so willingly.  Imagine if they hadn't!  With his family on board, it felt like half the battle had been won, like they had some conditional warrant in their back pockets.  And she was grateful for this.  Then she began thinking about her grandfather.  Him being the head of the household, a lot depended on his disposition.

After about 30 minutes of walking they reached a busy intersection with railroad tracks.  She told him they were now really close.  His collywobbles began intensifying.  Suddenly, he heard a motorcycle approach behind him...

Bhima and the Clean Kitchen

A radiant youth of immense strength and beauty, possessing the magnificent aura of his father Vayu Deva dwelling in the foothills of Mount Meru and boundless might second only to his older brother Lord Hanuman, approaches King Virata of the Matsya kingdom and stands before him with a cooking ladle in one hand and a chef knife in another, illuminating the ambience by his splendor like the sun illuminating the world.  He is none other than the powerful Pandava prince Bhimasena, disguised as the cook Ballava as decreed by his brother Yudishthira against the backdrop of Agyatavasa, their 13th year of exile to be spent incognito.  King Virata astonished by Bhima's magnificence says, "O mighty gentleman, who art thou?  What doth thee seeketh, pray tell me!"

With the poise befitting a Kshatriya price but with the humility befitting his disguise, Bhima replies: "O righteous king!  I am a cook by name Ballava.  I am artful in preparing delicious dishes and seeketh employment in thy royal kitchen."

The surprised King states: "O Ballava, it does not seem like cooking is thy office.  Thou shineth in my presence like a thousand suns as if it be true thou were a mighty warrior prince!"

Upon hearing this, Bhima responds thusly: "Do not doubteth me, O King of Kings, as the great King Yudishthira himself has relished my food.  Whilst it be true there is no one equal to me in strength, pray be assured that I am thy cook and servant first."

"Very well!", says King Virata, "I appointeth thee as the superintendent of the royal kitchen.  Just be sure to weareth FDA approved latex free vinyl gloves whilst cooking!"

Praveen Kumar Sobti as Ballava the cook in BR Chopra's Mahabharat

Had the Mahabharata happened in the Kali Yuga instead of the Dwapara Yuga, this scene from the Virata Parva might have very well unfolded in this manner.  If you have perused some of the comments under cooking videos on Facebook these days, you wouldn't disagree with me, for there seems to be an unreasonable profusion of the hygiene police trolling the comment space of pretty much every cooking video and declaring that they wouldn't touch the food prepared in the video with a ten foot pole because the chef in question hadn't worn gloves.  To think that there is an entire population of trolls that has made it its vocation to textually articulate its collective abhorrence of gloveless cooks!  I mean, what kind of a preposterous fixation is this?  

Coming back to the Virata Parva, it is said that the ill-tempered Sage Durvasa once paid a surprise visit to the Matsya kingdom when Bhima alias Ballava was employed as a cook there.  Being unable to prepare a grand meal to appease the great Sage on such short notice, Bhima decided to improvise with whatever he had.  He threw together little bits of vegetables and prepared a new dish that became an instant hit.  This new dish was christened Avial.  Now imagine if the dangerous Sage Durvasa, the one who had cursed Goddess Saraswati Herself to become a river and Lord Indra Himself to lose all his powers, had somehow discovered that Bhima had not worn gloves that day while preparing the Avial, we wouldn't be celebrating this dish and serving it at weddings today!

A memoir of a...

I peered out the window with a little excitement and a little nervousness.  I was being driven to a park shelter in Solon on a late fall morning for the first ever assignment of my life.  Through the window I spotted a decaying Party City store with an 'Everything Must GO' sale banner.  Instantly, my mind was cast back to a time not so long ago when I would spend my days laying on a dusty shelf inside that very store.  The official party line, pun intended, was that our store was on Corporate's closure list and that if no one bought me and my shelf-mates soon, we would all be transferred to a mysterious dark place where spooky rats and creepy racoons supposedly roamed the aisles.  A shudder passed through my creases as I saw the store disappear into the distance through the SUV window.  I hated to imagine what would have happened to me if someone hadn't bought me in time!

The little girl had just turned one.  Her parents had planned an outdoor birthday party.  'Winnie the Pooh' was the theme.  Going by the tacky 8.5x11 sheets of dully colored Pooh pictures and handwritten notes that said 'Cheese Pizza', 'Coconut Laddoo', 'Cake', etc., I could tell that the family was fairly unschooled in the art of party throwing.  Furthermore, they had decided on an outdoor party in 40°F weather, which meant that had to figure out how to get the fireplace in the shelter going and keep it going for 4 hours.  I remember seeing people scurrying back and forth with bundles of firewood throughout the duration of the party!  Watching the parents scramble through the motions of the party, blowing balloons, setting up the tables, welcoming the guests, managing the pizza delivery, and blissfully forgetting to hand out return gifts, all while the little girl angelically slept in her car seat, I could not help but feel a sense of belonging with this clumsy little family.  My job was comparatively simple.  All I had to do was stay hanging on the wall by two nails and display the Happy Birthday message printed on me, which I did very proudly!

Seven years have passed since that party.  That I have seen the little girl blossom from a tiny little baby into a chirpy little seven year old is my claim to fame.  Over these seven years, I have truly assimilated into my family.  The little girl makes sure no one forgets me; she even made them bring me out for her 'half birthday' when she turned 6.5 years old!  I have been a constant in all the different types of birthday parties my family has organized over all these years.  I have been in outdoor birthdays, indoor birthdays, birthdays overseas, birthdays with music concerts, birthdays with kids making care packages, mom's birthdays, dad's birthdays, and what have you!  I have been with my family through many joys and sorrows.  I have seen career promotions, job losses, health issues, surgeries, address changes, new arrivals (we now have another cute little girl, who's first birthday we recently celebrated in the house amid COVID fears), and so much more!

On occasion, as I sit carefully folded in my cardboard box in the basement, my mind wanders thinking what would have happened to me if I hadn't found my family.  I shudder when I am reminded of that mysterious place with rats and racoons and thank my fate for deciding instead to send me here to this warm home!

Parle-G and Uncle Chipps

A pair of angelic albeit slightly somber eyes peered at me through circular plastic spectacles that sat on the middle of her nose.  Her hair was short and wavy, presumably brushed, but unkempt looking.  Her typical bright yellow 90s shirt with jet black stripes made her look somewhat like a harmless tiger.  A faded purple satchel kept slipping off of her left shoulder while she tried to balance a water bottle on her right hand.  I couldn't stop staring at the water bottle.  I found myself waiting for it to fall.  I wondered why the harmless tiger wouldn't just put it in her satchel.

The dusty little playground had white chalk line markers denoting spaces about 4 feet apart.  About 35 kids just like us, all within the ages of 8 and 11, had gathered at the playground for the Camlin Art contest.  I had ridden pillion on a Bajaj scooter with my Thatha, who had dropped me off at the venue with strict instructions to drink only from my water bottle.  On the playground, extroverted kids had formed groups and were chattering away excitedly, while the hesitant ones like the harmless tiger and myself were standing by themselves.  I was suddenly jolted out of my trance at the harmless tiger's water bottle by a strong voice emanating from two inappropriately loud speakers.  The source of the strong voice was a wiry young man, probably in his early twenties, standing at a makeshift podium.  He enthusiastically rattled off a welcome note, gave information about the contest prize (a Camlin hamper consisting of art supplies), and invited us to use the white chalk line markers to find a space to sit.  Kids began scampering around to find spots close to their newly found friends.  Being an introverted kid myself, I wandered around the playground to find a spot away from the boisterous sort.  Finally when I sat down, I found the harmless tiger sitting right next to me.  She was peering at me moodily through her glasses.  I smiled at her halfheartedly.  

"Hi", I mumbled hesitantly.

I was almost startled to see her face break out into a bright grin.  

"Hello", she chirped in a high pitched voice.

The loudspeakers cackled again.  Suddenly, as if on cue, the grin disappeared and her face took on an expression of extreme focus.  The topic of the day was announced: "Prehistoric Age". I soon got busy with drawing colorful dinosaurs and Mesozoic fauna on the sheet of paper given to me.  I ended up depicting a fairly unimaginative landscape.  An awfully asymmetrical pterodactyl was flying above a bunch of trees and staring down at a tall diplodocus chewing on a peculiar leaf.  A triceratops that looked more like a rhino was drinking water from a stream. A tyrannosaurus rex was also bizarrely present, resting under a tree.  After a while I glanced sideways at the harmless tiger's sheet.  Her canvas was much more imaginative that mine.  She had illustrated an action scene of two allosauruses trying to hunt a little baby stegosaurus while a large brachiosaurus was trying to save the baby.  The mother stego was standing afar, presumably unaware of the danger her baby was facing.  A pterodactyl was looking down on the scene from the sky with its mouth open, as if it was shouting for help.  Quite avant-garde, I thought.

It was soon time for us to turn in our sheets.  The harmless tiger and I looked at each other and smiled.  A friendship of sorts had germinated, or so it seemed.  Kids broke out into groups again, chattering away.  The harmless tiger and I found a large rock to sit on.  She sipped water from her water bottle.  I took out a packet of Parle-G biscuits from my bag and started chomping away.  It semi-occurred to me that I should share my snack with her, but for some reason I decided not to.  She produced a packet of Uncle Chipps from her satchel and started crunching away.  I could sense that she also semi-thought of sharing the chips with me, but had then decided against it.  It was alright, I hated Uncle Chipps anyway.

"Good competition this", she said, rather suddenly.

It took me a couple seconds to comprehend what she was talking about as I was still in the process of swallowing a soggy Parle-G.

"Ya", I responded when my mouth was free.

"What did you draw?", she asked.

"Oh nothing, some dinosaurs and trees, that's all", I said.

"Oh", she said.

I couldn't think of anything else to say.  So I decided to eat more Parle-G.

"Did you see my drawing?", she asked suddenly.

"No.... I..", I fumbled.

"I saw you were looking at my drawing.  It's okay.  Did you like it?", she asked, her somber eyes lighting up.

"Yes, very thoughtful drawing", I said sheepishly.

Silence, except for the sound of munching.

"Chip?", she said, holding out the Uncle Chipps bag.

"No thanks", I said, "I don't really like them".

Her eyes became somber again.  I felt sorry for her.

"Parle-G?", I offered.

"No thanks", she replied, "There are too sweet".

The sound of chip crunching and biscuit munching filled the silence again.

Shortly, my Thatha arrived on his scooter.  It was time for me to leave.  I blurted out an "OK bye" to the harmless tiger and departed.  I thought she waved as our scooter bounded off, but I'm not entirely sure.

After a few minutes, I suddenly realized that I hadn't even asked the harmless tiger her name. 

Summer of '92

I sit atop a hard suitcase staring sleepily at the empty train tracks, thinking about my recent 8th birthday party. My parents and grandmother meticulously count the number of luggage pieces as we wait for the midnight train to arrive. Despite my drowsiness, my excitement grows as the extra large railway station clock ticks away. After a half a dozen fuzzy announcements over the loudspeaker, the rusty brown train finally arrives. Reading the “Dadar-Madras-Dadar” boards on each compartment all at once as the train wheels by is a fascinating test of persistence of vision. We scramble to locate our berths in the sleeper class compartment, and chain our suitcases under the seat. A couple khaki colored air pillows are blown up and dressed up in pillow cases. I claim the top berth and settle down. I catch a whiff of naphthalene emanating from pillow case as I consider the absurd possibility of the ceiling fan next to my berth coming detached and me saving the day by dive-catching it before it falls on anyone. Before I know it, the rhythmic oscillations of the train rock me to a blissful sleep filled with superhero dreams.

“Kaupheee... Kaupheeee...” 

A gruff voice wakes me up. I pop my head over the corner of the berth and squint. Everyone is up and sipping coffee from plastic tumblers. I climb down with a maneuver, exchange ‘good morning’s, and trudge along the corridor, toothbrush and paste in hand and towel on shoulder. I start brushing while balancing my stance and staring at a deceased fly stuck inside the metal sink. The train starts slowing down. I peer out the door and see Gulbarga station approaching. I finish brushing and walk back lazily. A couple of colporteurs carrying bundles of newspapers and magazines walk past hurriedly. I get back to my seat and notice that the homemade breakfast foil packets are out of our bags. Idlies doused in milagai podi! I start munching and look out the window at the sun rising behind the platform. The train has started moving now and the breeze meanders through my hair.

By mid-morning, the train rolls into Raichur station. I lean over to peer into the train timetable my father is inspecting. “30 minutes late”, he announces. A family of three enters our compartment and occupies the seats across from us. The band consists of a rather loud mother, a fiendish looking boy about my age, and a bespectacled and much older girl. I do not look forward to talking to them. The mother however strikes a conversation with my mother. I do not pay attention. I fish out a Hardy Boys novel from one of the bags and start reading. After about a minute, I glance over the book and catch the boy grinning devilishly at me. I quickly avert my gaze and get back to reading.

It is almost lunch time when the train enters Guntakal Junction. The platform is bustling with activity. I catch sight of a man incongruously riding an Atlas Goldline bicycle on the platform and wonder if he had to buy a platform ticket for the cycle as well. The sun is now blazing angrily, casting sharp shadows on the asphalt. An elderly woman tries to sell us a Bisleri mineral water bottle through the window bars. I feel bad for her as our loud compartment-mates shoo her away rather discourteously. Younger hawkers swarm the compartment carrying lunchables. The aroma of food makes me wish that my parents would, just once, buy a packet of biryani or something, even though I know that my family is the extra careful type that packs every meal from home. Sure enough, once the train is mobile again, packets of homemade chapatis and thengai thogayal are brought out. I don’t complain. I actually love thengai thogayal.

The train starts moving again with a rhythmic “tha-jham , tha-jham , , , “. Or is it “dha-dha , ti-dha , , , “? Also, how come the train moves accurately in chaturasra nadai in Eka talam? Or is it Teentaal? I doze off to sleep with these thoughts while sitting sweatily on the blue rexine berth cushion. I start dreaming of all imminent fun to be had in the company of cousins. I dream that we would go to the beach, stand in the water feeling the sandy waves against our legs, and listen to people argue in the background... “It is Koodappa”, “No, it’s Kadappa”, “No, it’s Koodpahaa”. Suddenly I realize that the argument is happening outside the dream and between the fiendish brother and the nerdy sister across the aisle. The train is standing still. I rub my eyes and squint through the window bars. ‘Cuddapah’ reads the yellow board on the platform.

“Kadalai urundai venuma?”, my mother asks.

I nod my head. “When will we get there?”, I inquire.

“Train is still 30 minutes late”, my father says.

My question hasn’t been fully answered. But I get distracted by the two kadalai urundais my mother hands me. I put my jaw to test as I crack one of them in my mouth. I grab my Hardy Boys novel and start reading again.

The next station I notice is Renigunta. My grandmother says this is the last station before we enter Tamil Nadu. A bunch of presumably ticketless passengers enter the compartment and crowd the corridor. A soft murmur rises in the compartment. I get up and stretch. “2 more hours”, announces my father. Combs and ponds talcum powder containers are passed around as everyone takes turns standing in front of the little mirror trying to reverse obvious fatigue. Suddenly, the train starts slowing down and stops in the middle of nowhere. A couple youngsters jump out the door and walk down to the next compartment. A few others swarm the land around the railway tracks trying to figure out what is wrong. My father talks to a few of these people through the window.

“Train is 4 hours late”, he announces.