Motana Angadi

It was easily one of my favorite books from childhood. It still is. I happened to stumble upon it recently and it sent my thoughts spiraling into a powerful whirlpool of memories. The book belonged to the Sesame Street series and was titled “Don’t forget the oatmeal”.

An adult would describe the book as an illustrative material that introduces children to the concept of supermarkets and grocery shopping. But to a curious child growing up in the far eastern lands of India, it was a book that enticed a child into a world of shopping carts, open aisles, bountiful shelves and endless choice. As Bert and Ernie glided through the aisles of the supermarket, the child quickly drew parallels with the local grocery store – Motana Angadi ( Mota’s shop ). The shop had no board to suggest a name and hence people referred to it by the name of the shop owner – Mota . It was a nondescript shop that had all the three walls lined with shelves that held a million items. The floor was covered with open sacks of grains and barrels of oil, permitting space that was just enough for Mota to sit by the cashier’s drawer and his minions to move and reach the corners of the wall shelves. A multipurpose half rickety tabletop with an attached picket gate separated the entrance of the shop from the outside world. The table was tall enough to pass groceries that were purchased. Nobody could pass beyond this barrier. Shoppers would often read out from a list to one of the minions who would buzz around the tiny shop to pile the groceries on the table. “Where was the independence? “ yelled the child . “Where was the glamor? Why couldn’t Mota arrange his goods better? Why couldn’t he let me through that picket gate and pick my own groceries? He could start with lowering the height of that rickety table. Children deserve a peek into the shop too. I should probably loan him the sesame street book. Wait! Mother said that I should go to America to study. That was probably not my dream but I would not mind going to America. Who would not want to go to America – the land of superstores! One day I would get there and make sure that I visit the supermarket everyday. Ah! The joy of independence”

Years rolled, the word globalization was coined, but dreams remained unchanged. Supermarkets had started cropping up in India but they never appealed to the sesame street connoisseur. Soon I was in America, not the land of opportunities but the land of supermarkets. On day one, I hopped with joy to the nearest supermarket. The enthusiasm was seen in the length of the grocery list. The sight of the shopping cart at the entrance of the supermarket was the most beckoning sight ever. I was the truly empowered shopper. No barriers. No minions.

Cereal was the natural choice to begin the most exciting shopping experience of my life. “Bravo ! On your way to become an American” cheered the voice of that child. I looked around. This supermarket seemed to be a little bigger than what I had imagined. The long aisles almost resembled endless tunnels and were almost intimidating. “ Big country. Big space. “, I calmed myself down. “Was I lost? Probably not. I always ask people around when confused. Ok look around.  Ask somebody. Wait! Where are the people? “Almost towards the far end of one of the aisles, I saw a lady pushing her shopping cart. Should I chase her down? Big country. Fewer people “ I reasoned again. A wise man had once said, “In America, one always looks for signboards”. Ah! The signboards. Finally some help !After what seemed like a thousand aisles and a zillion signboards, I had finally managed to find the cereal aisle. One whole side of the endless tunnel was lined with boxes and boxes of cereals. Which one should I pick? Decision-making had never been a challenge but this was not easy. ”Pick the least expensive one. You are a student “, said the reasoning voice. I looked for the price with little success. The eyes frantically searched for MRP (Maximum Retail Price), which is dutifully printed on every packaged item in India. What were those strange tags on the racks? After some complicated thought processes, I realized that the price of an item can be checked against the tag on the rack. Organized arrangement of goods literally came with a price tag. Maybe the cereal aisle was an exception and other aisles might be less challenging. Unfortunately nothing changed. The kingdoms of shampoo and dairy and fruits and vegetables and paper rolls only grew larger and more complicated. Sigh!

I did manage to finish my shopping. But it only took a few hours. The voice of that child was strangely quiet. The reasoning voice was clearly overworked. Realization was beginning to dawn. Mota was a kind and helpful individual! He simplified the most complex problems of this world. His minion’s were god sent blessings to shoppers. Oh Mota ! How dearly I miss you .

Busy Bee

It was yet another wait at the subregistrar’s office to get an official property related document. Universal Teacher: Experience, had taught me to equip myself with a book and adequate water supply on such visits to make the wait less painful. It was one of those less blessed offices which comprised merely of a single large room with half a dozen tables and chairs distributed unevenly. A few chairs, ‘waiting chairs’ as I call them were lined at one end of the room as a courteous gesture from the government for frequent visitors like me. I was asked by the clerk to wait as usual and I perched on one of the waiting chairs. As I opened a P.G.Wodehouse , I happened to notice a lady clerk at one of the tables . Something about the lady struck very odd to me. She was very visibly jobless and kept staring at empty space with a perpetual lazy smile on her face. The stare with the lazy smile continued for a very long time .I wondered if it was her joblessness that struck me unusual. A very frank mental dialogue told me that I have been equally jobless on many days in my own office. It then suddenly flashed: Unlike me, the lady was extremely frank about her joblessness. The poor lady did not have internet. Worse, she did not even have a computer!

These computers might have given us dry eyes, crick in the neck and a dozen other ergonomics related problems but we ought to acknowledge its long service in helping the ‘corporates’ appear extremely busy in their pretentious cubicles. The complicated looking excel sheets which act as an excellent background against minimized online newspaper windows. Office intranet messenger with a ready source of vital information about the company and its employees (read gossip).The office mail which makes you look important even when you are actually reading the stale joke forwards. And the ever helpful Desktop cluttered with a zillion files which gives you an air of importance when you stare fixedly at it scratching your chin.

I decided to acknowledge the service of my desktop through this blog and as I was concluding it ,a colleague from the next cubicle pinged on office messenger ,“ Busy Bee .Aaj kal bahuth kaam karti hain. Which Project?”.

Star Struck *

I would always cast a condescending look at media reports describing Fans mobbing movie stars or cricket stars. I wondered how one could get so enamored by after all a movie star. “I could never ever do that”, I once declared to my sister. She then gently reminded me, “ Dint you once bunk your zoology class and rush to see Purab the VJ who was visiting your college for the pop star hunt ?”. I promptly replied that I was just 16 then and was very much licensed to have those star crushes. Besides, Purab was cute and my biggest crush ever. I avowed that I have grown up since then and can never be influenced by the presence of a movie star or cricket star or any star for that matter.

Last Sunday as I was walking with my shopping booty on Brigade Road , I saw a huge crowd cheering. Either sides of the street was packed with animated people talking excitedly. On inquiring we got to know that people had gathered there to see Shah Rukh Khan, the King Khan of Bollywood. “ Oooh Shah Rukh “, I squealed. “ Where Where ?” I jumped. I was disappointed to see nothing but mobile phone cameras clicking away. The crowd cheered as I stood on my toes to get a better view. Some adventurous men had even climbed the street light poles to get a glimpse of the star.“ I can see his hand“, I screamed. “Where?” chorused the crowd around me. But the hand had disappeared in a second. I was soon wondering what I would do if I suddenly bump into Shahrukh. Maybe yell with joy as how much I loved him. Deciding that it would be commonplace I thought of an intelligent but yet acknowledging smile. Yes, that would make Shahrukh remember me for the rest of his life, I concluded. My reverie was soon broken by the garish voice of a policeman yelling on public addressing system. He was yelling saying, “ Yaaru Sharukh Geerukh bandilla , nadiri , footpath block maadbedi” ( No Shah Rukh Khan is here. Don’t crowd the footpath).

The crowd was disheartened. So was I. As I walked away, I was soon restored to my normal self. Where did all the resolution to not go crazy over stars go? What happened to all the claim to maturity? Perhaps along with a strong tendency to emulate movies or the complete readiness to wait and of course fight in long queues for movie/cricket match tickets, we also have another trait impregnated in our DNAs: We Worship Stars. Deny it or not, we do.

Cricket by Chance

“Girls Cant Play Cricket” had retorted the boy from the opposite house with a ‘holier than thou’ look. It was the gully cricket played along the by lanes of my childhood house and I had just been bowled out. After some undeterred demands to be taught cricket, I was condescendingly let by the boys to play along with them. But my poor cricketing skills had let me down.

Call it ‘the grapes are sour’ attitude or the battered ego of a 10year old; I never bothered playing the game again. As I grew up, I realized that cricket or any sport for that matter was not my cup of tea. I was soon ensconced in my world of music and books. Cricket turned into a matter of sheer patriotism while the Indian team played. However, the same game morphed to become the root cause of TV remote wars with the male members of the family when the men in blue did not play.

Over the years my attitude towards the game remained unaltered .But my cricket free world was soon to be intruded upon. A few employees at work, including me had been asked to organize a CRICKET MATCH for all the members of my unit! To add salt to the injury, the management also wished to have each team with a female employee playing before the 3 down position (I googled for the meaning).Teams would be banned from playing if the rule was defied.

“Practice what you preach”, said the Bible and an organizer could not refrain from playing. Soon I found myself in a team of zealots who lived by the principle of “Eat Cricket, Sleep Cricket, Breathe Cricket”. Offside, Leg side, mid wicket, full toss and a bevy of technical terms whose names and count I have lost, were generously chanted everywhere. I watched wide eyed as my captain drew figures discussing ‘strategies’ and field positioning. “I can run fast”, I squealed to my captain who gave a mere courteous nod in response. I was seeing the bullying boy of my gully cricket days in almost everyone. Battered ego was again battling but was pacified by some 14 years of experience which I claim to be maturity. The thought of wearing a jersey of my team colour, celebrating a sixer or a wicket taken or shouting “ Come aan Come on Come aan” in a la Moin Khan style appealed to me .

The D day had arrived and my talent of yesteryears helped me coax some team mates to bowl while I bat. After all, I needed some practice. The boys were not as mean as I had thought them to be. A few encouraging words and some patient bowling brought my strike rate to a modest 20%.

It was the semifinals, the third match played by my undefeated team. Few balls were hit towards me while we fielded and those which were hit were misfielded . Thanks to the strong batting line of my team, I never had a chance to bat . While the child in me was eager to bat, my big fat ego wished that I did not bat . The ego was sensitive to dismissive jeers. Child won over the ego. The second batsman was dismissed when there was one more run to be scored with 12 balls remaining for us to win the match. I promptly walked to the striking end. The ball was bowled and surprisingly the bat managed to connect with the ball! The ball moved a decent distance on the field. “Run Run” screamed the child as I ran towards the non strikers end. The run was made, the match was won and most importantly, the battered ego was assuaged.

Dadhiyodhana

It was an ordinary lunch hour and I was at my regular lunch table in the office cafeteria with my even regular lunch . Out came one big box from my lunch bag. Its contents were dutifully emptied into the plate. Next came a comparatively smaller box, whose contents were poured onto the plate. Finally came the smallest box which was just kept open to be used at any necessary point during the lunch. I then noticed a guy at a nearby table looking at my plate and giving a silly grin . These silly grins during my daily lunch were not at all uncommon. I assumed that it was due to the size of my lunch bag which appeared quite big owing to the number of containers and their respective contents which demanded to be packed separately. These grins which came from different corners and different sources were quite annoying. I decided that I had to put an end to these amused looks and learn the reason for it. I gave a questioning look to the chap and confronted him.He chuckled and asked , “Do you always eat curd rice ?” . I never expected this to be the reason for the amusement of my grinning friends.

As I ate indignantly, my mind rolled into a flashback. Be it ridiculously short school lunch breaks or hectic study breaks between grueling exams or repulsive office cafeteria food or even a dinner which had to be eaten to pacify a provoked mother at home, it was always Curd Rice which had come to the rescue. This simple preparation which tasted heavenly with mango pickles had a permanent predominant presence throughout my life. Lunch or Dinner did not come to a logical end without having a good quantity of curd rice.

I soon started inquiring about the popularity of curd rice or rather the lack of it to get some amusing details. My guardian angel curd rice was unheard of in many parts of the country. A girl confided that she thought that I suffered from an illness and hence was subjected to a curd rice rich diet. Another chap attributed my curd rice lunch to the caste that I belonged to. A few even found the very name of it repulsive.

My enlightened soul was finally at peace. I knew the reason for the amused grins. At least I need not dab my mouth every now and then or chew in a painfully slow pace fearing that I was displaying uncouth table manners. However it saddened me a bit that not everyone agreed with my opinion about my guardian angel, curd rice. With these trail of thoughts as I ate my lunch, a newcomer at my table remarked, “Eating a lot of curd rice makes you TamBrahms very smart ”. Though I did not agree with the illogical conclusion, I was at least glad to know that the other side of coin did exist for the non curd rice eaters.

Man To Man

I was probably in my early teens when I came across the phrase, “Man To Man” for the first time. It was an Indian version of the celebrated novel, “Pride and Prejudice”. The leading lady described the hero's first meeting with her Father using the said phrase. I had stared a second longer at the phrase. It really had not made any sense. I assumed that I would perceive the meaning of the phrase as I grow up. But, having no brothers and studying in an All Girl’s college did little to improve my awareness about the behavioral traits of men even as I grew up. It was only after joining an industry with a male female ratio of 100:1, that my awareness graph was prodded and cajoled to rise and discover the nonzero co-ordinates of the y axis.

A room filled with about a dozen computers and bored men staring at them happened to be my first school for the awareness lessons. It was a long day and after hours of tackling glaring error messages, I wanted a break. I looked at my neighbour hoping for some small talk (read gossip) and started talking about the weather. He gave a few courteous nods and looked like he welcomed the break. I was happy and was brimming with all enthusiasm. But I was sadly mistaken as he immediately turned towards the guy at the other monitor and remarked ,“ Kalka match dekha kya ?”. Soon, the entire room was in a deep discussion about the batting talent of some celebrated Cricketer. I stared helplessly as the conversation looked like it could go on even without me. Deciding that weather was an uninteresting topic , I tried a different topic the next time. This only provoked my neighbour to start some elaborate debate about the best model of some cell phone company and eventually other electronic goods. I would not give up that easily and hence the next time I tried to start a conversation by remarking about the new employees in office. My remark was met with the highest amount of attention from all the quarters. I was quite overwhelmed with this new found success and was all geared up to finally have a conversation where I could participate. “Nayi Ladki Ke Saat Intro Karvayegi?” , asked my colleague in all earnestness. I did nothing but sigh

Once, a colleague asked me to help him shop for an upcoming sports event organized at office. After resigning myself to conversations with a highly limited range of topics, I considered this as a welcome break .We went to a sports wear showroom and the colleague picked up white track pants. I told him that it was not a wise decision as the pants would get dirty easily. “We play so that our clothes get dirty”, he replied with the highest conviction. I was quite taken aback and was looking for some support from the sales boy who was standing beside us. I turned to the sales boy only to notice him sharing a silly impish grin with my colleague. After this I began to notice that the silly impish grin which I prefer to call as “Man to Man Grin” is the most popular communication tool among men. It is a grin which crosses any cultural, social, regional or linguistic barriers. Now that I had established recognition with the “Man to Man Grin”, I began seeing it a lot more often. When a pretty girl passed by or if somebody broke the speed limit or if someone lectured , there would always be two men sharing the “Man to Man Grin”.

As my awareness graph rose I wondered why the other half of the human kingdom behave so strange. I never expected to find an answer but ironically found it from my 8 year old cousin. She was back from her school and was telling me about her day at school. A particular boy, Vishnu would trouble her a lot and would even pull her pig tails. I suggested that she should be talking to him about behaving himself. She shook her head saying that she would not. I asked her the reason for her decision. With a condescending tone and a wrinkled nose, she said “They are BOYS”.

An Om Shanti Om Diwali............

Mom forcefully tucked us in bed. The excitement and festive fervour hardly let us sleep. Some ‘fortunate’ people in the neighborhood had already started lighting the crackers. Deepawali was arriving! “Tomorrow we shall rush right after breakfast”, I assured Meghna, my kid sis which was more of a self assurance in reality. The three days of Diwali would mean either lightingcrackers or watching others light crackers. The forcefully imposed breaks were very annoying. How could the adults not light as many crackers , I wondered. Why do they come out only in the evenings to light it? What better business could they have the entire day? “We shall never stoplighting crackers, ok? However old we both get” I told Meg. She grinned handing me another ‘atom bomb’.

I am forced to use the clichéd phrase, “Years rolled by”. They have indeed. Diwali is arriving. I am surely happy but not ‘Crackers Happy’. It is more of “No Office Happy”. “No crackers?” I can almost hear the 10 yr old Bhavna asking me indignantly. But there is shopping or maybe some movie I reasoned out. “Boring adult!” said the kid.

With Diwali being a day away , I could not think of anything to shop for myself. Hence I offered to join mom for her saree and diya shopping. “Festive spirit” I reassured myself. Mom mentioned an unfamiliar store as our shopping destination. She had a complicated theory about the sarees there being of the best quality and best price and rare design and what not. This treasury of rare sarees was embedded in the ocean of chickpet, one of the oldest areas of Bangalore. So the Saturday before diwali, I am along with an extremely saree crazy mom and a good natured accompanist aunt. Every inch of chickpet was covered with people comprising of Festival shoppers, traders, wholesale dealers, hawkers, florists etc. There were even a few houses in some inner lanes. Nobody seemed to mind the lack of space or the piled up garbage in every corner. The lively spirit was in the air. After maneuvering ourselves through the narrowest and also the dirtiest by lanes of Bangalore , we landed at our destination. It was thankfully a quick selection and extremely pleased with the bargain we were headed towards the bazaar that sold earthen lamps.

Mom seemed to know the place like the back of her hand. “I know a shortcut” she beamed turning into a narrower by lane. “BRIDAL JEWELLERY FOR RENT” read the sign outside the shop in that lane. The sign was more prominent than the shop by itself. I was very amused by that and just stared at it for a second longer. This was enough for the shopkeeper who waved enthusiastically from his shop, beckoning us to have a look. The festive spirit, a dominant ‘window shopping rocks’ DNA and the enthu cutlet shopkeeper lured us into the shop. All the 3 walls of the shop were covered with imitation jewellery also called as 1 gram gold in the colloquial lingo. Being a staunch supporter and buyer of authentic jewellery, the usually confident mom was also not at her assured best here. My knowledge in the said area was highly limited to mom’s experience and stories.

“What TV serials do you all watch madam? Maybe we could begin with your favorite” asked the shopkeeper in a very obvious tone.

We were taken aback. I wondered if it were a prerequisite to shop for such jewellery. I was further amused but had no answer for Mr. Enthu Cutlet. "Balika Vadhu", replied mom in a tone to match with the shopkeeper’s. It was a recent addition to her crazy repertoire of television programs.

“You should watch estar pluss ( read star plus) madam. Ekta Kapoor serials are the best you know” said Mr. Cutlet in an almost didactic approach. He pointed at an extremely long gold filigree with a pendant almost the size of a cricket ball ! “This is the ‘in thing’ madam. Its selling like hot cakes after Ramola ( or was it Kamolika ?) wore it in one of the episodes. Maybe you should try it on madam" he said and I also realized that he was asking me to try it on.

I was horrified. With all due respect to the Ramolas and Kamolikas or any other vamps of the K serials I politely refused to try it on. I wondered if I bore any resemblance to any of the popular vamps as he had picked the said piece for me. Why would anybody want to look or imitate those vamps? I also realized that Enthu cutlet likes must be the source of inspiration for Ekta Kapoor to produce more and more saas bahu serials. My amusement level had soared to a new high.

Meanwhile mom had managed to pull out her new buy, the saree out of the bag and asked him if he could find something that goes with the saree. With an additional 40watts brightness in his face “Om Shanthi Om necklace Madam" replied the shopkeeper. He could have as well screamed “Eureka".

I burst out laughing. Om Shanti Om necklace! Wow! Atleast it was Deepika Padukone this time and not a Kamolika. He proudly produced a necklace with matching earrings to go with. Contrary to my expectation, the jewellery was actually attractive. The stones were more of a subtle glimmer and the gold also had a touched down polish giving the entire piece an antique look. I liked it and tried it on . I was super excited and I wanted to buy it immediately. Mom too approved of the choice. The shop keeper was jubilant. He wanted to offer a variety of choices and pointed out at one ‘Jodha Akbar Set' and even managed to find a 'Balika Vadhu Set' perhaps to please my mom. I was very firm about my Om Shanti Om set and he too happily sold the piece.

“ Do not wear it with this T shirt and jeans madam” were his parting words of advice.

Highly amused, extremely entertained and blissfully happy was I with my Om Shanthi Om necklace. “Happpy Diwaliii” replied the proud owner of Om Shanthi Om necklace to Mr. Enthu Cutlet.