I live for vacations

I really do live for vacations. It's the thought that I'll eventually be off again that keeps me going in the first place. Not the hope that I'll be first on the team, or that I'll get a salary hike next month (well, maybe that too!).

How far along can you go without a break? And I'm not counting weekends here. Those are the breaths of fresh air mandatory for your survival in this wicked work world, where you break through the surface at the end of every week to grab the life-giver.

Cynically, weekends are the days you're given off to recuperate so you can work the next week to the "best of your capacity". Don't for a second think they're actually wishing you a good weekend when Friday comes round the corner.

Weekends or week-offs (if you're one of those unfortunate souls who slog a six-day week) are the days unofficially assigned to you to finish your laundry pile-up, pay your bills, explain your late nights to your landlord, and cook for the rest of the next seven days. That's the only time you work for yourself. The days when you're the boss, not counting the landlord of course, and the state of your house clearly tells how much of a boss you are.

Too bad for those several years and a couple of kids into a marriage, where wifey dear is undoubtedly boss of home and hearth. For those, like me, sworn to a life away from home with room mates and flatmates, landlords and neighbours, it's the tussle to keep everyone happy including yourself, the hope that you'll make it through the week without a complaint that you left the gate open and the dogs came in, or the pulling of lots and unspoken authority on who should clean the dismembered rat lying outside your front door.

I've seen shared houses where logs on the wall spell out chores for the week down to who pays for the milk on which days. Horrible stories of money-hungry roomies and landlords who stake out lobbies and kitchens reminding you day after day that you owe something to someone. Worse, stories of how roomies are tricked into paying for another's bed and breakfast.

Strangely enough, it's an interesting world. One that you can get tired of easily, hate all-at-once, but never really escape. I suppose it's the human obsession with the fact that one must belong - to a family, to friends, lovers, spouses, God, past, present or future. It would be so easy to just float into oblivion. But then, would you belong to oblivion?

As I said, I belong to vacations. It's the closest to oblivion for me. I can leave the dirt of office politics and forced ethics behind and get to a time that I designed. No work, no laundry, no schedules, no tempered expressions.

Just me.

Marriage plans

Knew that would generate interest and lead you here. Now that I've turned you into the Sucker For Today, you can read on....

Loads of people seem to be getting hitched these days. Rather bad time for an investment, don't you think? Sure it seems like you're saving money by sharing costs, but if you look at it really carefully it's not much more than cohabiting. With the damned strings attached.

Poor losers... anyway, my father has long treasured his Asterix collection and he's said he'll place them into my jealous hands as my "dowry".

The wheels are turning and if I am to get that collection before long, I'd either have to swindle my father out of it or get married.

Now pops is not one for getting swindled so there goes my option. The easiest way out is to catch some sucker, get hitched and ditched. That way, I'll have the Asterix collection, alimony and no tag-along.

Yes I know I can buy them all for myself. But the whole point of them being a collection 'inherited' with all the stains and memories just gets wiped away. I won't see that patch of oil on the corner of the book when I indulged in the forbidden activity of eating while reading.

The little bug that was mercilessly murdered as we slammed the book shut and squished around where we thought he might be... Later we'd open the book to see the splatter of the 'enemy'.

And the page I ripped in half as I fought with J over who ought to read the book and the face I had to look at when my father found out...

"The Magic Carpet" which has literally travelled across oceans and is hopefully now in Melbourne, and will stay there till I hop on a plane to go get it back...

The yellowed pages of hilarious creativity and friends we'd wished were real...

The little notes on the front page:
"Darling Dominic,
Happy birthday!
Love always,
Marise
13 March 1983"...

Or maybe my dad will get fed-up of waiting and sick of my consistent whining that he'll dump them on me one day... (hope!)

"These women are crazy"

It happened to me

There'll always be old faithful, whichever way you look at it. Book, movie, place, car, friend and your old shorts. It's your comfort zone. But, sometimes you just have to give them up.

I'd had a good swim and we were deliberating an idli-sambar breakfast. It was the end of the month and liquidity was nil. Even a packet of peanuts was a 'Do-I-really-need-it' situation. We got stuck at a traffic signal. A bus stopped alongside and I reached into the pockets of old faithful (not-so-deep, cottony, familiar) to see how much money I had. A coin fell out.

It was only a buck, but in this hour of financial crisis, it could mean the difference between breakfast and tummy-grumbling hungry. Should I have left it there for a beggar? Let it go since I'm an earning member of my family? But wait, that's the point. The sweat and blood that went into that Re 1 was my story. Ok, so I sub stories for a living. Yet, it's still my money and I wasn't going to leave it at a traffic light.

I hopped off the bike. There were only a couple of seconds before the light changed and I didn't want to be the reason a trail of children arrived late to school. Quick as lightning I scooped up the coin and hopped back on. There came a heart-rending scream, stomach-churning sound, a heart-stopping moment. Old faithful had given way. She couldn't take my selfish jumping about anymore.

So she left me sitting on the bike with a rip through her vital organs (the largest rip you've ever seen), the peeking of bright blue and shame-faced embarrassment from the beggars' curse. I couldn't get idli-sambar for breakfast that day. Horror!

Chandni Chowk to China

Really, what the hell was I thinking?

We thought we'd go for Slumdog Millionaire, but when we realised the movie hadn't released at the theatre near us, we should have just had dinner and come home. But, no. We decided we had to do something on a Friday night and ended up whacking our heads in frustration over one of the most awful movies known to mankind - Chandni Chowk to China.

True I'm a new addition to the movie-watching club. True I don't know art from fart. True I have no idea how to critically assess the essence of technical virtuosity of bla di da in visual effects. But I sure as hell know this is not a movie to watch.

It's a movie that goes from nowhere to everywhere. A reincarnation of the great Chinese warrior Liu Sheng is born as a vegetable cutter with a Mangal Pandey handlebar mustache - a man who only knows how to cut potatoes, but loves Luck so much she decides to give him a miss everytime. Until he's cheated by a fake soothsayer called Chopstick (what???) and shipped to China. Among all the mish mash appears a perpetually weepy heroine who cries even when she's happy. For that matter, there's a lot more crying in this movie and it's not just from the audience who have by now wished they'd strangled the director. EVERYONE cries. And it's supposed to be a funny movie. Whatever happened to comedy?

The songs are terribly unbearable. Lyrics unworthy of nursery rhymes and seasoned actors 'acting' like they are drama school rejects. Some poor soul decides to get himself killed to take the script forward and incite the potato-cutter to learn Shaolin kung-fu in revenge. So eventually, the vicious skilled Chinese kung-fu villain is defeated by a vegetable chopper from Chandni Chowk. And so the story goes on to the happy ending of reuniting part-Chinese identical twins with their Chinese father who knows kung-fu and the subsequent opening of a Dehli-ishtyle food cart right near the Great Wall. Chop chop.

Any saving grace? Hell, no. Even the crowd in the cinema hall consisted of college-going adolescent boys complete with dry comments and gelled hair. Now, where's my lawyer?

Shanti in paradise

Hi,

I was sat down and told there was something urgent to be talked about, that it couldn't be left for later, that it all began because of me, and the final decision was mine. The next day I was whisked off to paradise by a group of friends.
We drove the 5 hours to Gokarna, stopping only for breakfast at a little roadside restaurant to have idlis and sambar with septuagenarians after their morning walk. I missed the country music, but it was well made up for by metal and trance to keep the spirits going.
You really must stop when you're on the hill before Gokarna. The 'om' of the beach is quite clearly visible and you certainly feel you're a million miles from nowhere on the empty road. You know that feeling when you're about get some place with the anticipation of a good time, don't you? Well, that was exactly it.
We stayed in one of the many mud houses and shanties that dot the beach. The owners rent out more willingly to firangs than to locals, but speaking politely in sufficiently unaccented Indian English should do the trick. There's not much to offer on the menu other than humus, eggs and pasta, but you don't need much apart from a cold beer and a sandwich.
The sand was lovely to touch and the water a perfect 'swimming' temperature. The gentle waves grew in strength with the rise of the tide and I could hear them thunder all night long. Remember the time at Palolem when we were in class 5? The thatched hut, the cold night breeze, the smell of salt and perfect peace? It was a trip to the past and I wished you were with me, so I could share the wonderful solitude with you.
The great part about Gokarna is the three beaches connected and paradoxically separated by hills. We trekked around them to get to Half-moon beach and then to Paradise beach. I spotted dolphins and then the cheer went up as the others realised they weren't just a figment of my imagination. From way up, I watched mum reprimand a playful youngster as he swam dangerously close to the rocks. I know you'd have wanted to just jump into that clear blue water and romp around with them. I did too. It was sparkling with the sun at the farthest horizon you can imagine. I was stopped short by the sheer beauty of earth meets water meets sky. Mesmerising.
It's a hippie paradise, just the sort you like. Freedom to wear what you like, do what you like, eat what you like. Those Rajasthani lamps you thought would look great in your dream house twinkle all over the place. In the night, the sky is clear and you can find Orion and the dippers (at least what I thought were the dippers!) without much difficulty. It touched full moon when we were there. Lucky us!
I spent a lot of time alone, thinking of you, missing you and feeling close to God. You've read my post on Him painting the sky, haven't you? It's quite the same emotion. I walked on the beach, felt the sand sift through my toes, sat on a warm comforting rock and looked for shells the way you used to.
My friends gave me a wonderful birthday gift and I'm really thankful for that. I had a great time and want to go back there soon.
I know you're just the same as when I left you - confident, responsible and free. Me and my self rolled up in one.

Keep in touch
Love,
Me

PS: The next time I go there, you're definitely coming along. :)

The carnivores

Dad took me to the meat market for a bit of Christmas shopping. We headed past the fish vendors and stopped at the stall selling mutton.

There were three headless carcasses hanging from their hooks, cleaned and ready for the pot. Dad pointed out the piece he wanted and explained how I ought to buy meat. “Look for this… This is how it shouldn’t be… If it’s this colour, the meat is old,” bla bla bla. While the man chopped up our meat into the size required, my eyes roved around. I couldn’t see too far over the counter without my head touching the meat, so I peered as much as I could. I saw three goats squashed in a corner, waiting to be slaughtered. They looked frightened, and I’m still glad we didn’t buy any of them. One of the two men in the stall was cleaning a fresh carcass. I couldn’t see the carcass, but I tried identifying what he was cleaning. It looked to me like the intestines were being washed and what came out of it wasn’t a very pretty sight.

They were chatting animatedly, the two men behind the counter - one chopping meat, the other cleaning the carcass. I turned to my right. Two goat heads stared at me mid-air. I looked to my left. There on the floor outside the next stall were three heads. The unseeing eyes stared right back, their bodies now on a hook or on someone’s plate. “They eat everything,” dad had said, when I asked about the intestines.

What about the men who killed for a living? How did it feel? Was it something they were forced to do, or did they choose the occupation? Was it a family business? Blood-covered hands and feet, lives passing through your hands every day, people bargaining for lifeless bodies, the aim of the game to break the toughest bone, to be desensitized to blood all day… How different is it from the man in the meat market, standing in his dirty slippers and chopping meat with his hands, reeking of a fresh kill all day every day to the man in the supermarket with his buttoned-up shirt daubed in cologne selling meat cubes in small packets? It’s the same meat, the same end, the same beginning. But it’s a different price. For everyone.

For a second, I could imagine why some people turned vegetarian and those who’ve always been so aren’t ready to try meat. In the helter skelter of world business, not much thought goes to those most affected, the lowest rung of society. It’s a squeeze-the-most-of-the-lemon business. And it forces you to turn a blind eye to everything else. But what binds the vegetarians and non-vegetarians in a blood-thirsty fight is the greedy hunger for money that surpasses all culinary or spiritual divides. It doesn’t matter that my local farmer dies a slow death because the middle man pays him two bucks for what I pay the supermarket 16 green ones. I couldn’t care that my world is falling into environmental extinction because I’m too lazy to get a pollution check done. How does it matter that I take my vehicle to the nearby store because I can’t be seen walking? My status is everything. I don’t give a damn that the leper outside my door is dying from starvation more than sickness because I’m too busy making millions. My diamonds, my cash, my jewellery, my cars, my clothes, my furs, my extravagant soirees, and posh vacations are more important than anything else. It doesn’t strike me that my delectable mutton korma garnished with fresh herbs spilled blood on a dirty knife held by an innocent man. The guilt hangs over my head, not his.

Four eyes from two hanging heads almost laughed back. Where the greedy go, there is no salvation. I had learnt my Christmas message from two heads of meat.

Dad paid the man for two kilos of mutton and some chops. We headed down to the fish market and whetted our carnivorous desires. As we headed out of the market, I glanced at the mutton stall again. There were now three heads hanging from the hooks, and the man who spilled the blood suddenly looked very clean to me.

A Christmas carol

I received two CDs in the mail the other day. One said - Christmas Classics, Various Artists.

It slid smoothly into the player and the familiar sounds of Christmas jingled through the room. I was alone, the walls were bare, the temperature soaring and the refridgerator empty. My walk in the evening the previous day was just as sombre - no lights, no stars, no cribs. It's nearly December 15, and time for that Christmas feeling. That tingly, goosebumpy feeling you get when you want to love everyone and wish them a 'Merry Christmas'. That heart-tightening emotion when you give to someone needy and see a different kind of joy on their faces. That happy new-curtains-and-cushion-covers, family time feeling that you wish you felt all year through.

I could see Frosty running by the traffic cop across the streets with the Jackson 5. I wanted to get up and paint Christmas trees on the walls, make baubles and hang mistletoe and holly from the door-posts and imagine the fridge full of Christmas goodies. There was a longing urge to wrap presents and scribble 'Love, Santa' on handmade cards.

I sat on the floor, closed my eyes and sang out loud to every song I knew. I've never seen fire in a hearth or smelled acorns popping. I've never seen snow or reindeer, or eaten turkey for Christmas dinner. But I imagined it all - the sound of crackling fire, the pop of acorns, the taste of turkey, a belled reindeer and the cuddly warmth of a Christmas hug right after freezing your fingers off while building the snowman.

On my errand that evening, I was fuelled back into a world without stars and trees and cribs. It was a cold world, so 'unChristmasy', and unfestive, an every day world of pollution and chaos. I turned down a back road to avoid getting run over by office-goers. And there through Metallica from my earphones I heard 'Feliz Navidad'. A group of carollers were carolling in a house garden. Passers-by stared as I peeped through the fencing like a street urchin at the store window. The words flew from my mouth and soon I was singing with gusto.

They didn't hear me, they didn't ask me to join in and then come in for a cup of tea. But as I left, hearing the strains fade away with wind, my step was lighter and my mind happier. I couldn't wish for a better time, a time of advent, the Christ-child was coming and we would be together as a family for the best time of the year.

So I'm singing, "I'll be home for Christmas"...