Of the Bugler in the Indian Jungle

Right. As always, I'll preface this a bit. Some of you know me and have suffered for their sins. Others don't and for this I beg mercy of those who do.

I've been less than forthcoming (yes, RELATIVELY) than usual in the past few months and in the interest of staying true to my readers, I promise to remain so in future as well. However, as always, it is when I am truly in a deep blue funk that my alter ego rises and booms forth. Hence, I introduce you to The Ed. And this, the first Bugle (formally known as The Ever-So-Oftenly Bugle) of the year.

The Bugle is my way of expressing what goes on in my life (or in some cases, doesn't) and holding forth loudly on matters that concern me not. And so, for those who have not met one yet, I present to you... The Bugle.

The Adventures-of-Single-Girl-in-Indian-Jungle Section

In all my 30 years (okay, FINE, 31), I have had the misfortune of studying closely the Indian male in pursuit of a mate (temporary or not). Some people ask me (read as "threateningly demand" when I am surrounded by that dreaded gang of hoods that constitutes my family) why I am still single. Notice the emphasis - it mocks not only my dreaded singlehood but also hones in on the fact that it has now gone on far too long. Indian families are notoriously subtle and devious when engaged in slipping several jibes into a single sentence. I would go so far as to say they make an art form of it and hold closely guarded and well monitored competitions on who managed to insult whom the most with the minimal number of words. Bonus points if the no-doubt-terrified prey is a difficult target i.e. mostly insusceptible to La Famille.

The Subtle-But-Necessary-"About-The-Family" Sub-Section

For the most part, I'd say I manage to escape the bloodshed through sheer grit, commendable sang-froid, courage in the face of... ok, so I run and hide. Or don't show up for weddings. Or birthdays. Or festivals. You're getting the gist (or you're getting old) here. And while this is a good strategy, it also means that when I DO show up, they're ready and waiting. 

Usually beginning with a casual "I guess you stopped going for morning runs, then", it'll gently (but surely) progress towards... So now that you're free (read unemployed), why don't you think about settling down (read your ovaries are withering as we speak), it's high time (read what decent Hindu boy in the community will want to marry you without the benefit of an enormous dowry and the odd cow or so we can't really afford if you get toooooo old)? 

Or there are the more direct approaches; constituted (at least in my family) primarily of simply commandeering the nearest single male and shoving him in my face with praise enough to soundly whirl the mind of an ascetic monk deep in devotion to that eternal bachelor, Hanuman. Once upon a time (yes, it's that long ago), they'd take the trouble of ascertaining "suitability" which, as is common in good Indian families, comprised a deeply complex algorithm of factors like family background, education, profession and family buzz combined with equally if not more complex regression coefficients of income, economic growth and stability and general well-to-do-ness. This combination is matured and fine-tuned over generations of cackling wizards and witches gathering in midsummer over cauldrons (oh all right, so it's aunts, uncles and miscellaneous elders over a cuppa in the family room and some cookies maybe) and is as closely held as the recipe for coke (the drink, not the good powdery stuff). 

However, it's if one survives all this (mind, this is from people who're soundly and firmly in one's corner), that one really steps out into the jungle. And that is when one realises what the family blockade was all about. 

The And-We're-Back Sub-Section

For the single Indian male in pursuit of his mate is not a pretty sight to behold. The categories are far too many (and frankly, just heinous) to enumerate, so one will have to suffice by giving examples of the prime cuts of this (unfortunately not-so-rare) bird. And here I must admit (and fervently thank the universe) that ALL these examples are not of personal experience (phew).

And it is thus, with much pride, though little enthusiasm, I present the "Mummy kehti hai" (roughly translates to a sneering version of "Mommy says". All malice is an addition of the translator) male. This male will usually (if not always) be accompanied by his mother, head bowed in reverence as he walks in the shadow of the great being who suffered to bring him forth into the world. And hasn't stopped suffering, or ruling over the poor hapless creature since. This male is easily identifiable when not in his natural habitat i.e. next to Mamma, by his prefacing every second sentence with Mummy says... Mummy doesn't do it that way (no matter the task at hand)... or the classic "my mummy says you are perfect for me". 

Then of course, there is the ever-present "I'm always right variety". This species is well known for its astute ability to guess what its unwilling victim wants. Or thinks. Or is going to say. Which effectively allows said lady to have a peaceful encounter without need to use any of her faculties. Why waste time deciding to have a Bloody Mary when the male has cunningly realised that Cosmopolitans are best (Two cosmos please!)? Or apply complex algorithms of choice and decision making when he has similarly cunningly surmised that Red Curry and rice is best (two red curries with rice please!)? Never mind the pesky allergy to peanuts. What price health compared to such diligent care? 

Which is not to say that every Indian male has a God complex. Not at all. Some are pure charm and wit. This species will typically sidle up to a potential mate with such winning lines as "I usually dislike women with short hair, but YOU are pretty". How is ANY girl to prevent an episode of swooning at that? In case you've missed seeing one so far, they can be found in bars and other social venues; usually standing to a side leering at a set of disapproving (or outright sneering) females. 

The most heart-breaking species though, is the genuine "good Indian boy". This male is truly, earnestly, incapable of conceiving of a damsel not in distress, just waiting for her prince. Which works out well for damsels in general, except say perhaps the ones not in distress. Of any sort. Or even the (rather silly) ones who would rather handle distress by themselves. Sans comfort of a stable male shoulder (remember financial secure, stable boy? Yup, prime example, though community must be considered). Sadly though, once caught unsuspecting in the snare of the good indian boy, retreat is usually difficult for the potential prey. For this species is unhappily all too prone to making life-long commitments on the back of 2 telephone calls and no actual contact. And in this case retreat is complicated by family blockades that must be convinced of crimes worse than "he's too nice!". 

The Carry-On-Ed. Section

Another difficult species is the rather simplistic "I am from phoren" male. Or the more complex "Family boy". The permutations are endless and must alas be continued in yet another episode of your friendly neighbourhood Bugle. Regular readers obviously know that this may never happen... On a related note though, readers will be happy to know that work on The Ape, The Apartment and the Damsel in Distress has begun again. 

The Cross-Promotion Section

For those who want background to The Ape, etc, we refer you to (http://eversooftenlybugle.blogspot.in/2008/02/sri-lankan-chronicles-saga-begins.html).
As always, all brickbats to be addressed to The Ed. The Alter-ego is um... sensitive.. to criticism. Of any sort. Ever. No matter how (ouch) justified. 

The Ed.

The Voyeur of Tragedies

Au Revoir, L'Ed?*

[Important small print: If you, reader, prefer the more amiable end of the Ed., it would be advisable to skip this missive. the Ed. is missing, as is said amiability]

The Ed. may finally have bid this world adieu. I say this because a part of me finally fled in disgust today. Perhaps because the rest of me was shamelessly barged into people's homes in a bid to create a career on the rusted foundations of floundering lives.

I went in to these homes not because I could help or thought I could try. Far be it from me to actually trouble myself on someone else's behalf. That, said I, would never do. No. I went in because I figured it would probably look excellent on a piece of paper, preferably with a little gilt-edge. Perhaps a tiny signature at the bottom and my contact details on top, as final flourishes.

On commence par le commencement?

Inasmuch as I care to prove my sanity (or inasmuch as I claim title to it still), perhaps I ought to begin at the beginning and take it from there.

Most cities I visit leave me with a bit of their soul. Exceptions exist I suppose; I never did tap into Amsterdam's hedonistic soul, nor perhaps into Berlin's secretive one. Both left me out in the cold and deservedly. I did little to understand or appreciate them and they replied in kind.

Pristine on the other hand, brought back Colombo and then Gangtok in quick succession. Military vehicles, soldiers, that quiet watchful atmosphere, the too bright smile, the nonchalant shrug that hides uneasiness. Perhaps I was the uneasy one in all these cities. I, in my love for freedom and perhaps a bit of anarchy, disliked the restraint of armed forces. I felt the burden of alert eyes and tensely coiled atmosphere.

Pristine Pristine

How then can I explain what Pristine meant or means to me? I suppose it revived me, seemed to jolt me awake. Here, said my shameless self, was an unexperienced experience. Here was something I hadn't seen.

Large swathes of empty, desolate land in a city busy rebuilding itself. Some parts of the city look almost joyful again; they have some inhabitants back, they bustle and chatter to themselves, congratulate themselves on being first to be whole again. Others stand about disconsolately, muttering about half-wrecked houses and abandoned homes.

Yet others are firmly on their way. They look with hopeful eyes at the future and seem to have woken from a long sleep, blinking with sleepy eyes at a whole new world.

And through it all, there are the purveyors of reconstruction. Those so called angels of mercy, who, if you could but see, might really just the angels of death. An entire establishment of angels who glory in what happened to this beautiful country and now wallow in its confusion; enrich themselves and seek job satisfaction in the bubbling broth of a newly hatched nation.

Call me cynical. Call me sarcastic, call me disillusioned or hopeless. Chances are (unless you happen to be my hapless progenitors who obviously had NO idea what they were getting into), you cannot pronounce my haphazard name, so you may as well use another.

Pristine seems to me to seethe; the locals battle within to control both pride (at a new independence) and resentment (both at the angels and at the divisions in their society). What price the Roma when there is 50% unemployment? Is being poor not enough to qualify anymore? Does one need be historically oppressed as well?

Perhaps I feel strongly because I find links with the battles that rage in my own country. In the distinctiveness we take for granted and in the differences which unite and separate my people.

Du Bist Meine Schwester

Or perhaps I'm emotional because the Roma (whether merely weeping or actively suicidal) simply refuse to refrain from forging links with me (for heaven's sake did they have to be from my country AND my state?) and calling me their sister, in german no less. I didn't quite decipher which I liked less; that they used german or that I understand enough of it to divine their meaning.

Or perhpas I'm affected because I was detained by airport police for being Indian (yes, apparently political reality is a tad bit skewed away from favour re:India).

Or simply because I feel I found my calling and it just happens to require me to bust into a man's home and ask how he managed to ruin his life quite as effectively as he did, and did he feel, perhaps, that it may have been his fault?

I sat through some excruciating interviews lately; in Fushe-Kosova I looked into the lost eyes of a boy; plucked from the only home he knew and thrust into an alien land where he knew neither the people nor the language and where he was little more than a burden. To add insult to injury, voyeurs of tragedy (much like me) came on guided tours to examine and probe him, to see where it hurt and perhaps understand quite how much it hurt. Perhaps he would care to demonstrate?

Here again, I sat stony-faced in the face of a man who had no job, nor prospects of one, soon no home and no prospects of another, no money, no help, nobody, nothing. Liar, I thought to myself. He lies, I said. It cannot be as he says. And yet I knew there was only one liar in the room, and it was not he.

In Mitrovica, I marvelled at the city with two parallel governments. At shops where you find both euros and serbian dinars. At the man who ran from country to country to save his family and failed. At the same man who runs a shop in a neighbourhood with no income and a turnover of 3 euros a day.

Snow Everywhere, Peace

And through everything, all I thought was, the snow is beautiful. Look how it blankets the trees and the farms; look how it caresses the mountains and sprinkles the rooftops. Look how it clings off branches, look how peaceful it is. Look how peaceful I am; I can no longer feel the pain emanating from hopeless, helpless people. It even ennobles the graves lining the road.

On another note, I thought to myself how nice an SUV would be (never mind that my feet don't quite reach the pedals, perhaps I'd just get an automatic). Preferably to drive myself, since being driven drives me (ha ha) quite insane, not to mention car-sick.

I could, given time, convince myself that really I'm being quite noble. I'm trying to help, I'm on a mission of mercy.

On quiet reflection and perhaps with a little bit of the glare of harsh truth, I might admit though, that I'm no angel. I'm a voyeur of tragedy.

Welcome to my world. Long live I, for the Ed. (poetically) is dead.

The small print: The Ed. had morals and a sense of rightness which is now missing from us. Perhaps The Ed. will return and we sure hope so. We are quite morose without. We therefore, for the first time in the history of The Bugle, end without signing off.

The Dedicated Bookworm Speaks

6 months and counting. I still love Paris.

I have had time to think of this phenomenon. Let us do this methodically (I've also discovered that "methodically" is a word I cannot pronounce. My brain automatically assumes I'm trying to say methodology, my tongue protests; they quarrel and my face starts looking sheepish. Finally I have to step in, restore order, give stern looks to all concerned and proceed with a different word. Phew!).

I love Delhi. It will remain "home" to me perhaps for a long time to come. But then I got to thinking and realised that there are many other cities I love. That I could live in with ease, just because I adapted to them and the way they are. They live and breathe with me and for what it's worth, I carry them around.

Roma, of course. For all its faults (which I discovered over Christmas), I love Roma. It is enchanting, and most of all, reminds me of home. Of Delhi. The similarities are peculiar perhaps only to me; I see them as these cities that exist across the millennia... Delhi stretches from Indraprasth to present day New and Old Delhi. Roma lives with Remus and Romulus to this day, with all those who lived and died between.

I felt very similar in Pompeii. I thought it would be strange to be in Pompeii, a city which does not exist in any sense of the word. It felt real to me though... the streets, the houses, the courtyards, they had a waiting quality... as if the residents were merely sleeping, taking an afternoon siesta. Like the city awaited their rising and the bustle. Perhaps if I stayed on till evening, I would be able to see them, Pompeii said. It let me hear the sounds and the crowds that were; the markets, the officials, the babies, the chatter that was. I felt Pompeii didn't believe they were gone because it never got to say goodbye. Its people stayed with it, because they never left.

Some modern day cities speak to me similarly... Port of Spain was languid and laid back. It told me to stop being a nervous wreck. Take a deep breath, look at the mountain, go to the beach, it said. Drive slowly, it said. It made you friendly, happy, less avaricious. It was beautiful. It was not historic or a picture preserved in time, as Paris is; it lived not across time, as do Roma and Delhi. It had not the picturesque perfection of Capri, the timelessness and effervescence of Sorrento; but it had a happy soul.

Colombo was edgier than Port of Spain. It waited for no one, it took notice of no blasts, nor of enemities, nor of political warfare. It lived to the fullest because it knew not if tomorrow would arrive. And yet it was kind and sunny. It asked you hopefully if you were Tamil. It shrugged and accepted you anyway if you said you were not. You weren't Singhalese anyway, so it mattered little that you were not Tamil either.

Are there any cities I DON'T like? Well yes. Bombay (and no, no matter what the demented Sena says, I will NOT call it Mumbai. Nor does Chennai exist for me. And Bengaluru is just plain ridiculous. Incidentally, I pretty much hate all three of these cities). I hate it's nastiness, its hurry and hustle and bustle. It's squalor and dinginess and meanness of spirit. Bombay lives for itself and thinks of itself and no one else. It is polite to no one and smiles for no one. It has the Sena because it IS the Sena.

For what it is worth, I am not enamoured with Amsterdam either. I don't really have a reason. There is nothing about the city I dislike particularly. If anything, the people are kinder than most and are friendlier than most. I just was not able to tap into its soul. Or perhaps it never entered mine.

So where does that leave me? Still in Paris. Still in love with it. With one small flaw which need correction. I still search for the perfect spot for a bookworm. A tiny cafe, with a cozy nook from where I can sip coffee, people watch, write and read Wodehouse.

Ideas, anyone?

The Ed.

The Accidental Traveler arrives in Paris

Nous cherchons L'Ed.

Welcome to this, the first French edition of the Ever-So-Oftenly Bugle. We're pleased to launch our product into this new, virgin territory which has thus far remained unscathed by our particular brand of loving sarcasm.

For those of you who are acquainted with both parts of me, I need only say that Rajul has arrived in Paris. The Ed. however, is still wandering somewhere. If you're wondering who's writing this edition of the Ever-So-Oftenly-Bugle, wonder on. So are we.

Il y a beaucoup de Tams ici!

Where one travels, I believe one forges an identity eventually, but on first look, I've been accustomed to being judged purely on what I look like (or what my name sounds like). In India, depending on whether I'm on the phone (where unanimously everyone assumes I'm a dude), or meeting someone in person (you're Bengali?), my initial identity varies. In both cases, an immediate correction is required (in the former case, generous lashings of syrupy meanness of spirit accompany the correction).

Now it's easy enough in India. In Sri Lanka, it wasn't quite so easy. The poor chaps so desperately wanted me to be Tamil. I felt fairly awful disabusing them of the notion that all Indians are Tamil. No really, there's a lot of variety, lots of flavours to choose from. If there's one thing we're not (um, apart from being at the door of extinction I mean), it's that we're not homogenous. No sir. We can't really even be stratified. A bit like Haggis really. Lots of weirdness lumped together.

The last place I'd expected to find a similar bias would have been Paris, but there you have it. I live in a small bucket located in what I can only term "Immigration Central"... a place populated by francophone arabs, africans, chinese, vietnamese (on a side note, vietnamese food, yummy!) and Tams. Yes, you heard it, Tams. Sri Lankan Tams. Indian Tams. Second generation French Tams.

The internet cafe dude is Tam. His wife is Tam. An African dude who loves Indian movies started a conversation with me asking if I knew Rajesh. Or Govinda. Or Raj. Or Vijay. It was only when he got to Mithun that I realised he was speaking of the actors... R. Khanna, Govinda (duh!), SRK, A, Bachchan and M. Chakraborty respectively :D But that's not what is important. What is important is that his wife is Tam.

And they all want me to be Tam. I feel awful again. Why, oh WHY me? On another OT aside, at Sacre Coeur, they have signage asking for donations in French, English, Spanish, German, (what I assume is) Chinese, and of course, the ever present Tam.

Je parle un peu de Francais, s'il vous plait

Now if I've given you the mistaken impression that apart from the immense (unspoken) pressure to be Tam is all that I have to be going on with, let's address the rather bemused (pink) elephant (why pink? I don't know, but pink elephants seem cuter) in the room.

I may as well tell you now, that what follows will sound a lot like a whinge and an unnecessary one at that, but bear with me here. One expects, on reaching Paris, to encounter the French. And to have communication misfires. However, I was wholly unprepared for the special brand of French miscommunication.

Here's how a typical conversation goes.. the frenzied traveler starts with broken french and manages to get a question across, with liberal use of keywords and unconjugated verbs. Hallelujah! Now watch closely as the Frenchperson (to be politically correct) ignores the said liberal use of bad French and proceeds (presumably) to answer the question in a flawless variety. Did I mention spitfire fast? Incomprehensible? No? My bad. Of course, he/ she could just be cursing me out, cos they usually just lose me after the first sentence.

My take on the situation? The blank "you soooooo lost me at hello" please slow down and talk look doesn't work. You have to say it, or it's not official. It's like a real life version of "Are you smarter than a fifth grader?"... you may have the answer (in a way) to your question, but you have to admit that your mental processes rival those of a meal worm and no, you're NOT smarter than a fifth grader.

S'il vous plait monsieur, je veux du ketchup!

So I'll veer sharply away from the whinge and focus on what (not) to do in Paris. I know I promised to write of what I have done in Paris, but again, bear with me. A friend of mine in the MPA recently told me of a study that concluded that while Americans (as they grow richer) collect tangible wealth, the French collect experiences. In the month that I've been here, I've realised that this may be in all probability true (a quick mention here of my statistics professor, who staunchly maintains that a true statistician never speaks in absolutes).

When in Roma, do as the Romans do usually translates as such: Order gelato with at LEAST 3 flavours and nod vigorously when asked if you'd like cream... nevermind that the small cup is already groaning under the weight of the overflowing gelato. Repeat this exercise in nodding whenever asked if whether you wouldn't like more cheese... everything goes well with more cheese. Or face the wrath of Jupiter.

In Paris, it is difficult to define such simple laws of avoiding public shame, and given my propensity for falling over and such, my month of experience gaining has been a melange of near misses and well.. sometimes unsuccessful near misses. As Douglas Adams once put it.. the secret to flying is to launch yourself at the ground and miss. Sometimes I forget to miss :)

So what have I learnt? That there is a fine line between being a resident and a tourist in Paris. The Parisian doesn't sneer at visiting the Tour Eiffel.. but only if accompanied by a picnic and the customary bottle of wine. Preferably more than one. Sacre Coeur is acceptable, but if you go there to hang out and goggle at the spectacular view through a beer-fuelled haze. Ile St. Louis? No problem. A hamper with boulanges, cheese and wine should see you through. Don't forget to spring for gelato. Does the pattern begin to appear yet?

Of course, the correct alcohol must be used in each instance... that's one I still haven't mastered, so I'm (for once) going to refrain from inserting my throbbing foot into my mouth.

The Whole Sorry-But-I-Gotta-Go Section

I know I haven't touched on my school, class or (and this is most important) my classmates, but I will. Inshallah. Given the fate of the half dozen Bugles lying incomplete strewn across my literary landscape, the probability is low, but given how amazingly wonderful these people are, the odds become better :)

Till next time.. A Bientot!

The Small Print:

To Suhail... I hope this suffices to an extent. I will write more; and more personally at some stage, but I still need your signature on the exchange contract :P

To Lavanya... I know this is hardly what you wanted. You want me to write and write more often, but I'm hoping you will be at least mollified. The next episode will hopefully cover more of my (mis)adventures :)

Tales of The Frenzied Traveller: When in Europe...

Four months and ten days (at the time of writing, not posting!). That’s how long it’s taken me to finally write this down. Despite the vociferous nagging from certain quarters.

Day 1: Pack, Run, Airport, Airport!

Day 1 starts with being shooed away from a check-in desk and a lot of general standing around, with a hangdog look. Not to mention all the shooing away from the lounge. Let’s not forget trying to fit in last minute work. With a countdown from 50 for boarding the flight, what would you bet I got 3A? A cigar, or coconut to the one who bet I got shooed away from the boarding gate. OK, I lied. The countdown was from 39. The principle is what counts though. Right?

Day 1 continues with sleep deprivation and working on airports. Does it classify as Day 1 if I fly forward approximately 5 hours in time during a 10 hour journey?

The will to leave Gatwick for the great beyond sapped. Frequent impulse to grab people and jabber their heads off. Trinidad lives on in the veins. Hope that lunch would cure me proved futile. Withdrawal pains due to telephonic disconnection unbearable. And this is a holiday! I’m paying to do this to myself. Whoever said that only planning a holiday is painful?

Day 2: The Great Deal

So, I’m well planned. I sit at Gatwick and book a hotel in Amsterdam for the night and Day 1 ends with a fantastic savings price at a Best Western at Amsterdam. Yayy me!!! 55 euros for the night = Major steal!

So here’s the final mark up:

Discount deal (yayyyyy me!) = Euro 55
Realising there’s no shuttle and taking a cab at 12:00 am = Euro 25
Realising I’m at the wrong Best Western Airport Hotel and paying 45 euros to go to the right one (yes, TWO with the exact same name!) = Priceless!!!

Anyway, so the chap was really nice. He felt sorry for me and gave me what I later realised was a HUGE room. It’s another matter that for a minute there he seemed to be offering to share it. I managed to pull the keys from his hand. Eventually. (Ed.’s note: If you laugh at this, or make cracks about sharing rooms… it’s not going to be pretty!)

Of course, my initial reaction to what he called the “Bridal Suite” was to gasp with barely concealed laughter. It was a puny room, compared to what I’d expect of that tag in India. All ends well though, with the nice chap actually planning out my route from Ouithooren (where I was) to Amsterdam (where I thought I was) to Maastricht for the next day. It was fairly uncomplicated, for Europe and a shoestring budget anyway. A walk, a bus, a bus change, a train, a bus and finally Maastricht. Rinse and repeat backwards to arrive in Amsterdam after visiting studious people in Maastricht :D

Day 2? Day 3? : Emotional Abandonment

Day 2 (I’m too time zoned to figure which :) begins with utter and complete abandonment.

I wake up late, can’t figure what day it is – 2 days, 3 timezones! I call home. I say “Mommy!”. My Mom of course says “Who’s speaking?”. I say “Ma! It’s ME!”. So she does the entirely expected. She puts the phone down.

Apparently, distance wasn’t making that heart any fonder. Jeez. I suppose she’s going to start saying my sister is an only child really soon.

Right. So Day 2 sticks with the wake up and RUN! philosophy. Walk out into nice cool weather, realise there’s no cash and buses are hardly going to take cards. Walk to the nearest bank with two suitcases (yes, I SHOULD have packed lighter. Trust me. I kicked myself for two weeks). Walk back to bus stop, which of course was in the opposite direction.

Get to Amsterdam and get off at Leidersplein simply because it’s sooooo pretty. Walk into sleazy sidestreet café. Make a hotel booking.

Take a tram to the Centraal station (not a typo… that’s Dutch for Central Station). More running to baggage lockers then to train to Maastricht. Talk shop to totally cute programme director at the Uni. Dutch men are soooo cute. Tall, blond, pink and sooo well spoken. What’s not to like? Is there any wonder Amsterdam is the city of sex?

Saw a recruitment agency for foreigners. Undutchables. See? Dutch men even have a sense of humour!

The Tales will continue with… “Day 4: The attack of the Africans”

Sri Lankan Chronicles: The Saga Begins

Think of this, if you will, as a mere supplement to the powerful and yet entertaining rag, fondly remembered amongst its many admirers as The Ever-So-Oftenly Bugle, or simply The Bugle to its closest friends. To the uninitiated, read on. I'm feeling far to full of myself to explain.

Duty Free and Duty Bound
Sri Lanka is a land of many contradictions (or perhaps, to some of those crazy Americans, contra-indications). The airport fairly buzzes with the foreign goods displayed to full effect, cajoling and luring unlucky retail-challenged hags (yes, yes, I refer to myself, go on have a laugh) to spend their last pennies and wager the last shirt off their backs (in my case, maintaining my precarious hold over a sweater in the name of dignity and the honour of the ‘Indian’ woman. God save me from the Shiv Seniks).

What hits one, as one steps outside the rarified airport atmosphere of course, is how much like home it is. Dirty, sweaty and brown at the edges. Gone is the shiny splendour (as is the retail high of having copped a deal on the much wanted and much fake, but shiny new glares). Gone are the foreign goods and the bright lights.

What remains is the everyday-ness of people. People who look, simply put, like a small section of Chennai. Largish at the roots and trunk, darkish, not-speaka-the-language-ish, and (frankly the most galling), no Surds-ish. On an offside, any utter lack of Surds from (yes, ‘from’, as in not ‘in’ my life so much as out and about it) my life always brings with it an amazing and inexplicable sense of loss. Perhaps it’s to do with a sense of familiarity with Surds, a sense of being at home and being secure that having Surds around brings. It’s about being a Delhi-ite. It’s the same way whether I’m in Bombay (now Mumbai, but well not much different is it?), Madras (now Chennai, but much the same, DUH!) or as at present, pseudo-Chennai.

The starkest difference of all though, is the sense of instability. It fairly pervades the air; as one zooms out into the night on the way from the airport to Colombo, one is stopped several times by men in tights (no, not really. Men in fatigues, but I couldn’t resist :). Passports (in my case) and National ID Cards (in the case of the driver) are produced and puzzled frowns are thrust in one’s direction (as I said, we don’t look much different from the general populace). That is of course, till the knitted brows are replaced by a sparkling grin and “Indian?” “Speak Tamil?”. “No”, you say; feeling for yourself and the poor witless souls who left it out of your comprehensive education. 17 years down the drain. “Aah”, says the understanding Man in Tights, nodding with an air most compassionate, feeling with you. Accompanied, most strangely, with that same sense of loss I feel at not seeing Surds. Perhaps they like Tams much as I like Surds. To-may-to, To-mah-to. One woman’s Surd is another man’s Tam.

Pleasant, though as the Men are, the duty they swear by is plain for all to see. They would not hesitate, were one not to turn up with a goodly reason for besmirching their soil, to send one and one’s luggage, on to the place where all is at peace. This feeling is carried over in the faces of the people, their habits, their life. No one objects or finds out of place the presence of police and military in every-day lives; at malls, outside hotels, restaurants, on the road. No one questions their right to stop and inspect at will. People invariably carry the National ID card; foreigners would do best to carry their Passport at all times. Blockades are put up at will; for allowing the Political Higher-Up (or, I am told by my driver, the Political Higher-Up’s brothers, with whom I share a locality) to pass by on the way to a night of revelry; or simply for the purpose of more stopping and inspecting.

In Delhi, we would have honked and created a ruckus, not to mention, given the poor, unsuspecting, innocent (!) thulla nightmares for weeks to come. Shouts of “Do you know who I AM?” would rend the night, with the sweet flowing music of a multitude of to-be road tearer-uppers leaning on their horns. Those of the loitering bent would have stepped out of the steaming vehicles to have a chat with strangers; the commonality of cursing the thulla, the light and the Higher-Up elevating them above any differences. In Colombo, people barely turn a hair; much less make someone turn in their graves long after the night is gone. The wait is swallowed without protest, without a frown, or even a muttered imprecation.

It’s Your Problem!
A rather common phrase that does the rounds in Sri Lanka is “It’s your problem medem”. The magnificence of this rather understated, and perhaps just a tad trite phrase, is the fact that it can be trotted out in any situation and is of course, invariably true. Having a taxi not show up, breaking a rather painful nail, being kicked out of the pool, being thrown in jail. It’s ALL your problem. The phrase earns the place of honour though, not due to its widespread suitability; it earns the top spot because of the beatific smile that infallibly accompanies it. Picture, if you will, the toothiest, happiest, sunniest, positively “I woke up on the best side of the bed and it’s YOUR problem”-iest grin. Now double the intensity, add cheese, a large coke and fries on the side. Now THAT’s a grin that says “It’s your problem medem”.

Who can quarrel with the justice of that?

Of Babus and Creakier Old Men
Let us not lose sight of the main purpose though. One is here to work one’s self to the bone. A chronicle that dismissed out of hand the work aspect of this trip would be both incomplete and unfaithful to its true purpose.

Everyone has seen the Indian Babus sitting smugly in their red stained, smelly, cramped offices. Those grand relics of the gigantic slug that is the administrative machinery of the country. Their Sri Lankan counterparts could easily put them to shame… they sit in beautiful colonial buildings; airy, wide, high ceilinged spaces, with white, unblemished (you might here want to refer to the Great Indian Spitathon) walls and red brick roofs distinctly reminiscent of the Portuguese style of architecture. And this is a local body mind, a small Municipal Council. What a contrast even with the North Block.

That, however, is where the nebulous superiority ends. While we’re all familiar with the Indian Slug version, we’re also aware that most of our IAS officers tend, for the most part to be strong, vital specimens, not usually given to dropping dead. Oh no. These slugs (much like the cockroaches) will out-survive any final cataclysmic, nuclear armageddon that may threaten the politicians.

The Sri Lankan versions are not for the faint of heart; to typify an encounter with these administrators as alarming would be to call Tiramisu a sweet with a few extra calories. Or (and you KNOW I’m talking about you…) to call Mayonnaise a dressing with a dash of oil. At first sight, a perfectly rational person would be forgiven for trying to rush to the aid of what must indeed be roomfuls of Egyptian mummies with a severe case of over-exposure to sun, sand and humidity. To paraphrase Wodehouse, you may see them steadily, but you’re unlikely to see them whole. While I’m getting bored (they speaka onlya them Singhalese, the chappie translates my words and I nod sagely at the walking talking human jig-saws), I can always resort to spot the missing feature; teeth, chin (well, with wrinkles reaching their toes, do you really think those count as chins?), roof of mouth, sense of humour...

Perhaps we really ought to be thankful for our lot. Sometimes the grass on the other side is greener simply because it’s growing on someone.

the Ed.

Next on the Sri Lankan Chronicles: The ape, the apartment and the damsel in distress

Small print: the Ed. shrugs off all responsibility for international incidents caused by the complete and utter lack of respect for other cultures. That's more the alter-ego's problem. All bouquets may be addressed to the homestead, mark them to Mum, she'll think I sent them.

To my Nation!

The-Independence-Day-Special Section

This is one of those rare, rare, rare Special Edition Bugles. It ISN'T entirely about me. It is about (for once only, do NOT get used to it) us.I realised, as I spoke to a friend of mine who was stuck out of the country, what today meant to me.

This day, this 60th year of our independence, was very very special. I know because for some reason I sang the anthem all day long. I stood every time it played on television and I walked with pride.

I am not usually so emotional, I felt like a right fool the first time I stood for the anthem, in an empty room with only the TV to witness my action. After that it just felt right.

Here we are, 60 years later, and we're still together. We're still corrupt in places, and poor in places, and uneducated. We fight, we riot, we raise our voices against each other.

And yet, we're together. Not every nation can say that. We've a Marxist movement, we've a communal movement, regional movements and the works. And yet no one denies that we're democratic, we're a republic, we're equal.

And not every nation can say THAT either. And no matter where I go and what I do, I'll know that I'm first an Indian. And I feel immense pride in that.

Here's to India. Here's to our generation, and to the ones to follow. We're 60, we're young, we'll always be young, we're going to win the WORLD!

The Ed. and Rajul

(If I sounded soppy, I don't care, I still love this day. And I'm very happy I've a friend stuck in the US, it's still 15th August there and I can live in this day for a while longer :) (Sorry friend-stuck-in-US, I'm being, as usual, selfish)