...it's only words

The old man of the house sits on the terrace of his house in his white vest and pyjamas, reading a newspaper to the sound of Ameen Sayani’s scratchy voice on Vividh Bharati. Shining red chillies dry on an old bed sheet. A cavalcade of cycle rickshaws groans its way through narrow by lanes where halwais fry jalebis in large iron kadahis. A smoking Kachua Chaap keeps mosquitoes at bay while a young man sprawls on a charpai on the chatt under a pale yellow moon, and listens to Mohammad Rafi’s caressing voice singing “Teri aankhon ke siva duniya mein rakha kya hai”.

These are vignettes of the middle class India you and I grew up in. They have somehow escaped the D drive of our memories and are now showing at a cinema hall nearby. A handful of new Bollywood film directors, who grew up in India’s small towns, have stormed the suffocatingly sophisticated bastion of Karan Johar and Aditya Chopra and are telling us our own stories, set in our own galis and mohallas, in a time that still ticks in our consciousness and will probably be lost forever after age and Alzheimer’s claim our generation. This is democracy at its most creative. And though many of us have migrated long time back to air conditioned offices and/or foreign shores, we can never forget where we came from.

Not only are these maverick directors extending a friendly arm across our shoulders and taking us back to a railway station called Kanpur Central, a bhangra blaring wedding at Kapurthala, a sitting room with ceramic sinks and flaking plaster in Sahibabad, a narrow kitchen with plastic casseroles and  a steel filter dispensing drinking water in Lucknow; they are also documenting sociological change. In a scene from Tanu weds Manu, when the bold and I-know-I-am-irresistibly-beautiful Tanu corners her friend’s brother, demanding a hard drink he incredulously asks: Kiske saath lengi? Soda ya cold-dinks (sic) (What will you have it with? Soda or a cold drink) She takes a swig from his bottle and answers: “Neatahi nahin suna kya!” (Haven’t you heard of drinking ‘neat’)   

There is also a Hindi film hero we have only recently been introduced to in reel life (we’ve met him a dozen times before in real life but just didn’t feel he was hero material). He is far removed from the Aston Martin driving scion of a rich industrial family who holidays in the Swiss alps with a white cashmere sweater draped around his neck and lands his twin engine Cessna in his dad’s private villa. This guy pronounces business as “bin-ness”, has family owned sugarcane fields in Saharanpur, refers to flirting as “line maarna”, calls a one night stand with the heroine a “kaand” and talks (mostly nonsense) with his mouth full of bread pakora.

Both this far-from-perfect leading actor, as well as the director of his film, have risen from India’s  50 million strong middle class, and we’re meeting them thanks to this refreshing  wave of relatively realistic cinema.

The vocabulary of Vishal Bhardwaj, the west Delhi imagery of  Maneesh Sharma, the sensibility of Anurag Kashyap, the small town humour of Aanand L Rai is delightful to those who can identify with it. De ke batayen, ya le ke (shall I tell you by stealing one or giving one) says Deepak Dobriyal’s flirtatious Pappi (which means kiss in Hindi) when a comely beauty asks him his name in the film Tanu weds Manu. Cheap roadside humour (I say this in the nicest possible way) can only come from someone who has ridden a cycle rickshaw, sampled a kulfi from a thela and made a second sleeper train journey to Jammu (for Vaisho Devi) singing songs with his joint family. These are amongst the many experiencial prerequisites for directors who can stake claim to the creative power to take us to weddings where dusky Heers and boisterous Ranjha’s flirt over antakshari, where romance is conveyed via stolen glances over packets of wafers and folk songs like “Jab Kanpur ka chaand, chamki hai dilli ke raat pe; Tab Mannu bhaiya ka kari hai” (When Kanpur’s moon shines on a Delhi sky, what will Mannu bhaiya do) in crowded compartments of chugging trains that uncoil like massive red snakes over flat green fields.

No way could anyone who does not come from the middle class have made these earthy films where nobody air kisses, calls each other “dahling” and sings songs about broken emotional ties in designer clothes before gilded family portraits. Salman Khan’s Chulbul Pandey (could Karan have even come up with the name, leave alone the film) compliments his Dabbang heroine by telling her “badi jabrat dikhti ho”  (‘you look smashing’ just can’t convey the raunchy emotion). Kangana Ranaut’s totally wild Tanu calls a sultry song playing in the car “tharki” much to the embarrassment of Madhavan’s cultured NRI looking for a bride in Tanu weds Manu. And hero Ranbir Singh – Bitto -  cheekily hurls a “Fakkad Kakkad” (bankrupt Kakkad) at heroine Anushka’s Shruti Kakkar in Band, Bajaa, Baraat when he is annoyed.   

The reason why we the middle class identify more with these reassuringly imperfect people than with Mr Richie Rich in Amsterdam is not difficult to guess. They have grown up in the same towns that many of us did, they have studied in the same colleges, they hold the same values and aspirations that we do. And the same goes for the directors of their films as well. Many shabaashs to this new breed of story tellers. Some of their films may flop, some may bomb, they may falter but we do hope that they'll walk some more. That they will continue to take us by the hand to the India where we came from. They will nudge us back into the towns where we belong. Or, rather, where we belonged - once upon a time not too far away in our memories. Bring on the fluttering kites stuck in electricity wires overhead, the jalebis and the kulfis, the Mohammad Rafi songs, the Tanus, the Manus and the Pappies. Bring on the nostalgia. We’re all suckers for small town India. 

Halwais: sweet-makers (from the Arabic word halwa which means sweet); kadahi: big metal wok used for frying; Kachua Chap: mosquito repellant; Teri aankhon ke siva duniya mein rakha kya hai: What is there in this world besides you eyes; galis: lanes; mohallas: colonies; thela: roadside cart; antakshari: singing game



Copyright© 2010 Rachna Bisht-Rawat. All rights reserved. Reproduction, or re-transmission, in whole, or in part, or in any manner, without prior written consent of the author, is in violation of the copyright law

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We’ve always called him 5 Star Nanaji. The reason is that he makes people see stars. Naturally, we call him that only behind his back. Up in the hills, where I come from, it's important to show respect. You don’t tilt your head at right angle and do your pranams; you don’t bend 120 degree at the waist and touch people’s feet, with both hands; you don’t intersperse conversations with an adequate number of nods and “ji haans”, you wear tang patloons with shirt tucked in (yes, that too) and you immediately get labelled upstart and/or vahiyat  (which is considered considerably worse than upstart).

But, keeping this information exchange classified, if you want to know what flavour of 5 Star, I'd say fruit and nut. The old fruit is completely nuts (even by my liberal standards of insanity), and way too gregarious for the reclusive Negiji who lives across the fence from our house. 

Till the day before Negiji decided to get even with him, 5 Star Nanaji just had to be walking down Badrinath Marg, in his frayed cotton shirt, pleated trousers, Gandhi topi and Nehru jacket (which he did every morning/evening and a few times in between) and if he spotted a front door open (Negiji's or anybody else's),  he would take it as a personal invite. Pushing open the iron gate that leads up the garden path, 5 Star Nanaji would walk in swivelling expertly past the lurking cows, waiting for an opportunity to sneak in and munch on juicy green hedges. The sound of 5 Star Nanaji’s lathi meeting cemented walkway has always been as terrifying for Kotdwar folk as the thak-thak of Daaku Gabbar Singh’s boots was for Ramgarh residents in the 70s’ hit film Sholay. And with good reason. Once he visited, he liked to stay on for about an hour of sadomasochistic know-deep-details (pun intended) -about-my-piles conversation, a cover to cover read of Dainik Jagaran, a longish siesta in the sun and some high energy snacks.  

Chutki - Negiji’s black and white  Lhasa Apso with the scary buck teeth and a hair style that can give Lady Gaga a complex (no, you definitely wouldn’t want to meet her down a dark alley on a moonless night - I mean Chutki not Lady Gaga, though I doubt you'd want to meet even Lady Gaga down a dark alley) - knew him well and would greet him with a fallen leaf offering and a complicated tail wag ritual. Giving her a tickle under the chin, he would pull out a grey plastic chair from the verandah and sets it under the mango tree where the sunlight filtered through the dark green leaves and fell to warm his knees. And there he would sit with his eyes half shut, ignoring the lame squirrel that had climbed down and was waiting patiently for the snacks to show up. Everybody knew that now, it was just a matter of time or who blinked first.

 “Arre bhai, ghar mein koi hai,” 5 Star Nanaji would bellow loudly (sending Negiji – a loner – scuttling off to the safety of his bedroom). He would then wait patiently for Mrs Negi to appear, cover her shoulders with the pallu of her cotton sari, touch his feet (with both hands) and get him a cup of sweet milky tea and glucose biscuits. If he was lucky, guests over the weekend had left behind some kaju katli or motichoor laddus and he would get to sample those as well. (Our side, you go visiting people without a box of sweets, you get bracketed in the same category mentioned in para one above).  

Now, ever since Negiji first stood under the mango tree at 1/37 Badrinath Marg, Upper Kalabarh, under a hot summer sun 22 years back and got Vishranti (his house) constructed in the plot of land gifted to him by his late father- in-law, he has intensely disliked 5 Star Nanaji’s intrusions upon his privacy. But, unlike the brigadier who moved next door much later, and who just shuts his door in the face of the predatory guest, refusing to open it despite persistent bell ringing, Negiji had been following the Gandhian philosophy of non cooperation. He would simply refuse to emerge from his bedroom till the old guest had left  or (if caught unawares) pretend he had started meditating/or had fallen asleep if he was being spoken to. While non cooperation worked fine with the British, it failed miserably with the home crowd. And finally, a day came when Negiji gave up on non-violence and decided to pick up the weapons of science.

What few people know is that Negiji is a gold medalist, Physics, from Allahabad University. He displays signs of genius alright. He has not brushed his teeth for many years now. It wears them out, he says. When he feels his teeth need cleaning, he eats an apple. Or, he chews on a radish. Yes, that does enhance bad breath but then for the reclusive Negiji it is like killing two birds with one stone. For many years, he also kept an old Ambassador car that never ran on the roads of independent India, but Negiji used the engine to light up the night bulb in the corridor of his house. Finally, he had to let it go but the driver's seat of the red Maruti 800 he got in its place has never been graced by the senior Negi backside. It remains an unloved car driven only by MS Negi (Negiji's NRI son) who visits during holidays.

One afternoon, annoyed with the monkeys that had been eating the papayas from his tree, Negiji connected a small circuit and placed one end of the wire on a freshly ripened fruit. Everytime, a monkey tried taking a bite of the papaya, it would get a nasty shock. The remedy worked like magic and soon Vishranti was rid of monkeys who went off to search for less electrifying lunch areas. High on this successful experiment, Negiji decided to test his pest control kit on mankind. Working quietly when his wife was occupied with her morning pooja ritual, he fixed a similar circuit at the iron gate to his house and then sat back to watch from behind the sitting room curtains. The rest, as they say, is history. A visibly shaken 5 Star Nanaji was heard telling people at the chai ki dukan in Jhanda Chowk that he had developed some electrical charge that gave him a shock everytime he touched iron gates. When this news reached Narendra Singh Negi, gold medalist, physics, Allahabad university, (through his incredulous wife) he just gave a half smile and reached out for his plate of freshly diced papaya. He spent the morning under the mango tree in his favourite spot, Chutki chewing the edges off his sandals. That evening, Brigadier Sa'ab made an exception to his rule of not mingling with civilians and came down to the fence to congratulate the eccentric genius. A mutual enemy had been vanquished.

Disclaimer: All resemblance to people living and breathing is completely intentional (and may they live forever). This story is based on true life incidents (well, mostly). :) 

Ji: way of respectful address, like Mr or the Japanese san; pranam: namaste; tang patloon: tight pants; ji haan: respectful agreement; vahiyat: obnoxious; topi: cap; lathi: walking stick; Chutki: Little girl; arre bhai, ghar mein koi hai: anybody home; kaju katli: sweets made of cashewnut; motichoor laddu: well, laddus (OK, sweets again); chai ki dukan: tea stall

And this song comes all the way from the hills:

When I was a little school girl with an oily plait (sometimes two) and knew zilch about love and romance (except what I gathered from sneak reading Mills & Boon novels under the covers of my school books and watching two flowers meet on the silver screen), I attended this family wedding. My glamorous, gorgeous cousin, with the striking red sari and dark kohl rimmed eyes (that looked just a little scared that night) was getting married to this tall, lanky guy with a warm smile and friendly eyes. I ogled quietly from behind marigold garlands and banana leaves and plastic chairs and just about everywhere (including mom’s sari pallu and panditji's drooping shoulders). He was a geologist with the ONGC. He had a well settled, decent family. He was an only son. I could hear the envious family gossip but was completely deaf to it all. I only had eyes for one man that night.

It was this fascinating stranger who - from now on - was going to be Piyush jeejs to my Guddi didi. The way he looked into her eyes, the way his fingers closed around her mehendi adorned hand when her dad put it in his during the pheras, the way he stood affectionately behind her (she was a few inches shorter, even with high heels) had me completely mesmerized. I think I was too star struck to even say hello to him. I could only stare. That’s true love, I thought, getting heady on the fragrance of the red roses that mixed with the pungence of the marigold flowers on the wedding pandal, coughing over the sandalwood smoke wafting from the holy fire. That’s what the M&Bs write about. And one day, I’m going to find someone like him too. 


I remember whispering into my cousin Tanu’s ear long into the night about how wonderful he was and how lucky she was to have him for life. We were just little girls then. And little girls draw pink hearts on textbooks and have these romantic beliefs that don’t always pass the test of time. Because, as they grow older they realise that M&Bs are romantic trash and most marriages and the L word, don't always go together.

But guess what! It’s been 25 years and that’s one romance that has remained true, to this day. And that’s the way I want it to stay long after my hair turns grey (i.e. when I decide to stop colouring it). That tall, lanky stranger is fifty plus years now. He stopped being a stranger a long time back. He’s PJ and DOJ (dirty ol’ jeejs) and the uncrowned King of Crass. He’s a lot of things but above all he’s family. And when I see him with my sister, my heart still gets all warm and mushy. They lie in each other’s arms and read newspapers together. They find time for movie dates and quiet dinners despite the parenting burden of those two brats – Pauny and Paper Bag – who have since tumbled into their lives and caused him to lose some of his hair (she still stays an eternal 20 though) . 

Sometimes she cribs and he listens.Sometimes he sulks and she ignores. Sometimes she complains about how gloomy he is. Sometimes he wants to know if she sets money on fire. But when she chops a finger in the kitchen, he’s the first one there with a band aid. When she wants a Stella McCartney bag, he hands over his wallet. When she doesn't want to cook, he brings food home. When her cousin comes visiting (yes, me), he graciously makes place on the bed and moves with his pillow and sheet to the sofa outside.  If that's not love, what is?

So, what can I say about the guy who made me believe in love; and marriage. And - most importantly - that the two could mutually coexist. What can I write about the guy who showed me, by example, what caring and sharing was all about. Who poured me my first (and only – it was awful) glass of sake and bought me the first rose of my life (when he caught me watching forlornly as he gave one to his wife). What can I say to the man who convinced me that we aren’t always born into families, we marry them too. And we do grow to love them just as much. Yes, what can I say to the guy who set such exacting standards in husbands that Manoj is ready to kill him for it. (Stay safe, maybe?)

Actually, I can’t say much to Piyush jeejs, except thank you. Thank you for being there. For choosing to marry my cousin and including the rest of our family in your warm embrace. For sharing with us your lovely songs and your dirty jokes; your wine; your sentimental musings, your sense of humour, your books, and your barbeques. For being there with us, for us, in happiness and in pain and around bonfires lit under the stars on cold winter nights. For adding music to the air and a mandolin to the moonlight. Thank you for walking (or, did you come on a horse?) into our lives, 25 years back. Things couldn’t ever have been the same without you.
 
(And if you’re reading this again PJ, you know I mean every word and don't just want that  D&G bag) :)

Kohl: eyeliner (earlier made of poisonous things but now more eye friendly); pallu: free edge of the sari; panditji: Brahmin priest; jeejs: brother in law; didi: elder sister; pandal: tent


If you've managed to read this mushy piece, then this piece of music is for you and whoever makes you hear mandolins in the moonlight. It also goes out specially for my husband who has kept my belief in happy marriages alive.

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It isn’t often that god comes to bat at number 2 for India, and shows one billion plus people (holding their collective bad breath) that he has a scratchy, nervous human side too. Not once, not twice, but six times (four dropped catches and two LBW appeals, wasn’t it?). But then there has been some magic in the air this week and those of us with the colour blue waving madly from our hearts are hoping it will stay and do its job today. The 2011 ICC World Cup has generated a madness seldom seen before.  2 pm today, it reaches its glorious nadir.

Was Minister Malik calling up the guys in green at Chandigarh with a menacing: “I’m watching you” earlier this week? (It didn’t help, though, did it!) Was Dawood downloading “dallars” into secret accounts, as some cynics insisted? Were we watching cricketers or just darn good actors on the field of Mohali? We don’t know. And, fact is, we don’t care. For the time being (and till the last  ball meets willow bat today) the world for us Indians (with the Tricolour unfurling from painted cheeks) has simply shrunk into the precincts of a stadium – it was Mohali on Wednesday, Wankhede today.

It is time once again for time to stop. No, the birds won’t stop singing, the wind won’t stop blowing, tsunamis will not halt in their track; but yes, radiation threats will not matter anymore. Phones will stop ringing, SMSs will stop coming, roads shall empty of all traffic, kids will abandon their PSPs, offices will get deserted and  nobody shall be pinging anybody, even on Facebook chat.

What we shall witness is the power of cricket, at its most awesome. Every Indian and her grandmother has an opinion on what Dhoni has to do. At Mohali, he had to bat first before the dew factor turned the game, in Mumbai today, we shall be deciding closer to 2 pm. The entire country and all our brethren who have migrated to foreign lands know that we cannot  afford to take our eyes off the ball for even a second (even on television screens). Otherwise it will just go stumping out a wrong wicket.  Too much is at stake. We have a cup to bring home. So we’ll be staying home today, closeted in with friends and family. Glued to the plasma TV, ordering butter chicken and Chinese, we will be shouting ourselves hoarse and drinking ourselves silly to combat the tension.

For fat ladies with flowery hats and plump cheeks sitting in hot stadia, for little boys who forgot to take fingers out of itchy noses and for teenage girls who don’t want to look at Aamir Khan’s new handlebar moustache but rather Ashish Nehra’s crooked teeth: it is D day. All that matters is cricket, all that we can hear is the sound of bat meeting ball and the roar of excitement sweeping across stands and sitting rooms.

We have just returned breathless from a rollercoaster ride of high emotion. We have fallen in love with Sehwag’s swashbuckling style, we have envied the grit in Abdul Razak’s stance, we have been frightened by the madness in Shahid Afridi’s deep brown eyes. And yes, we have returned from the dead when Sachin was declared out right in the beginning of the Mohali match, and then saved. The world cup fever has done more than tweak emotions in our lives. It has reduced (no, lifted) us from lowly mortal entities - with 9 to 5 jobs, families to take care of, homes to build and children’s education loans to pay off - into higher more evolved  beings who are so meditatively into eating, drinking and breathing  cricket that we have almost touched nirvana.

We have bought India hats from department store, we have coloured our faces saffron, green and white, we have been waving the National Flag in stadia and at home and we have learnt to scream “chakka laga” at the top of our voices. Yes, we have lost our marbles but we don’t care, do we? Balls are what matter more today (no pun intended). We are waiting breathlessly with rolled up sleeves for the stadium gates of Wankhede to be thrown open. We are ready to spit into our hands, tighten our grip and take on the first ball. We are ready to stop breathing. And why not!  It is our time for a tryst with destiny once again. Jeetega bhai jeetega…..


Jeetega, bhai jeetega: we shall win brother; chakka laga: give us a sixer

A version of this article has appeared in the Deccan Herald