Things have changed so much in the last ten years that I feel like a Neanderthal sometimes, explaining to wide-eyed young things about import restrictions and Permit Raj (R knows this at first hand, much more than I do, of course), and the politics of scarcity and such. The particular aspect of the past that popped into my head last night, as I waited for sleep, was this:
We have ATMs now – we didn’t when I arrived here – but when I need cash I call the bank and they send someone around with bundles of notes. I specify whether I need 500s, 100s, 50s. They used to provide 20s and 10s, but they don’t anymore. (One rupee notes don’t exist anymore, and fives are scarce – they’ve become coins. My mother-in-law kept a dish of coins to give to beggars outside the temple, and a lot were left after she died, including 1- 2- 5- 10- and 20- paise coins. None of them exist now. I liked the 2 paise coins especially – circles with scalloped edges. The 5 paise coins were square; all made of some dinky metal, very light… Just to get rid of them, I took most of them to a Barista one day and paid for my coffee with them, and everyone gathered round and oohed and aahed until I wondered if I had made a mistake. They gave me a free cup of cappuccino, too.)
Ahem. So when these notes would come, they would be held together on one side by a large, heavy staple, put there by the bank. The first thing you would have to do when you wanted to spend one, was to pry open the two ends of the staple and struggle to disengage the note(s) from the bundle without destroying them. If you looked at the side of an older note you could see a lacework of holes, as the notes repeatedly returned to banks and were sent out again. I developed a technique of prying open the staple with a metal letter opener, grasping two halves of the bundle in two hands and wrenching the whole thing apart, but stopped after the time I destroyed half a bundle of 50 rupee notes. The other way, if the notes were old and thin, and the staple was particularly cruel, was to open the staple but leave it in the bundle, carry the bundle in your purse, and pry the notes away one by one in the shop. And cut your finger on the staple ends in the bargain.
When you hand someone cash, especially if it’s at a small shop or stand, the shopkeeper will inspect the note carefully – if there is a slight tear or disfiguration, you will likely get it back. Though the same person will happily give you change in bills which consist of two halves taped together. Then you argue, and s/he shrugs, or grins sheepishly and takes it back…
Anyway, now the bundles of notes come wrapped neatly in paper, and there are no more staple holes. Things have become so easy now, mes enfants, that I thought I should tell you about the wild old days, when we were young.
(There's a picture of the Indian coins at Joel's Coins - page down to the last image.)
Dashboards
The New York Times has an amusing (true) article about Indian traffic: Indians Hit the Road Amid Elephants
There's an accompanying slideshow. I loved the picture of a taxi's dashboard
because I keep thinking that I'd like to make a series of dashboard pictures -- dashboards with their various gods and adornments. Christian, Muslim, Sikh, Hindu, the dashboard can accommodate everyone.
This one is particularly ornate. The metal tissue box is common enough, but I usually see it on the shelf behind the back seat. There appear to be two perfume containers. There's a mala - a kind of Hinu rosary - hanging from the mirror. A tiny human figure? What's that? At its feet are some pictures, lying flat - perhaps of gods. I was told that people keep stuffed animals in their cars so that they will absorb any evil that may come to them -- if there's a collision, the toy animal will be 'injured', not you.
So I'm inspired anew to explore the dashboard world.
There's an accompanying slideshow. I loved the picture of a taxi's dashboard
because I keep thinking that I'd like to make a series of dashboard pictures -- dashboards with their various gods and adornments. Christian, Muslim, Sikh, Hindu, the dashboard can accommodate everyone.
This one is particularly ornate. The metal tissue box is common enough, but I usually see it on the shelf behind the back seat. There appear to be two perfume containers. There's a mala - a kind of Hinu rosary - hanging from the mirror. A tiny human figure? What's that? At its feet are some pictures, lying flat - perhaps of gods. I was told that people keep stuffed animals in their cars so that they will absorb any evil that may come to them -- if there's a collision, the toy animal will be 'injured', not you.
So I'm inspired anew to explore the dashboard world.
Our Neti Pot
The New York Times has an article on what it calls a neti pot - what you use to irrigate your nose. It's certainly not called a neti pot here, but I don't know the word, so... I remembered that there was one among my late mother-in-law's things, and decided that it was time to try it out. I watched a YouTube video on how to do it -- only the person in the video used something called 'neti pot salt', while I used the salt that we have, which is iodised. Will I get cancer?
Anyway, it's done. I didn't like it -- the water ran out of my nose and down the side of my face, and when I bent over afterward and snorted as directed, it came out of my nose and my mouth, and it was pretty much like being in the ocean and getting seawater in your nose. My nose does feel clean and all, though, so maybe I'll try it again sometime.
This is our family neti pot (that's a very small flower):
Anyway, it's done. I didn't like it -- the water ran out of my nose and down the side of my face, and when I bent over afterward and snorted as directed, it came out of my nose and my mouth, and it was pretty much like being in the ocean and getting seawater in your nose. My nose does feel clean and all, though, so maybe I'll try it again sometime.
This is our family neti pot (that's a very small flower):
William Dalrymple on Benazir Bhutto
William Dalrymple, travel writer, historian and sharp observer of South Asia, has written an excellent piece on Benazir Bhutto for the Guardian: Pakistan's flawed and feudal princess -- take a look at the very interesting comments as well.
A Glimpse of Kalakshetra in the Seventies
I just read a terrific article by a woman who studied bharatanatyam at Kalakshetra in the seventies -- as I did: Sleeping With Movie Stars, by Gitanjali Kolanad. My experiences were not exactly the same (I didn't sleep with any movie stars, for example), but she made me remember that time and place very vividly.
I also admired the dancer who played Lakshman, though I never tried to do anything about it. I also remember Rukmani Devi saying that a dancer is a dancer not only in class or on stage, but always... although I haven't benefited much from that piece of wisdom. Small kids called out 'vellakarchi' ('white girl') when I passed, as they did to her. I thought I might die before I completed the 'tat adavu' ...
Thanks to India Outside My Window for the link.
I also admired the dancer who played Lakshman, though I never tried to do anything about it. I also remember Rukmani Devi saying that a dancer is a dancer not only in class or on stage, but always... although I haven't benefited much from that piece of wisdom. Small kids called out 'vellakarchi' ('white girl') when I passed, as they did to her. I thought I might die before I completed the 'tat adavu' ...
Thanks to India Outside My Window for the link.
Chennai Superstars
This is hilarious -- it's a TV ad for the new Indian Cricket League, for the Chennai team. It's a spoof on the superpowers of Tamil film superstars. Thanks, Viji!
Bandicoot
Last night I went into the kitchen. As I turned on the light a big bandicoot came out from under a counter and appeared to be charging at me. Though it might have been trying to get out of sight. But still. I uttered a kind of groaning sound and ran, or walked very fast, back through the dining room and into the drawing room where R was doing Sudoku. I said dramatically, "There's a big bandicoot in the kitchen!" He looked up briefly, said, "Go call Mary," and went back to the puzzle.
I went out back to Mary's room and apologetically woke her up. She got up enthusiastically, though, and grabbed a mopstick, hoping for a chance to bash the rat. We went inside together, I strewed poison cakes around, she tapped everything with the stick, but nothing emerged. Mary went back to bed and I returned to R.
He looked up again and said, "What happened?" I told him, and he said, "So, did it hiss at you?" "What??" "The little chuchunders don't hiss, but the big ones, if you turn on them they'll open their mouths." I said, "I didn't turn on it, I ran in the other direction." He gave a condescending laugh: ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. So I did the same to him: ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.
In the night I dreamed that the Mongol hordes had come and were rampaging around upstairs, while we cowered in a small room. I had a bunch of very knobby, odd-looking jewelry, which I concealed about my person -- not a good idea, probably, with hordes of any kind. Eventually they left.
In the morning I came downstairs. A pipe that had been blocked was now wide open -- the bandicoot had discovered it somehow, and chewed through the blocking material, and escaped. I stood with Mary and Lakshmi, pondering over the giant droppings, sharing details of the exciting story, and wondering how the thing had gotten into the house in the first place.
Here endeth the wildlife story of the day.
I went out back to Mary's room and apologetically woke her up. She got up enthusiastically, though, and grabbed a mopstick, hoping for a chance to bash the rat. We went inside together, I strewed poison cakes around, she tapped everything with the stick, but nothing emerged. Mary went back to bed and I returned to R.
He looked up again and said, "What happened?" I told him, and he said, "So, did it hiss at you?" "What??" "The little chuchunders don't hiss, but the big ones, if you turn on them they'll open their mouths." I said, "I didn't turn on it, I ran in the other direction." He gave a condescending laugh: ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. So I did the same to him: ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.
In the night I dreamed that the Mongol hordes had come and were rampaging around upstairs, while we cowered in a small room. I had a bunch of very knobby, odd-looking jewelry, which I concealed about my person -- not a good idea, probably, with hordes of any kind. Eventually they left.
In the morning I came downstairs. A pipe that had been blocked was now wide open -- the bandicoot had discovered it somehow, and chewed through the blocking material, and escaped. I stood with Mary and Lakshmi, pondering over the giant droppings, sharing details of the exciting story, and wondering how the thing had gotten into the house in the first place.
Here endeth the wildlife story of the day.
Gooseberries
Eating/admiring cape gooseberries ('geuzbrees'). Orange/green/yellow gleaming spheres enclosed in veined onionskin paper. Sweet-sour. Sweet.
There's an unbelievable op-ed piece in the NYT today: Pakistan's Collapse Our Problem. It seems to me to be delusional in the extreme. I can't imagine any scenario in which Pakistani authorities, military or civilian, would allow an American force to come in and 'protect' their nuclear facilities, and hold their country together for them. (I especially love the idea that American forces should carry Pakistani nuclear materials to New Mexico, and keep them safe for Pakistan there! Even the authors of the piece concede that it's not likely that Pakistan would agree to this.)
I'm just wondering -- if the New York Times is hosting such a piece, by people from the American Enterprise Institute and the Brookings Institution, does it mean that many others are also thinking along the same lines? What do you think?
p.s.: And don't miss this, also from the NYT: U.S. Hopes to Arm Pakistani Tribes Against Al Qaeda
I'm just wondering -- if the New York Times is hosting such a piece, by people from the American Enterprise Institute and the Brookings Institution, does it mean that many others are also thinking along the same lines? What do you think?
p.s.: And don't miss this, also from the NYT: U.S. Hopes to Arm Pakistani Tribes Against Al Qaeda
I just learned from Blogocentricity that Sawariya (a new Hindi movie, which has had poorish reviews) means 'Are you dying?' in colloquial Tamil. ('saavu' = corpse 'death') My first chortle of the morning.
(Oh -- just realised that 'saavu' is the same as Sanskrit 'shava'. Hmm.)
(Oh -- just realised that 'saavu' is the same as Sanskrit 'shava'. Hmm.)
Pairs
Hindi is riddled with pair-words (there's probably a more technical word for them). I learned a new one last night, because there's an old Hindi move by the same name: qaida-qanoon -- rules and regulations. 'Rules and regulations' being, of course, an English example of the same phenomenon.
Early on, I would always get thrown by this pair: thoda-bahut ('a little-a lot').
Me: Do you know about x?
Hindi speaker: Thoda-bahut.
Me (thinking): Well, which is it, a little, or a lot?
In fact it means, quite a bit ('a lot-a little').
For a while I thought that when you hear a pair-word you should focus on the second word of the pair, as in thoda-bahut. But then you have ajeeb-o-ghareeb ('strange and poor') which translates as simply 'peculiar'. The pair, as far as I know, exists only to make the rhyme.
Another one I've always liked is mota-taaza ('fat-fresh'), which correlates to 'hale and hearty.'
Fat used to equal healthy, because it meant that one had enough to eat. Twenty years ago, if someone said to me, "You're looking healthy," I was pleased, but then I realised that they meant, "You've put on some weight." (And if I had lost weight they would say, "What happened? You've gone down.") That's no longer the case, as western standards have crept in, and gyms and diet clinics have sprung up all around. For the prosperous, yes. The poor are not overweight and under-muscled.
I'm rambling.
Early on, I would always get thrown by this pair: thoda-bahut ('a little-a lot').
Me: Do you know about x?
Hindi speaker: Thoda-bahut.
Me (thinking): Well, which is it, a little, or a lot?
In fact it means, quite a bit ('a lot-a little').
For a while I thought that when you hear a pair-word you should focus on the second word of the pair, as in thoda-bahut. But then you have ajeeb-o-ghareeb ('strange and poor') which translates as simply 'peculiar'. The pair, as far as I know, exists only to make the rhyme.
Another one I've always liked is mota-taaza ('fat-fresh'), which correlates to 'hale and hearty.'
Fat used to equal healthy, because it meant that one had enough to eat. Twenty years ago, if someone said to me, "You're looking healthy," I was pleased, but then I realised that they meant, "You've put on some weight." (And if I had lost weight they would say, "What happened? You've gone down.") That's no longer the case, as western standards have crept in, and gyms and diet clinics have sprung up all around. For the prosperous, yes. The poor are not overweight and under-muscled.
I'm rambling.
My Office
Because I like getting glimpses of other people’s work spaces, I thought I’d show you my office. (I don't know why I call it that -- because it has a desk in it? Is there a better word? 'Study' sounds pretentious, and I do actually do some work here...) It’s only 8’ x 12’, it’s the most crowded room in the house (the rest of the house is NOT full of knick-knacks, in spite of what you see here), but it suits me well. Here goes:
The west wall. The flowers are ginger -- I had brought them in to draw them. They're almost dead, but I like them that way, spotted with black and curling up.
A worktable and shelves on top of two small filing cabinets. Books that I've bound. Art supplies. Stuff.
The north wall -- there are doors to the left and right of this picture. The glass bricks look black, but they're not -- they let in a pleasant diffused light. I tidied up the sketchbooks before taking the photograph :).
Part of the east wall (I'm not showing ANYBODY a built in cabinet to the left of the picture, crammed with files and papers to be filed). My desk, an old one, made of sheesham wood, and a little chest for paper and the printer and scanner, made of what is called 'country wood' -- i.e., too insignificant to be named.
The window, on the south wall, to the right of my desk. It's a grey day - in fact it's raining now. Not an ideal one for taking photographs, so there's flash burn everywhere.
So that's it.
The west wall. The flowers are ginger -- I had brought them in to draw them. They're almost dead, but I like them that way, spotted with black and curling up.
A worktable and shelves on top of two small filing cabinets. Books that I've bound. Art supplies. Stuff.
The north wall -- there are doors to the left and right of this picture. The glass bricks look black, but they're not -- they let in a pleasant diffused light. I tidied up the sketchbooks before taking the photograph :).
Part of the east wall (I'm not showing ANYBODY a built in cabinet to the left of the picture, crammed with files and papers to be filed). My desk, an old one, made of sheesham wood, and a little chest for paper and the printer and scanner, made of what is called 'country wood' -- i.e., too insignificant to be named.
The window, on the south wall, to the right of my desk. It's a grey day - in fact it's raining now. Not an ideal one for taking photographs, so there's flash burn everywhere.
So that's it.
Sleep
I just love this paragraph, from The Sleep-Industrial Complex, in the NYT magazine:
All good nights of sleep are alike. Each miserable night of sleep is miserable in its own way. You either close your eyes and, many hours later, open them, or you endure an idiosyncratic epic of waiting, trying, failing, irritation, self-sabotage and despair, then stand up at sunrise racked with war stories you don’t have the energy to tell.
Purity Indian Barley
These tins of barley have been mouldering in the back of a cupboard for untold eons -- perhaps my late mother-in-law had intended to prepare barley water -- but Fate Intervened.
That mother looks to me as if she's just about to give her child a good shaking.
Pretend
I haven't posted this before - I thought it might be too sugary. Nonetheless...
Pretend
I
Orange berries, bittersweet
on a leaf plate, with white pebble cakes.
She pours carefully
from an invisible pot, raises her invisible cup,
fingers crooked delicately, sips,
puts a berry to her lips, smiling a party smile,
saying num num num, whistles
on a blade of grass for music.
Some more tea? Isn't it delicious?
II
Her father's shaving. He makes a foamy beard,
draws the razor in a lawnmower swath
to smooth skin.
"Shave me too, please!"
He removes the razor's two-sided blade,
squirts her face with shaving cream,
shows her her beard in the mirror.
She stands very still
while he shaves off the foam.
She wants to have a moustache
when she grows up.
III
Jump, jump, two at a time.
The lower flight stairs are even-numbered.
The second flight, you skip a step,
then jump, jump, jump again.
The second flight has walls to close you in,
it's always dim. Run!
Reach the top before the tv warms up,
or else.
IV
In Mommy's book of paintings
a naked lady is tied to a tree,
and a knight in armour rides up to save her.
She picks up Gwendolyn, the biggest doll,
takes off her clothes and props her against a chair leg.
She knows it's nasty, but she doesn't know why.
V
A secret clubhouse in the attic cubbyhole,
with a toy piano, and lots of things.
Two children sit, murmuring stories.
The door shuts and click, it's locked.
They shout and shout, and start to cry,
knowing they'll die before anyone finds them.
Then Mommy opens the door
and admits them into light.
Twitter's charms have not been evident to me -- but today I read in Via Negativa '"I’m taking advantage of Twitter’s strict, 140-character limit, challenging myself once a day to answer the question, “What can I see or hear from my front porch while I drink my morning coffee?”' -- Morning Porch
That sounded interesting, then, on going there I found another twitterer whose writing I admire, sbpoet. There must be more.
So I went and got an account: nancygandhi (I could have done better than that?). I'm not sure about it: I mean, I'm treating this blog shabbily enough; will I be able to stick with regular 140 character utterances? I'll see. Maybe I can get rid of some of those unfinished poem-fragments I have lying around, at least.
That sounded interesting, then, on going there I found another twitterer whose writing I admire, sbpoet. There must be more.
So I went and got an account: nancygandhi (I could have done better than that?). I'm not sure about it: I mean, I'm treating this blog shabbily enough; will I be able to stick with regular 140 character utterances? I'll see. Maybe I can get rid of some of those unfinished poem-fragments I have lying around, at least.
New Year
The day after Divali is Gujarati (and some other people's -- but not Tamils') New Years Day, according to the Vikram calendar.
The weather is as good as it ever gets here: the temperature in the low 80s, with a steady breeze because it's the monsoon season. Our raggedy garden is looking its best. If you direct your eyes only at certain angles, it's still possible to ignore the new buildings coming up all around us, and to forget the nightly rumble and crash of trucks carrying supplies to, and dirt away from, the construction sites.
The weather is as good as it ever gets here: the temperature in the low 80s, with a steady breeze because it's the monsoon season. Our raggedy garden is looking its best. If you direct your eyes only at certain angles, it's still possible to ignore the new buildings coming up all around us, and to forget the nightly rumble and crash of trucks carrying supplies to, and dirt away from, the construction sites.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)