My First Friends

My earliest literary memories are of stories in Misha and Sputnik.

Long before I could read properly, these were my eyes to the distant world. I would gaze longingly at the images and the printed word, wondering at the mysteries locked in their fist. And every letter and word identified was a triumph.

Of course, these magazines also proved how well literary propaganda works - because as a 9-year-old when I first began reading comics, mostly about World War II, I would cheer every time a Yank got hit and I would be disappointed and confused because I loved the Japs and Jerrys, while also disliking them for initiating the war. I could only stand the Yanks in these comics because of the logical and resigned (and ‘rummy’) Brit. These American comics, while making a case for American values of freedom and bravery, also made a case for German and Japanese technical ingenuity as well as British patience and resilience - all traits that I admire among these nationalities even today.

(yeah, no Russians versus Americans in most of those comics - yet as I felt culturally closer to the Russians, I was distant with the Yanks irrespective of who they were up against – isn’t that some propaganda? But 15 years later as the Red bastion crumbled – the second-hand books no longer came from the Soviet Union but from the US and I watched my little neighbour spend two summer vacations mooning over my Marvel copy of how America finally conquered the moon.)

But Sputnik went where even Kennedy's dreamy eyes couldn't with me. The wonders of science and the possibilities of crossing space frontiers and the literal stars in my eyes as twilight closed in was all because of this little piece of sky in binding.

But if I am no closer today to anything that is remotely related to science - blame the politically incorrect Enid Blytons I gorged on in parallel. The fantastical stories were just one aspect of my envy - most of it was reserved for the writer's prolific genius. I once promised I would read every Blyton in my school library.

(Knowing something is great but the path to knowing is what flavours our ultimate knowledge and harvests the greatest thrill.)

In my school, we could borrow a book every alternate week. Most times, I would bribe the librarian to let me borrow 2 books. I would argue that I was a prolific reader, I brought back books all taped and repaired and that I would never tell anyone. I will never know which point swayed her for she would sit, head bent and scribbling in her books and as I stiffly stood wondering if she wasn't going to be moved this time, she would just extend her hand, note down whatever librarians note down and hand them over to me with a stern 'be careful with them.'

My modus operandi was simple: finish mine as soon as possible and then spend the next 7-10 days borrowing my friends' library offerings of the week. For some, the bribe was the awesome breakfasts mom packed for me, for others, it was help with notes while for some others, it was the chance to simply exchange books. I didn't grudge the first for loving my mom's cooking - clearly she is the awesomest and I couldn't grudge the second, because they inflated my ego. But I loved the last best of all.

Even with all these shenanigans, by the end of the year I realised the effort was futile. Also, childish considering all the Nancy Drews, Oliver Twist (adapted), Hardy Boys, Tinkles, Chandamamas, Tenali Ramans, Malory Towers, Tom Brown, Huckleberry Finn, Robert L Stevensons, Super Commando Dhruvs (ah yes, that lost genre of Hindi comics!), Jane Austens, Louisa Alcotts, Alexander Dumas’ and the list only increased every day.

Every story luring me further and further into the quicksand of lively imagination. And when there seemed no likely rescue for a pre-teen lolling in the easy world of indulgence and drama and quiet romance, along came Charles Dickens to shock and repel and disgust and fascinate and mesmerise with the romanticism of reality. Dickens, and what a stay he made in my head!
(More on Dickens, Premchand and their writings soon.)

phah!

I think I am slowly being converted.

From a confirmed shopaphobic to one who looks forward to shopping trips.

whackery pockery

Hmmm...What a weird dream I had this morning. Ever since waking, I have wondered what connects Naseeruddin Shah and Pakistan and my mom (!) drinking martini.

I dreamt of Naseeruddin Shah and another man (I knew him in the dream, cannot remember now) ride into the Pakistan High Commissioner's house located in a random mountain outpost (I have no idea why the HC would live there) and proceeds to talk to him in chaste Urdu.

I have forgotten most of it now but the meeting went something like this: Naseer and friend are treated to a lunch of biryani, curd and salad. Naseer takes a lemon from the salad plate and asks the HC if the biryani will still taste the same if he squeezes a drop in. HC laughs and says of course a drop will not leave its bitter mark. So Naseer squeezes the lemon thoroughly and says 'How about now?' Naseer and HC banter some more and the HC is left with a glass of lemon juice. Then Naseer says something like 'You should be able to drink that then.'

Then, it descends into the realm of complete whackery. As Naseer and friend drive away, I look up and see my mom and aunt (in their sarees) standing at the balcony of the next building watching them. Then, they are laughing and toasting each other as they down their martinis.

As I said, I have no idea what was going on.

Note: Apparently, in dream state I can speak Urdu - Though I am sure Naseer knows the language.

- And my mom drinking martini (snorfle!)

Ssh...Bitter Confessions

How do people live in a place for years? How did people work in one place for years?
For me, this is an enduring question.

I like meeting new people and making friends. The whole process of making friends is a fine chemistry experiment - how much of this to add - how much of that to subtract for now - how much of compliments, confessions and treating, knowing the right time and amount of blunt truth to be dished out - how much of coffees, movies, and lending of books - how much of sarcasm to be dished on a Tuesday and how much of wit and humour to be showcased on flagging Thursday spirits.

So is it any wonder that once a friendship connection is managed, I am usually flummoxed on how to proceed? You told me I must make a friend in a new place - Done. But Step 2 is what? Maintaining that friendship? Ah so easy...Step 1 rinse and repeat! But wait. What is this new substance that my 'friend' waves hello to, goes on lunches with, makes calls to while I am 'waiting' and generally, doing exactly all that I am doing with my friend?

I will play the hop, skip, slide to the side but are you now asking me to hop, skip, slide to both my sides with the guarantee that I will fall on my arse every once in a while? At the best, that is. At the worst? Hah, I will fall and will probably cause no single goosebump to rise and disturb the larger scheme of things.

So now, I am at a situation of 'Ahem...ahem...what? oh no, I didn't say anything, just a scratch in my throat, oh no I do not mind at all, please carry on' with a parallel commentary in my head going 'Oh are they planning to watch Star Trek this Saturday night? And I am not even being asked about this? be still, make no movement, oh heck, here goes, shucks should have invited over myself, pharaoh! after spending a whole month talking about nothing but Enterprise? Hrmph! I will catch the Saturday morning show!' and poking out an imaginary tongue.

See, if it was you - you will probably have been laughing and having a real conversation rather than an imaginary one and you would have had a fun evening and offered a boost to your friendship with not one but two people. Maybe not enough that they would forget home and ambitions to war with the world for and with you. But then, that happens only once in 500 years, right? So why lose appetite worrying about that?

But with me, the chemistry of friendships is nuclear science. I may know the base elements but I have no idea what to do with them. Most of the times, I do not care. This is sad because I do have an idea of what could be done in a certain situation, but the effort stymies me. I would much rather subject myself to soliloquies, day dreams, lone jaunts to movies, chocolate binges, exotic food haunts (my translation for fried spicy food) and eventual boredom. In a weird way, I like this. I look forward to days when I can do just this. I will sit closeted in my room, with a juicy chicken leg, a plate of biryani on the table, a cup of chocolate cake in the wings, a sexy story to read and a comedy on the telly on standby and during this all, keep moaning about my lack of friends while answering a telephone call from a friend and saying I am too busy and hence, cannot come over for a Barista coffee trip.

And when this gets too tiring and predictable, the city gets too stuffy to negotiate and I am off to a distant land with no friends and acquaintances to slog and grind at new works and tackle strangers through the day.

Oh Woe! Such is the fun of life.

Where are the cookies?

What is depression? I do not know. The first sentence about 'depression' from psychologists and scholars will probably last 2 minutes. I think 'depression' gets its name from the way a person feels the chest cavity bottoming out - it sometimes feels like free fall.

Or we can use a cookie analogy here: Do you know the dismay you feel when you dip your hand into a box of cookies for a midnight snack and your hand keeps dipping lower and lower into the box and meeting no cookies on the way?