I don't like the term ABCD (American Born Confused Desi). I really don't. Most of my American Born Desi friends are a lot together at times than I am and it makes feel sheepish when they are called "confused". One of my closest friends is an American Born Desi (ABD) and has had Indian graduate students, fresh off the boat, greet her very politely and ask "Oh, are you an ABCD?".
"Well, I'm not that confused....most times," she replies through her teeth, trying to blow off the unintended insult with some humor while the student blushes at the faux-pas.
But the one area in which the "C" probably does apply, is to all things Desi. My ABD friend has some of the most interesting questions about things that are quite obvious to me. For the entertainment of desi readers I am about to list some of the most interesting, and may I say hilarious, questions that my friend, Mahasahasrapramardini Namboodiripad (**name changed upon request**) has managed to ask me thus far. Most of these questions were posed on a recent visit to India, MN's very first trip to Bombay. And we all know, Bombay's no place for a novice, now don't we?
So here goes:
1. While watching a boxer short clad Shakti Kapoor dancing in David Dhavan's Raja Babu, we had the following exchange:
MN: He looks SO much different than the rest of his brothers.
Me (quite impressed that she knew Shakti Kapoor had brothers): Umm, really?
MN: Of course! I mean Rishi Kapoor is quite good looking and he looks nothing like any of the other ones.
2. While watching a scene from a 70s movie where the heroine's blouse has been ripped and the villain switches off the light:
MN (suddenly yelling): What? What? WHAT?
Me (alarmed): What happened?
MN: I don't know what happened? He switched off the bloody lights!
3. Looking out of a building window at jam packed local trains:
MN: Are those people hanging outside because its too hot inside?
4. This particular incident amused my driver no end. We were stuck in a traffic jam and had a Shiv Sena van in front of us with Balasaheb Thackeray's life size picture on the back. In the picture, Shri Thackeray was wearing a flowing saffron kurta and tulsi beads around his neck as always. A phone number for the Shiv Sena office was printed underneath.
MN: Oh, lets try calling that number.
Me (baffled): Why would you want to do that?!
MN: I wanted to get my horoscope read on this India trip.
Me: Yeah, so?
MN: Well, isn't that a babaji? (pointing to the picture)
5. I received a letter from my friend Preetiman (a Bengali name, I believe).
MN: Does he put Man after his name because Preeti is a woman's name?
6. While handing over alms to a little beggar boy:
MN (to the little boy, much to his confusion): You won't give this to the underworld dons like in the film Traffic Signal, will you?
7. Our driver told her of all the impressive real estate values and how people spent obscene amounts of money in malls etc. After listening to him speak for at least fifteen minutes or so:
MN: What is lakhs? Is that like a piece of gold or something?
8. Having heard about Goregaon and the Aarey milk colony she reached Bombay with quite a list of things she wanted to see. My dad, ever the eager tourist guide, asked what all she wanted to see.
MN: Would it cost too much to see buffaloes being given a bath? I want to take pictures.
9. To the paani-puri wallah who handed her her first puri with the spiced water:
MN: Ek hi milta hai ke aur ek milega? (Do I get just one or can I get one more?)
Paani-puri wallah: Madam, aap bologe to pura theila de doon? (Madam, if you'd like I could give you the whole sack of puris.)
10. On her must-see list was the Gateway Of India and when we reached the place, she got out of the car and turned to me, her brows knitted:
Me (a bit irritated): What? You don't like the Gateway of India? They can't revamp it you know.
MN: Are you sure this is it?
Me: Umm, yeah (starting to get mad). Why?
MN: Where is that flame?
Me: What flame?
MN: The flame of the eternal warrior...Amar Jawan Jyoti?
10. After we got off a crowded train in Bombay:
MN (trying to sound casual): Is it normal for people to pinch your bottom here?
[I stopped dead in my tracks and threw her an exasperated look.]
MN: I mean, should one protest if somebody pinches your bottom...I wasn't sure what the system was.
11. Our driver was very happy to show a foreigner around town. He happily pointed out the majestic Haaji Ali in the middle of the ocean:
MN: Do they give prashaad there? I'm hungry.
12. On our return flight to the US, we had a man clad in a Madrasi lungi folded twice upto his upper thighs. MN stared at him long and hard and then turned to me.
MN: Can I have the camera?
13. There was a major water deficit in Bombay during the month of our visit and when MN turned the tap on and nothing happened, she bit her lip and started walking towards the second bathroom:
MN (gesturing us to follow): Come on, maybe there is water in the other tap.
14: To a harassed looking paav bhaaji stall owner at Juhu chowpatty
MN: Do you accept credit cards?
15. Having waited in the rain for a while, MN finally got into a taxi.
MN: Siddhivinayak Temple
Taxi driver: Nahi janeka hai (I don't wanna go there).
MN (not accustomed to having public transport providers refuse passengers): Lekin mujhe jaana hain! (But I wanna go there!).
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Ocean's Thirteen
I guess I like being in touch with my masculine side. Not only do I hate the mushy chick-flicks but j'adore the other four: drama, thrillers, comedy and even action. If there ever was a movie that could have encompassed all four in its theme, it was the Ocean's series.
Danny Ocean and his gang are back, reportedly for the last time in Ocean's Thirteen.
The impressive ensemble star cast, I will not list and if I reveal the plot, I will be doing you movie buffs, a great disservice. So this should be a pretty short review, right? Wrong!
Deceived by his associate Willy Bank, Reuben, of the Ocean's crew suffers a heart attack. Being swindled out of the partnership for a new Las Vegas Hotel & Casino renders him mum and bedridden. The Ocean's team gathers around like true friends do, to survey the losses ready as ever to get even. And they do it in such style.
As each member is assigned a casino game to rig or ruin, the plot gets busier. The many facets of the strategy only add to the electric drama and surprisingly, do not interfere with the pace of the film. While the first half of the movie builds the momentum, the latter half unleashes the plot bit by delicious bit.
The Clooney-Pitt rapport, blithe as always, adds to the humor and so does Matt Damon playing the eager thug-in-training. Andy Garcia with his smoking Cuban and an equally smoking smile, add the right touch of pazzaz to this film.
The cinematography is rich and fulgent like the Las Vegas casino where most of the film has been shot. The sets are beautiful, the men are gorgeous and there is no greater high than the one of sweet revenge as Willy Banker's dream casino is played ruthlessly to the ground by the Ocean's trifling thirteen.
Whoever said 13 was an unlucky number?!
Danny Ocean and his gang are back, reportedly for the last time in Ocean's Thirteen.
The impressive ensemble star cast, I will not list and if I reveal the plot, I will be doing you movie buffs, a great disservice. So this should be a pretty short review, right? Wrong!
Deceived by his associate Willy Bank, Reuben, of the Ocean's crew suffers a heart attack. Being swindled out of the partnership for a new Las Vegas Hotel & Casino renders him mum and bedridden. The Ocean's team gathers around like true friends do, to survey the losses ready as ever to get even. And they do it in such style.
As each member is assigned a casino game to rig or ruin, the plot gets busier. The many facets of the strategy only add to the electric drama and surprisingly, do not interfere with the pace of the film. While the first half of the movie builds the momentum, the latter half unleashes the plot bit by delicious bit.
The Clooney-Pitt rapport, blithe as always, adds to the humor and so does Matt Damon playing the eager thug-in-training. Andy Garcia with his smoking Cuban and an equally smoking smile, add the right touch of pazzaz to this film.
The cinematography is rich and fulgent like the Las Vegas casino where most of the film has been shot. The sets are beautiful, the men are gorgeous and there is no greater high than the one of sweet revenge as Willy Banker's dream casino is played ruthlessly to the ground by the Ocean's trifling thirteen.
Whoever said 13 was an unlucky number?!
Thursday, July 05, 2007
The Fiery Masala Of Female Sexuality: Mira Nair & Her Bold Female Protagonists
"Wish me a happy birthday" whispered the sultry Mina to her lover after a long night of leisurely love-making.
This is a scene from Mississippi Masala, the love story of an interracial couple starring Sarita Chaudhary-Denzel Washington. While the affair brings to boil the cultural stew, the delicate handling of the love scene heats up the raw chemistry between the two actors.
In a seemingly simplest of scenes the two lovers speak softly over the telephone. Mina's thigh lays exposed from under the sheets, her bronze skin catching just the right shades of yellow light, her shy smile lighting up the scene.
The strong sense of sexuality that the female protagonists of Mira Nair's films portray was unmistakable in Mississipi Masala as with her other movies.
Monsoon Wedding had two shades of female sexuality each of which spelled emancipation in contrasting manifestations. In this wedding-family drama, while the bride Aditi comes to terms with a pre-marital affair before moving on to a life of conjugal bliss, cousin Ria finally faces the ugly demons of early sexual abuse by an uncle.
In Salaam Bombay, the two lives of prostitutes in Bombay are explored. While Rekha is on the brink of escaping the depravity of the flesh trade, Sola Saal is sent out to entertain her first client thus beginning a journey down an abysmal path.
In The Perez Family, the wildly sensual Dorita Perez brings color, spice and zest to a great storyline. One doesn't know whether to credit Mira Nair's directorial abilities or the script for the juxtaposition of young versus mature sexuality in this film but the sheer contrast of these two facets made it a more appealing story.
Ashok and Ashima Ganguli the characters of Mira Nair's The Namesake, arrive in the United States as immigrants, their new betrothal a product of a traditionally arranged alliance. The handling of the scene of their first awkward night of coupling is near perfect. The audience can feel the inhibitions giving way and the intimacy building. Moushmi, Gogol's love interest explodes onto the screen, her pouted lips and insolent admissions of ex-lovers, exuding bold sexuality made more apparent by the clever camera angles than merely by her body language.
In a discussion about Ms.Nair's handling of female sexuality, one cannot leave out Kama Sutra, A Tale Of Love, the story of the sensual exploration of two women, a princess and her servant. It reminds us that sexuality, treated as a taboo in Indian society, was in ancient times an art worthy of exploration.
It is said that art imitates life and I have often wondered why female sexuality is so blatantly ignored in films. Popular Indian cinema exploits the lowest form of female sexuality by incorporating exposed bodies and cheap meaningless lust that serves only to plant misconceptions into the impressionable youth living in a society that regards sexuality like somewhat of a forbidden fruit. In a laughable display of ignorance, effigies are burnt and protests are voiced when a filmmaker chooses to deviate from what is considered proper and accepted.
Male filmmakers, no matter how liberal in their thinking, often lose out on the effervescence of the more sensationalist approach of a female firecracker by sticking to the trodden path. A female protagonist who is outspoken, confident of her abilities and displays self-assured body language would be deemed too threatening and is rarely seen.
A shy, blushing damsel is usually gets credited as the lead. As a result most films portray men as the ones making the first move and are assumed to be the sexually aggressive ones. The propriety of a love scene is determined by the intensity with which a man kisses a woman before the curtain falls. Mira Nair in her films brings a refreshing sense of power in her subtle yet bold undertones of female sensuality.
In Mississippi Masala, when Denzel Washington crooned "Happy Birthday", he could've put Marilyn Monroe's birthday song for Kennedy to shame.
This is a scene from Mississippi Masala, the love story of an interracial couple starring Sarita Chaudhary-Denzel Washington. While the affair brings to boil the cultural stew, the delicate handling of the love scene heats up the raw chemistry between the two actors.
In a seemingly simplest of scenes the two lovers speak softly over the telephone. Mina's thigh lays exposed from under the sheets, her bronze skin catching just the right shades of yellow light, her shy smile lighting up the scene.
The strong sense of sexuality that the female protagonists of Mira Nair's films portray was unmistakable in Mississipi Masala as with her other movies.
Monsoon Wedding had two shades of female sexuality each of which spelled emancipation in contrasting manifestations. In this wedding-family drama, while the bride Aditi comes to terms with a pre-marital affair before moving on to a life of conjugal bliss, cousin Ria finally faces the ugly demons of early sexual abuse by an uncle.
In Salaam Bombay, the two lives of prostitutes in Bombay are explored. While Rekha is on the brink of escaping the depravity of the flesh trade, Sola Saal is sent out to entertain her first client thus beginning a journey down an abysmal path.
In The Perez Family, the wildly sensual Dorita Perez brings color, spice and zest to a great storyline. One doesn't know whether to credit Mira Nair's directorial abilities or the script for the juxtaposition of young versus mature sexuality in this film but the sheer contrast of these two facets made it a more appealing story.
Ashok and Ashima Ganguli the characters of Mira Nair's The Namesake, arrive in the United States as immigrants, their new betrothal a product of a traditionally arranged alliance. The handling of the scene of their first awkward night of coupling is near perfect. The audience can feel the inhibitions giving way and the intimacy building. Moushmi, Gogol's love interest explodes onto the screen, her pouted lips and insolent admissions of ex-lovers, exuding bold sexuality made more apparent by the clever camera angles than merely by her body language.
In a discussion about Ms.Nair's handling of female sexuality, one cannot leave out Kama Sutra, A Tale Of Love, the story of the sensual exploration of two women, a princess and her servant. It reminds us that sexuality, treated as a taboo in Indian society, was in ancient times an art worthy of exploration.
It is said that art imitates life and I have often wondered why female sexuality is so blatantly ignored in films. Popular Indian cinema exploits the lowest form of female sexuality by incorporating exposed bodies and cheap meaningless lust that serves only to plant misconceptions into the impressionable youth living in a society that regards sexuality like somewhat of a forbidden fruit. In a laughable display of ignorance, effigies are burnt and protests are voiced when a filmmaker chooses to deviate from what is considered proper and accepted.
Male filmmakers, no matter how liberal in their thinking, often lose out on the effervescence of the more sensationalist approach of a female firecracker by sticking to the trodden path. A female protagonist who is outspoken, confident of her abilities and displays self-assured body language would be deemed too threatening and is rarely seen.
A shy, blushing damsel is usually gets credited as the lead. As a result most films portray men as the ones making the first move and are assumed to be the sexually aggressive ones. The propriety of a love scene is determined by the intensity with which a man kisses a woman before the curtain falls. Mira Nair in her films brings a refreshing sense of power in her subtle yet bold undertones of female sensuality.
In Mississippi Masala, when Denzel Washington crooned "Happy Birthday", he could've put Marilyn Monroe's birthday song for Kennedy to shame.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Shootout At Lokhandwala A Cop Out?
There was a time when Bombay's underworld had a presence that could put the Italian mafia to shame. Right from the slum thickets of Dharavi to the posh locales of Lokhandwala, the bhai-log reigned. They wielded pistols, AK-47s and at times even the hooked Ram Puri. A single call from Dubai executed threats, quick extortions and even death sentences. Money was delivered in "petis" and "khokas" and the "ghoda" arrived tucked under the belts of trigger-happy men who figured that a hafta would pay their bills better than the humble salary of a hawaldar.
From the paan-wallahs' tiny shanties to the builders' air-conditioned offices, all fractions of Bombay quaked at the mention of bhai's name. I remember a time when a few struggling young men would, one fine day, buy a flat in one of Bombay's elite complexes and within a matter of months move their families out of the shoddy chawls where they had spent their frustrated lives.
While everybody wondered about how they had made it big, their naive mothers spoke of how their sons' fortunes had changed overnight ever since they joined the "company". Restaurant owners, bhajiwallahs and even jewellers offered their goods for free when bhai's family went window shopping. It has been difficult since then to guage who really makes or marrs the law in Bombay.
Shootout At Lokhandwala brings us the story of Maya Dolas (played by Vivek Oberoi) and Dilip Kokak alias Bhuva (played by Tusshar Kapoor) who were killed in a Lokhandwala encounter in 1991. Controversy still shrouds this encounter and like most police encounters, its legitimacy and intent is questioned every now and then.
Inspired by true events but highly dramatized as is expected of the Bollywood factory, this film surprisingly evokes neither empathy nor awe. It brings us a farcical version of Bombay underworld dramas like Satya and Company. What was director Apporva Lakhia thinking, I wondered through several exaggerated scenes.
I rolled my eyes when Amitabh Bachchan banged his desk rudely bellowing "Shut Up!" for no apparent reason. Thankfully it shut-up Suniel Shetty whose sluggish dialogue delivery, I concluded in hindsight, might've been the reason for Mr.Bachchan's sudden outburst.
Sanjay Dutt's role was elevated to that of a police demigod. Dramatic background scores played as Sanju Baba walked in slow-mo towards the site of the shootout, nudging away a bullet-proof vest offered to him by officers. Stray, half-done snippets were scattered throughout the storyline as a poor substitute for windows into some of the characters. These attempts barely scratched the surface and left the plot seeming even more inadequate than it would've if these peeks had been left out altogether.
A single bosom heaving session in one odd drunken song could've been left out for a relevant scene but no! A Bollywood film without the right doses of naach-gaana is like bhai-giri without a pistol.
The story narrated from the one-dimensional perspective of the police officers being interviewed in an enquiry session brings no insight into the complex personas of the three most interesting characters that this film could've potentially explored further: Maya, Bhuva and Maya's mother Aai.
Vivek Oberoi sports not only the same unshaven look but even the exact disposition that brought him fame with Company. He is somewhat of a natural at being the bhai though. Tusshar Kapoor does very little justice to what is known through police files and crime records about Dilip Bhuva, one of the most ruthless and cold blooded henchmen of the D-Company in Bombay. His gruff appearance did very little to mask the high-pitched, boyish voice and one wonders if his acting efforts were hampered by the film partly being a mummy-didi home production. Also, I had trouble deciding which one of the two was wasted, Amrita Singh or the character of Aai which could've used a few more poignant shades.
Honestly, a few years ago I would've been thoroughly impressed by Shootout At Lokhandwala simply because it wasn't yet another love/ wedding story and because it atleast tried to capture a true story. In the intervening years, however, films like Black Friday, Satya and Company have raised my expectations of films based on Bombay's underworld. Scenes of a car being blown up, a hundred rounds of ammo being fired and a script garnished with foul language just doesn't evoke any acute emotion. Meaningless action falls off one's pysche by the sheer lack of a storyline.
Come to think of it, what could've been more powerful than the true story of ruthless gangsters all under the age of 30 who were so taken by the conscienceless life of the underworld that they did not see their own doom over the glitzy horizon? But overdramatization, the trademark of mainstream Hindi cinema, is a cruel cop out that takes away the raw and moving realism that is characteriztic of stories inspired by true events.
Sadly, dried blood being sweeped off the Lokhandwala complex and the bodies of dead gangsters piled up after an encounter does not tell the audience what to feel. The goosebumps stayed locked in the stories behind the dead faces; the stories that were left unexplored by this film.
From the paan-wallahs' tiny shanties to the builders' air-conditioned offices, all fractions of Bombay quaked at the mention of bhai's name. I remember a time when a few struggling young men would, one fine day, buy a flat in one of Bombay's elite complexes and within a matter of months move their families out of the shoddy chawls where they had spent their frustrated lives.
While everybody wondered about how they had made it big, their naive mothers spoke of how their sons' fortunes had changed overnight ever since they joined the "company". Restaurant owners, bhajiwallahs and even jewellers offered their goods for free when bhai's family went window shopping. It has been difficult since then to guage who really makes or marrs the law in Bombay.
Shootout At Lokhandwala brings us the story of Maya Dolas (played by Vivek Oberoi) and Dilip Kokak alias Bhuva (played by Tusshar Kapoor) who were killed in a Lokhandwala encounter in 1991. Controversy still shrouds this encounter and like most police encounters, its legitimacy and intent is questioned every now and then.
Inspired by true events but highly dramatized as is expected of the Bollywood factory, this film surprisingly evokes neither empathy nor awe. It brings us a farcical version of Bombay underworld dramas like Satya and Company. What was director Apporva Lakhia thinking, I wondered through several exaggerated scenes.
I rolled my eyes when Amitabh Bachchan banged his desk rudely bellowing "Shut Up!" for no apparent reason. Thankfully it shut-up Suniel Shetty whose sluggish dialogue delivery, I concluded in hindsight, might've been the reason for Mr.Bachchan's sudden outburst.
Sanjay Dutt's role was elevated to that of a police demigod. Dramatic background scores played as Sanju Baba walked in slow-mo towards the site of the shootout, nudging away a bullet-proof vest offered to him by officers. Stray, half-done snippets were scattered throughout the storyline as a poor substitute for windows into some of the characters. These attempts barely scratched the surface and left the plot seeming even more inadequate than it would've if these peeks had been left out altogether.
A single bosom heaving session in one odd drunken song could've been left out for a relevant scene but no! A Bollywood film without the right doses of naach-gaana is like bhai-giri without a pistol.
The story narrated from the one-dimensional perspective of the police officers being interviewed in an enquiry session brings no insight into the complex personas of the three most interesting characters that this film could've potentially explored further: Maya, Bhuva and Maya's mother Aai.
Vivek Oberoi sports not only the same unshaven look but even the exact disposition that brought him fame with Company. He is somewhat of a natural at being the bhai though. Tusshar Kapoor does very little justice to what is known through police files and crime records about Dilip Bhuva, one of the most ruthless and cold blooded henchmen of the D-Company in Bombay. His gruff appearance did very little to mask the high-pitched, boyish voice and one wonders if his acting efforts were hampered by the film partly being a mummy-didi home production. Also, I had trouble deciding which one of the two was wasted, Amrita Singh or the character of Aai which could've used a few more poignant shades.
Honestly, a few years ago I would've been thoroughly impressed by Shootout At Lokhandwala simply because it wasn't yet another love/ wedding story and because it atleast tried to capture a true story. In the intervening years, however, films like Black Friday, Satya and Company have raised my expectations of films based on Bombay's underworld. Scenes of a car being blown up, a hundred rounds of ammo being fired and a script garnished with foul language just doesn't evoke any acute emotion. Meaningless action falls off one's pysche by the sheer lack of a storyline.
Come to think of it, what could've been more powerful than the true story of ruthless gangsters all under the age of 30 who were so taken by the conscienceless life of the underworld that they did not see their own doom over the glitzy horizon? But overdramatization, the trademark of mainstream Hindi cinema, is a cruel cop out that takes away the raw and moving realism that is characteriztic of stories inspired by true events.
Sadly, dried blood being sweeped off the Lokhandwala complex and the bodies of dead gangsters piled up after an encounter does not tell the audience what to feel. The goosebumps stayed locked in the stories behind the dead faces; the stories that were left unexplored by this film.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Horn Ok Please!
The rains began coming down in torrents. I rolled down my window and took in the fresh smell of wet soil and a few pleasant drops. The breeze rushed in, bringing the tangy aroma of chaat from nearby stalls and stopped abruptly as the traffic brought us to a standstill. A long queue of cars, buses, trucks, rickshaws waited in the rain, scooters and motorcycles occasionally weaving in and out of the dense mesh. Everybody honked once in a while as if to make their presence felt. The shrill notes of a rickshaw mingled with the low boom of a honking truck.
Our car too let out a delicate squeal and contributed towards the growing traffic symphony.
"Why did you honk?" I asked our driver and his usually neutral, shy face gave way to a sheepish smile. He shrugged and I felt bad about having put him on the spot.
"I just asked out of curiosity" I persisted. A few, long seconds of silence passed and then just as I was about to make yet another attempt at breaking the silence, he cleared his throat.
"Madam, what to do?" he began in a thick Bihari accent, "The rickshaw-wallahs need passengers and so they dilly-dally looking around for their girahik. If I don't honk they don't move."
"Yes, but this is a whole line of stalled vehicles" I asked almost wanting to kick myself in the ass for sounding so argumentative. I couldn't believe I was making my driver feel bad when cars all around us were sounding random beeps. He sank into the silent mode again. A hush fell around us as people settled down into the jam and stopped voicing their impatience with honks.
People were done honking and were now waiting silently hoping for a traffic policeman to come save them from this mess. A few cars down, a truck driver and a bus conductor were arguing relentlessly over who should budge.
To my great astonishment after a couple of minutes, my driver began to giggle.
"You want to see something funny, madam?" he asked, his eyes twinkling.
"Sure" I said. Entertainment in a traffic jam was more than welcome.
Suddenly and without warning our driver hit the center of the steering wheel and the car let out a sharp, long peal. Immediately, the cars in front of us honked and soon everybody in the line was honking.
"Chain reaction" my driver softly muttered in satisfaction, pointing over to a tea shanty. I looked around trying to figure out what it was the he was showing me. And then I saw him. Under an umbrella tied to a chair was a traffic policeman snoozing with his cap over his face. He stirred a few times and the sudden and insistent honking finally roused him from his deep reverie. He wiggled out of the chair, his face a picture of chagrin. He pulled up his trousers over an inflated belly and surveyed the scene while getting into a yellow raincoat. His red lips were rotating furiously over a mouthful of tobacco like alike a clockwork being unwound. He slowly and very self-importantly sauntered over to the front of the waiting traffic and waved his hands about, till the truck and the bus that had been clogging this intense bottle-neck finally moved. The vehicles began to inch forward and in a matter of minutes, the jam disloged. We were on our way, the breeze toying with my hair again and stray raindrops tickling my nose.
I looked over in awe at our driver who was beaming. He honked playfully and looked over at me.
"In Bombay, this is not a horn, Madam. It is an alarm clock for Mamu-log", he said, his shoulders bobbing in mirth.
Note: For those unfamiliar with Bombay lingo: Girahik: Passenger/ Customer, Mamu-log: Traffic policemen, hawaldars, police or anyone really! Also, the title "Horn Ok Please" is a message commonly found as bumper stickers on trucks that have an atrociously wide blind-spot.
Our car too let out a delicate squeal and contributed towards the growing traffic symphony.
"Why did you honk?" I asked our driver and his usually neutral, shy face gave way to a sheepish smile. He shrugged and I felt bad about having put him on the spot.
"I just asked out of curiosity" I persisted. A few, long seconds of silence passed and then just as I was about to make yet another attempt at breaking the silence, he cleared his throat.
"Madam, what to do?" he began in a thick Bihari accent, "The rickshaw-wallahs need passengers and so they dilly-dally looking around for their girahik. If I don't honk they don't move."
"Yes, but this is a whole line of stalled vehicles" I asked almost wanting to kick myself in the ass for sounding so argumentative. I couldn't believe I was making my driver feel bad when cars all around us were sounding random beeps. He sank into the silent mode again. A hush fell around us as people settled down into the jam and stopped voicing their impatience with honks.
People were done honking and were now waiting silently hoping for a traffic policeman to come save them from this mess. A few cars down, a truck driver and a bus conductor were arguing relentlessly over who should budge.
To my great astonishment after a couple of minutes, my driver began to giggle.
"You want to see something funny, madam?" he asked, his eyes twinkling.
"Sure" I said. Entertainment in a traffic jam was more than welcome.
Suddenly and without warning our driver hit the center of the steering wheel and the car let out a sharp, long peal. Immediately, the cars in front of us honked and soon everybody in the line was honking.
"Chain reaction" my driver softly muttered in satisfaction, pointing over to a tea shanty. I looked around trying to figure out what it was the he was showing me. And then I saw him. Under an umbrella tied to a chair was a traffic policeman snoozing with his cap over his face. He stirred a few times and the sudden and insistent honking finally roused him from his deep reverie. He wiggled out of the chair, his face a picture of chagrin. He pulled up his trousers over an inflated belly and surveyed the scene while getting into a yellow raincoat. His red lips were rotating furiously over a mouthful of tobacco like alike a clockwork being unwound. He slowly and very self-importantly sauntered over to the front of the waiting traffic and waved his hands about, till the truck and the bus that had been clogging this intense bottle-neck finally moved. The vehicles began to inch forward and in a matter of minutes, the jam disloged. We were on our way, the breeze toying with my hair again and stray raindrops tickling my nose.
I looked over in awe at our driver who was beaming. He honked playfully and looked over at me.
"In Bombay, this is not a horn, Madam. It is an alarm clock for Mamu-log", he said, his shoulders bobbing in mirth.
Note: For those unfamiliar with Bombay lingo: Girahik: Passenger/ Customer, Mamu-log: Traffic policemen, hawaldars, police or anyone really! Also, the title "Horn Ok Please" is a message commonly found as bumper stickers on trucks that have an atrociously wide blind-spot.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)