Madras Music Season

I was forced into learning Carnatic music as a child. I think it will be quite safe to assume that most kids are forced into doing various things when they are young in the name of 'Culture'. For me and my sister, it was two sessions of music per week. I was the sincere one. I would practise between classes and try to perfect the high notes. My sister (whose real interest lay in dance) just could not be bothered. She would liberally use the generic terms 'not well' to define her continuous state of disinterest. We had some interesting tutors: some who did not last beyond few sessions, few who always wanted more fees and ONE who stole Reynolds ball point pens from our house (I was an eye witness). However, it all ended rather abruptly when I was 11 and the family couldn't find a suitable substitute to the pen stealer...

My interest in Carnatic music caught on when I spent 5 years of my life in Australia. I had few cds as part of my 'home sick' box and would play them over and over again while studying. I fell in love with Ganesh-Kumaresh, Bombay Jayasri, T.V.Sanakaranarayan and Sanjay Subramanium. Shashank's flute sessions were ideal for mathematics sessions. Everytime I came home for holidays, I would try to get to at least one session of my favourites and soon I had seen Sanjay (if I may call him that) LIVE! I didn't know anything about the music- I just found their voices/instruments soothing.

I am now in Madras after many years for the Music Season. It's an incredible treat! I get to listen to live music just around the corner. Once again, I don't know anything about the music. But I am loving being her and being part of the festival. Today I saw T.M.Krishna live in Ananta PadmanabahaSwamy Kovil Auditorium. It was fantastic! He was fantastic and so were his accompaniments. The only drawback was the insane crowd and the lack of proper seating for most of the two hours. The crowd was a mix of the young and the old (mostly) and NRIs and music teachers. I couldn't help but notice a certain level of pretension among the crowd. I don't mean to be offensive but I found it very amusing. I have noticed in the past week of concerts that there are the 'genuine' listeners and the 'pretentious' listeners. The latter category is the one which starts bobbing their heads and mimicking the thallam even before they are seated in their chairs. They usually fall into my generation of listeners- the ones who probably see Carnatic concerts as 'their dose of elitist culture'. I acknowledge that I may be completely wrong in my assessment but I realize that I better start 'genuinely' learning about this music I am so fond of. Otherwise I may indulge in the overuse of adi thallam- the only one known to me.

My Swades: We, The People Moment

Last night I was continuing my love affair with 29C. The bus was the right quantity of full (or should I say empty)? I was observing the masses around me and going over the rules of the unwritten 'Bus Code' i.e. in the event a particular seat falls vacant the person standing exactly adjacent to that seat has complete claim over it. Of course you can choose to give up that claim to someone more deserving but hey, who thinks like that nowadays?

I had received the right signals from the 'outgoing' passenger and just when I was gearing up to be seated I observed an older woman (lets call her X) to my right. I knew I had to give up my claim. It's that ingrained goodness from the family I have been brought up in. Sigh! So instead I was patting myself on the back and feeling proud of my selflessness when I was pushed onto Woman X by Woman Y ( from left). She pushed, she shoved and she was seated.

Empty seat again but further back. I rushed over and sat down for exactly two minutes only to give it up to another old woman Z. They were out to get me! She offered to hold my bag while I stood their pretending to read my book. Half way home, I finally sat guilt-free. A woman got onto the bus and gave me her child to hold. Woah! How am I supposed to explain to mommy that I am not very child- friendly? They scare me! I had no choice, so I sat there with a bag on one knee and the kid on the other. The little one had special fountain ponytails for the outing and these were permanently in my nostrils. Then it happened that out of body experience that makes you see the humour in it all. But instead I was Shahrukh Khan having one of those ridiculous We, The People Moments.

All India Dog Services

A total of 26 canines from different Dog Squads of Railway Protection are vying for a place in the 5-member squad to represent the Railway Protection Force in the coming weeks. The selection event began with an obedience test followed by explosives and scent detection tests, hurdles and obstacles clearance and searching for clues among a group of people among others- The Hindu.


In a world where competition is a word an infant learns, it's quite amusing that even cute-looking labradors are part of the insane rat race to get a job! I wonder how many hours of sniffing Lassie put in to get the gold medal?

29C

324 sq.kms is India's population density. I wonder how much it would be inside an MTC bus at 8 a.m? The window seat in front of the condutor's has been my favourite haunt for years. Maybe because it is the highest seat in the entire bus or the ease of getting a Rs.4 ticket. Whatever the reason, everyday I am lured to that particular seat and everyday I am partially deaf from his screeching whistle.

So it happens, the daily routine of standing near three 29Cs neatly lined up in Besant Nagar's Bus Terminus. Few school children, many office goers and unemployed me. We look around nervously at any sign of movement. Our eyes shift from the tea stall where the staff are taking a break to the buses themselves. A false alarm! One of the drivers is always changing a sign board: Normal to Express (Rs.6). Momentary panic among the crowd, few venture towards him to ask if the bus plans to leave anytime soon, his nonchalance says it all. So we are all back at our assigned spots. Waiting and watching....

My day is directly influenced by whether or not I get my favourite seat. The days when I spend an extra two minutes eating my toast cost me dearly. I am either left standing or I get the dreaded aisle seat. The latter is worse. In a country with more than a billion people, I can only imagine how precious space is, so if at all you find yourself bending your neck to fetch something from your bag, forget about a straight neck. For the rest of the journey, you are caught in an uncomfortable forward pose with someone's elbow, forearm, hand or bag where your neck is supposed to be.

What fascinates me most are the members of the 'Anti-B*& Strap Prudish Society' (to be PC). This seems to be every other woman traveller on the bus who has taken it upon herself to save her fellow sister from an unruly b*& strap that might just be peeping out of your kurta, t-shirt or blouse. The routine goes something like this: your attention is caught by someone touching your arm, they then take their index finger and tap their right/left shoulder depending on which side the danger is. The appropriate behaviour from your part will be a look of complete horror as you shy away and pull your apparel closer to your body. Or if you are like me- you laugh out loud!

I have tried on occasions to read the newspaper, to hold as many bags as humanely possible (of other people's) and to avoid getting completely deaf. I have also tried to keep my calm when people use me as a table or while dealing with eve teasers. But at the end of the day, I love the empty bus which drops me off outside Besant Nagar's community centre. Worth the Rs.8 roundtrip :)

Welcome Home!

I had an epiphany yesterday. A complete stranger caught up with me to ask if I had just moved to Chennai and when I clarified my residential status, he beamed and said " Welcome home then!"

I hadn't realized this on my own and needed reminding from a stranger. I am BACK home-Madras (Chennai) and it is only just hitting me. After six years of being away and living out of suitcases, and living in interesting share houses, I have finally come back to my home, my family and my friends.

Feels like I have come full circle....

'It was a city of ponds and lakes?'

Mr.Vaidheeswaran's interview on Old Madras in Metro Plus was a real treat to us youngsters. Having been brought up in a very different Madras to the one he describes, I am intrigued to know how the city looked back in the day. I have been a resident of Besant Nagar ever since I came into existence and my life revolves around certain parts of the Elliots Beach, Adyar (on account of my educational institution) and maybe Nungambakkam (once in a while).

My paternal great-grandfather was apparently an influential man and owned a lot of property on C.P.Ramaswamy road- the Rasi building and surroundings to be precise. Born several decades later, I missed out on these old properties and have become accustomed to my maternal side's reliable housing board flats. So Besant Nagar to me became something like Swami's Malgudi.

The first time I heard about Fort St.George (which should have rightfully been in History class) was from a German friend. Embarrassed that a foreigner had to tell me about my own hometown, I ventured to North Madras in 2004 to volunteer in a shelter home for street kids in Tondiarpet. 6D was my vehicle as it wound down Beach road, Madras Port, Fort St.George....till it dropped me off at my desired stop. In fact, I was so excited to have made it through to 6D's last stop at Toll Gate once. I was, however, expecting to see a massive Gate leftover from colonial times but had to be satisfied with the bus stop's signboard.

For my generation, the suburbs of Madras have forever been associated with popular hangout spots. Mylapore-Saravana Bhavan, Nungambakkam-Ispahani Centre, Mount Road-Spencer Plaza and Marina Beach with Citi Centre. While my Patti would describe the Grand Old Music Sabhas in the backstreets of Mylapore, my only reference point is Idlys in Saravana or the Korathi beads I can pick up off the street vendors.

Now that the weather is getting a little bit bearable-I am wondering if I should sign up to volunteer in Anna Nagar so I get to see a little bit more of Pazhaya Madras.

The Curious Case of Monkey-Boy

Indian festivals apart from being noisy and colourful succeed in stripping you off any extra cash you had stashed away under your pillow. The frequent visitors (not including family) make sure that you pay for everything from a clean road to an ironed shirt. I am referring to people who do their collection rounds on a Diwali weekend- from the sweeper lady, to the milk man to the watch man three streets away from your apartment. One such visitor was a young lad in his early twenties dressed as the Mighty Lord Hanuman himself.

It is not uncommon to see people dressed as Gods, singing hymns and asking for money. But it is uncommon to see an old lady telling off a God because he was getting the words of his hymn absolutely wrong. This old lady was my dear old Grandmother. While my Grandfather will have NONE of it when it comes to giving people money for their tuneless songs, my grandmother loves to collect Rs.2 coins just for such occasions. What happened that morning was quite amusing for everyone around except maybe for the Lord himself.

"Gurur Brahma, Gurur Vishnu.............."

A deep voice sung the Gurur Brahma hymn a couple of blocks away. As the voice grew louder and approached our ground-floor apartment, my grandmother's ears perked up as she collected her coin and made for the door. She called out to the the monkey-boy dressed in his finery (from my perch at the window, his costume looked quite impressive). She then asked him to repeat his slokas slowly several times (as if he was on detention) and then proceeded to let him know he had got most of it wrong. The poor lad's painted face turned a deeper shade of pink as he stammered something and ran for his life with his tail between his legs...

Having successfully hurt the Lord's feelings I wondered if he had climbed a tree to sulk for the rest of the afternoon?

Happy Deepavali!

Development Talk-A Luxury Good

In economics, a luxury good is one for which demand increases more than proportionally as income rises i.e. these are goods that are perceived as luxurious by the public simply because they play the role of a status symbol. This definition may include only materialistic (manufactured) goods.

I think it should include our everyday development talks that we find on our news channels, radio shows and even in the privacy of our own living room. The 'our' here relates to an average middle to higher income Indian household who happen to have such conversations. Having grown up in what my grandfather likes to call a liberal family- I have been exposed to several such conversations and have initiated a few myself. In the era of technological advancement, these discussions are not confined to face-to-face interactions but have crossed over to cyber space. Through Twitter, Facebook and Blogs we let the world know how we really feel about the 'plight of the poor'

Is it all just talk (or Tweets)?

It seems so, while we all sit around discussing their plight (because our education allows it) the poor are out there living it. I do not understand this need to typecast deprived citizens of our country as a collective mass called 'poor' -who need rescuing. I am trying to figure out the motives behind people engaged in development work- an experiment to aid an academic paper? A feeling of satisfaction? Or because they genuinely care?

While I ponder over my own decisions to enter the development sector- I would like to say this blog and these words are indeed a luxury good, the demand for which increases as education increases.

Principles of Behaviour Change 101

Less than a year to go till the Commonwealth Games kick off in Delhi and the Home Minister is requesting Delhites to start behaving themselves. However, what constitutes good behaviour is not clearly defined. He made references to using overpasses while crossing roads, not spitting on streets (is that even possible?) and observing traffic rules. I am amused that he had to remind Dilliwallahs that they live in a metropolitan city and not in a village. For all you know, village folk may be a whole lot cleaner than us city folk. In Delhi, like most other big cities, people care about themselves, their families, their homes and their cars. So waste management simply translates to cleaning up one's home and dumping the rubbish across the fence. If a neighbour ever catches you in the act, some juicy words are always on hand. Here I am referring to the educated-richer-Delhi resident who usually has an average of three cars lined up against his front gate and does not pass any opportunity to pick a fight with a fellow resident. These are the same ones who have access to The Hindustan Times and NDTV and may be aware of what the HM had to say.

A colleague at work suggested that it was not enough to talk about behaviour change but it needed to be supplemented with awareness programmes. He asked how a poor rickshawallah in Old Delhi would know how to behave 'well'. I agree with him and I do believe these 'changes' need to be made but they could be made despite the big Games coming to town. For a city whose streets are polka-dotted with spit balls, it might not be such a bad deal to teach people to be discrete with their bodily fluids. Maybe even from a public health perspective. Games or no-Games lets try and make our capital city a little cleaner.

Samosas and Jalebis

In times of economic crises and dwindling bank balances I wonder how the samosa industry in India is doing? Judging by the consumption rate in my office- I should think the Unclejis might just be making a little dough (both for the samosas and themselves). The 30 something people who work in my office never cease to have a voracious appetite and it has caught on with me too. Luckily, in times of monetary crises, I do not always have to spend money for these delicious alooness. But what goes around comes around...

It happens like this: My office seems to share a certain invisible committee for convincing people to 'treat' others. This concept, I am sure, only exists in India. We find a reason to pin on someone so he/she can open up his wallet and fund the samosas/jalebis/gulab jamun or whatever else the rest of the office requests. The reasons start from someone's wife's father's dog's birthday to someone having purchased a shiny looking helmet to someone's neighbour having bought a new car. Really, there is no logic to this invisible committee picking on any particular 'victim'...

So it happens, everyday at 4 p.m, our dedicated office boy walks over to Aggarwal/Bikaner/Unclejis' sweets and puts in an order for 'Thees Samosas aur thees 'sweets' and comes back with a bag full of oily-goodness. We do have some health conscious homosapiens who tried to bring in a huge change to this tradition by ordering in momos. But lets just say it didn't go down very well (in every sense of the term)....

And today's batch has just arrived....

A whole lot to LAUGH about...

I live in Chitaranjan Park in New Delhi. A predominantly Bengali suburb where the average age is well past 60 years. Considering I behave like a 60 year old-I seem to fit in just fine. My house overlooks a beautiful park with lush grass, a product of the recent rains. If the residents ever have to rate the best hangout spots in C.R.Park, I would imagine this park coming second only to the Kali Mandir down the road.

This park is much loved by the older Bengali men and women, 5-12 year old boys who are practising to get into the Indian Cricket Team and teenage lovers hiding away from their parentals. All in all, it's a collection of the young and the old, songs and conversations, cricket and badminton and dogs and cats. While older women sit in circles and sing Bhajans, their older husbands discuss Lalu Prasad Yadav. While a 10 year old yells at his sibling for losing his tennis ball, a 17 year old professes his love (in whispers of course) to his girlfriend.

However, what I like most is watching the patrons of the park every morning. My unintentional alarm clocks, these men are an active bunch who like to get their dose of aerobics every morning. The first day I was rather frightened by the strange noises that erupted at 6.30 a.m. I shot out of bed wondering how fifteen odd men had found their way into my room. Upon closer scrutiny, I discovered a burly looking gentleman with an army moustache leading a group of men in stretching exercises in the park. Raucous laughter soon followed! C.R.Park's very own LAUGHING club! With arms and legs waving in the air all I could make out was a bout of unusually loud-artificial laughter. Apparently, it's good for you...

Moto Riders

I have motion sickness. To clarify, I believe that is when one's insides erupt into a queasy churning mess when placed in a moving vehicle. I shared this information with H when we were discussing our travel plans in Melbourne. We agreed we'll carry some 'anti-motion sickness' pills i.e. sleeping pills on our trip. So I helped myself to one on the bus to Cat Tien National Park (destination # 2). This will remain my excuse for what followed.

The bus dropped us off at Highway No. 21, halfway between HCMC and Dalat (destination # 3). I was visibly disillusioned as the pill had just taken effect and I was seeing double. Double vision plus heavy backpack was not the combination I was going for. At this inopportune moment, a swarm of moto riders rode up to us and started haggling the price to the entrance of the national park. My orientation was messed up, my camera kept slipping off my shoulder and H wanted me to walk north (I think?). The pudgy dude kept yelling 500,000 dong in my ear and I thought about taking a shot at him but knew my vision would fail me. As if I did not hear him the first hundred times, he brought out a sheet of paper in which he scrolled 500,000 dong and stuck it under my nose. The poor piece of paper was soon converted into a battleground of numbers. I started with 30,000 dong ( less than USD 3) and was quite impressed with my decipherable handwriting. The pudgy dude and his cronies apparently found this funny and the 'crowd' which had now surrounded us, roared with laughter. I made a mental note to not combine migration with a backpacking trip next time.

Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

The little 'Name Plate' production line behind the airport bench gave away the first few letters....I saw the 'S', the 'O' and the 'W' and I was sold!...

Ten seconds into landing in Ho Chi Minh City and I was hoping Madame Cuc (my backpacker lady) had not forgotten to send us (H and I) a taxi. The Indian-Australian accented 'Hello' in Vietnamese got a couple of giggles from the immigration dudes. Were they being supportive or flirtatious? We proceeded to the exit and H's eyes lit up like she had never seen anything like this before. As for me, like most other proud Indians, I mentally compared the airport lounge to an average one in my country and nodded my condescending nod. That nod cost me a sprained neck as I was bobbing my head at every street corner noticing the similarities with India. Was I really in Vietnam? Right-side traffic. Yes, I think so.

The taxi HAD come to fetch us but the driver was having difficulties spelling my name. There he was sprawled behind the airport bench with a paper in one hand and a marker in another. We waved at him, tried the accented 'Hello' again and more laughs! This time flirtatious!

Madame Cuc was nothing like I imagined. I fell in love with the chaos. I am talking about the backpackers not the Madame herself, that would just be rude.. Before describing Vietnam any further, I would like to do away with one huge misconception that backpackers are very rich. Yes, it is true that we could afford a ticket to our destination but that's where it ends. From that point onwards we are basically broke. So when we checked into MC's and they informed us of the 24-hour-FREE-VietnameseTea/Coffee & Banana combo we were simply ecstatic.

I believe traveling is enjoyable because of the people you end up meeting. And Vietnam offered just that. The next morning over breakfast at MC's, H and I met a delightful young British couple who handed us a weapon that we held till Hanoi: Hand Sanitizer. What followed was three weeks of fantastic food, amazing people and interesting toilets.

North-Indian Network Of Projectile Spitters (NINPS)

My first stint in North India and I was thirteen. I went to live with my mother in Lucknow where she was working at the time. I was enrolled in an English medium school which of course meant everything including English was taught in Hindi. However, my Hindi hardly improved and remains an alien language till date. It was a tough childhood being raised by a parent who holds a Masters degree in English literature. Every time we sat down for a lesson I seldom escaped unscathed. I received more pinches on my thighs than any endearing ones on my cheeks. The only person who was impressed with my creative writing skills was Manju Aunty, my English teacher in school. The Hindi Aunty felt sorry for me and secretly wanted to give me a pass mark but I didn’t leave her much choice. Mine was an alternative school hence the ‘Aunty’.

While mommies in the West blackmail their kids into finishing their dinner by talking about starving kids in India, my mommy decided to show me these starving kids so I finish my dinner and hers. I was taken to the remotest parts of Uttar Pradesh in various modes of transport. In fact, not many non-UP-ites know of a Gita Press in Gorakhpur, a bed bug infested dodgy motel outside Rae Bareli and that Hotel Ashok in Varanasi serves the best Dal Makhani. On these trips I was introduced to the Uttar Pradesh Revolutionary Artwork Committee (UPRAC). Their work was truly inspiring. The red signs on every wall and the haphazard patterns on street corners were unmistakable. I was so impressed by these comrades for their dedication and outreach programme. Sadly, I was not allowed to probe into this matter any further let alone join the UPRAC. One morning I was reading my Physics textbook out loud. Every time I said “I-riin” (iron) my mother cringed and asked me to repeat myself. A phone call was made soon after and all I could make out was “I-riiinn!??!.....sending her back….next flight….” The next thing I know, I was back in my old school in Madras wondering what had caused this forced exile.

My second stint in North India and I am twenty three years old. I moved to Delhi four months ago to work in an NGO. Due to budgetary considerations and the obvious horror of having to utter anything in Hindi, I walk to work every morning. This has helped me uncover the mystery behind UPRAC. They never were a revolutionary group but form part of a greater organization called the North-Indian Network of Projectile Spitters (NINPS). It is a highly inclusive group that transcends age, gender, caste, religion and nationality. In fact, the members do not even discriminate between geographical locations. From walls, steps, buses, train stations and people’s feet the motto is ‘Been There Spat That’. I have started to wonder if the members perform a nightly ritual for the next day’s activities: An intense mouth exercise and a fluid diet so they wake up with an excessive collection of saliva. I recently rode in an autorickshaw that only confirms why I never want to do so again. The driver suggested (in Hindi) that I pay him 25 rupees while I disagreed and said (in English) I’ll only give him 25 rupees. Lost in translation and disillusioned, I got in only to find the driver spitting twenty five times in five minutes. I was determined to go home and look up the Guiness Book of World Records for any spitting entries that I could put his name against. It at least gave me something to write about- worth the 25 rupees in any language!

Mohalla

Migrant workers

‘Save’ Puri signs

Popcorn man with the snake charming music

Idly wallahs

Grumpy milk sellers

Packs of stray dogs

Inquisitive auntyjis

Amateur badminton players

Pomeranian dogs

Roadside Romeos

Dingy cyber cafés

Pink tents

I

Sunday, 6 a.m.: Cacophony of noises. Piercing tunes from something which sounds like a cross-breed between a flute and a trumpet, completely out of tune, of course!

My first weekend in my new abode and I am woken up by a bunch of Christmas trees neatly lined up. I am referring to the members of an Indian band, complete with the red uniforms, flowery hats and the tuneless instruments that are clogged with different layers of spit. Like most people would react in such situations, I bury my head under my pillow and start cursing in Spanish (I have noticed at previous occasions that my proficiency at this hour is impeccable). Unsuccessful at this attempt, I try a variation of the child pose from Yoga. For laymen, the knees are tucked under the chest, the forehead is on the ground and because it’s a variation, two giant pillows block each ear. However, I fail to consider the vibrations emitted through my apartment floor. Imagine an earthquake with a soar-throat measuring 7.1 on the Ritcher scale! Yes, that variety!

I remember entry No.879 from ‘Sowmiya’s Million Things to Do Before She Dies’:

(At least once) WAKE up at 6 a.m or thereabouts.

Comforting myself that I only had 99,999 things left to do and I am making progress at the tender age of 24, I finally decide to peel myself off my floor and join in the fun. From my perch on the third floor, I notice a pink tent stretching all the way down the road. I did what every NRI would do in this situation; look amused, shake my head and say:

“This happens only in India!”

This pink tent was gargantuan (note: an attempt at sounding intellectual by using big words as a substitute for the word big). This pink tent stretched to the entire width of the road and proceeded all the way to the end. The only way out of the neighbourhood was to walk through it. Unless, of course you are endowed with Spiderman genes, in which case, scaling the walls wouldn’t be a problem. I have a tendency to get carried away by my own sense of humour so I am now going to take a moment to regroup for the benefit of my readers….

Christmas trees, spit infested musical instruments, Yoga poses, Ritcher scales, haughty NRIs, pink tents and Look Out! It’s Spiderman….

This pink tent soon starts emitting various noises. Someone has forgotten to tell the band master that his colourful bunch of trees can stop destructing eardrums in the 400 km radius. The priest conducting the ceremony looks cross and starts yelling prayers at the top of his voice. The guests are seated on both sides of the tent facing each other munching on the Prasad. How do I know this? I discover I have run out of milk and am forced to walk through the tent while muttering namastes to the uncle & auntyjis. The craziest thing I notice is a scooter riding through the tent, clearly the man cannot find an alternative route out and his wife cannot refrain from stretching her hands out for some Prasad. This officially becomes India’s ‘Drive-In’ Puja.

II

Few weeks later, I am walking down the gully after a particularly grueling Yoga session. My hamstrings have just informed me that they have no intentions of cooperating any further. My shins apparently share the same sentiment, the little traitors; I knew they were plotting all this time. Left with not much choice, I drag my legs homeward. I wonder if the situation can get any worse. Apparently, it can! Mr. Sole and Mrs. Strap decide to break their wedlock at this moment. There have been arguments lately. People in the neighbourhood have noticed some tension every time the couple are seen together in public. The loose bond (a few staples and outdated sticky tape) have finally broken. So there I am with a ‘Non-cooperative movement’ waged by certain body parts and a broken (in every sense of the term) Chappal. This has to be the worst it can get….right? I make a mental note to never buy cheap chappals from Lajpat Nagar again. I find myself at the middle off a football match. With the whole dragging off the feet I become an unintentional goalie for one of the sides. There is jubilation among the little brats and then it happens:

“Thank you Aunty!!!”

Now that is the worst it can get….

III

“Hi, my name is Sowmiya and I am addicted to Facebook”

I am having withdrawal symptoms. It has been six days and 13 hours since I checked my virtual portal of self-appreciation. I enter Lucky Cyber Café and ask for a computer. The man looks at me, points behind a dark curtain and grunts a number. I am in half a mind to scram and judging by my horribly accented Hindi he will probably just think I am insane. I am ok with that. But I decide to brave it out and shout a silent prayer to all celestial beings (this broad generalization makes me sound highly secular in important gatherings). I enter and look for Computer No. 4. I am forced to squeeze past a teenager who is engrossed in scrapping pals on Orkut. He has 2346 pals?!! We make eye-contact and instantly I know it’s our addiction to social networking sites (SNS) that has facilitated this meeting. I finally settle into my plastic chair. ‘PROPERTY OF LUCKY CYBER CAFE’ it reads. I quickly learn that finding http://www.facebook.com from the drop down menu on the web browser is not the wisest thing to do. (Insert: Imagination). I scan the room and notice that I am the only woman around. The teenager is not just a SNS addict but has now progressed to naughtier pastures. I need to plan my escape route. I politely ask the teenager to move his chair forward, I pay Mr.Lucky his ten rupees and I get the hell out of there! Half-way home and I realize I never got around to checking Facebook.

IV

That same week, I sit on my balcony drinking a cup of instant coffee. I plan to think about my life and I have allocated 22 minutes to this task. I hear someone humming a popular Bollywood track. I look up and notice six pairs of eyes staring at me. The day I moved in I knew this was an inquisitive neighbourhood. You can tell these things quite easily. Well, the staring gave it away. I could just avoid the general zone of staring but sadly I was stuck in a cross-stare. Six different Romeos perched on six different balconies and strangely all of them wearing sunglasses. I search for the Sun at 8 p.m.