Hurry Up And Wait!

Hurry up and wait. Did you know that that’s what foreigners think of us Indians? But it is true you know. There is no point taking offence. We do like to hurry up and wait. We start getting ready for tomorrow from yesterday all the while thinking we are going to be late. Everyone hurries everyone else up, gets ready and waits for god knows what. No community is without this particular eccentricity. We are a nation infamous for our unplanned tardiness.

 

Like any other Indian community the South Indian community has its own peculiarities, with the multitude of reasons for tardiness being the least of it all. The first of many is that, that for some insane reason, South Indians like their weddings to take place in the early mornings. Even before the sun has decided that it will rise. Muhurat is invariably between 3.00 am to 6.00 am. The bride is made to change into nearly 6 different sarees within a span of 2 hours while the groom watches and waits in a dhoti transparent enough for the underwear’s brand to show through. It’s really, really difficult to be gleefully energetic and happy so early. Why, you tell me, should I wake up so ridiculously early or rather not sleep at all the previous night only to watch them throw coloured rice balls in all directions? Of course one of them, hurled like one of Shohaib Akhtar’s missiles, landing on an innocent Uncle’s face and thereby dislodging his specs, makes it worthwhile. One can also become incredibly heartless when deprived of sleep for many, consecutive nights. Anyhow, incredibly, that’s the highlight of the morning or rather night. The rice ball throwing and the moment when the Mangalsutra is tied around the bride’s neck are the key moments that have Aunties scrambling about in their stiff silk sarees seeking out the best vantage points. The ceremony itself is like a church choir, because, as if one priest is not enough, there is pack of them for chorus and backing vocals. Himmesh is no competition for the early morning nasal screeching. Their vocal chords are situated right in their nasal cavities and are equipped with an unnerving capacity to reach glass shattering pitch. I swear to you, when the chorus begins, it’s like a buzzing bee hive.

 

And the amount of blinding jewellery, oh. my. God! The shiny, never-dulling bling! We Indians single-handedly deplete the world’s resource of this ore and are responsible for the increasing prices. More than catching up with long lost relatives, more attention is given to who’s wearing what. Apparently most South Indians haven’t heard of silver or pearls or any other type of jewellery not yellow in colour. Being simple and dressing down would involve only 3 gold chains, 4 gold bangles on each hand and one silk saree, either blue or red or green with gold zari border. And lot’s of powder on the face (Foundation? What is that?). Never mind that it’s blisteringly hot in the hall, what with the 100 plus guests and the ceremonial fire blazing in the mandap. No, we want powder and heavy, uncomfortable things to cover ourselves with (I also suspect that the number one cause for our tardiness is all the jewellery and the one-inch layer of powder). Perfume, by the way, is not supposed to be light, floral and haunting that leaves a pleasant fragrance behind. It is a good perfume only when it smells like the concentrate of all the flowers in the world.

 

Marriage leads to more marriages. What else can you expect when such occasions are treated like a party thrown by a marriage bureau? Seemingly innocuous questions are thrown at you; “What do you? Ahaan… How old are you? Accha… And where do you live?” And just when you thought you were safe, the gleeful smile on that Auntie’s face reveals her sinister leanings. You should get up and run when she starts grinning widely at you and pats your hand. Such personality traits are often overtly visible during certain situations. It’s a sight to see when a bunch of girls go up on stage to wish the couple. All eyes, that were busy with other things, suddenly and rapidly swivel towards the stage, eagerly screening out the potentials and categorizing them into ‘Definitely pursue’ and ‘Out of the question’. It’s rarely the latter. The chase ends only with ‘I’m already married.’

 

Although there are less than desirable characteristics of this community, there is also a side that is rather endearing. They can be frustratingly orthodox and conservative but they are also fiercely loyal and adamantly helpful. The community itself feels like an extended family which can be at times good and at times bad. But what is undeniable is that the feeling of being included and accepted as if you were just another distant relative, which is quite common in other Indian communities and not just the South Indians, is unmatched by any other country, regardless of however late we all may be.

Each To His Own

If ever you want to create a product that could cater to the masses and make you rich, create one that will appeal to any of the five senses that we are blessed with. Movies primarily provide us with visual gratification it’s the reason why the movie business is lucrative as hell.

 

The Indian cinema audience is divided in such a way that most would fall more or less into these two, discrete categories: the purists and the entertainment seekers. For the purists, the story and execution are of utmost importance. They believe that a movie should make an individual think, without which the purpose of making the film itself is lost. The execution – the narration, the way stories come together, etc – should be credible and art should in fact quite literally mimic life in this case. Extravagant set designs, lavish costumes and melodrama account for nothing here. If it’s not plausible then it’s not worth watching. Situations and characters that seem contrived and seem to have no purpose in the bigger picture are discarded from consideration without a second thought about their entertainment value. For the purists, the stories that need to be told are almost always bigger than the stars themselves.

 

The entertainment seekers on the other hand are a relatively easier lot to please. They often come to the cinemas looking for popcorn entertainment; a movie that will let them leave their brains and thinking capacity at home for a change and just enjoy. Now this particular type of audience either chooses not to think, and ergo opts for such a genre of movie on purpose or they are simply enamoured by the stars and are effectively drawn to them like moths to a flame. In this case, bigger the film and everything in it, more the value placed on it. Characters, dialogues, slapstick comedy, sets, songs, etc are more important than the story itself. Tunes leave much more of an impression on their minds than a critical issue. The concept of plausibility doesn’t exist.  

 

And then there is me. Call me a traitor, call me tasteless but I enjoy both types of movies – the ones that are made for pure entertainment purposes and the ones that tell a story of relevance. I do enjoy and appreciate movies that make me think, movies that deal with a social issue or an international concern; basically movies that tell a story that’s real. But I also love the other ones. I enjoy a slapstick comedy which, by the way, is not a comment on my sense of humour. I enjoy the songs; they let me see these places, giving them a memory even if it’s not entirely mine. Most of all, I love the fact that each emotion or feeling has a song or music to it. It gives life a context because it makes so many things so much more intense and the experiences so much more memorable. There are so many times that I’ve wished the life itself would have a soundtrack. Come on, wouldn’t you want songs that play only for you in different situations, say for example, ‘4 minutes to save the world’ when you enter a club? Or ‘White Flag’ when you are thinking about someone? No? Then how about you exchanging looks with someone when a song that both of you have labelled ‘Our Song’ plays somewhere? How do you explain that?

 

Anyway, most of all, regardless of what I’m watching, I love going to a theatre and getting lost in the dark for a few hours where reality is what is playing before my eyes. It gives me a kind of hope; watching people do the most extraordinary of things, say the most difficult of things when everything is on the line for them to loose, making the toughest of choices and heart-breaking decisions in situations; situations in which you have pictured or imagined yourself a thousand times. After all is over, when I walk out of that theatre, I feel rejuvenated. I’m walking with a bounce in my step, thinking about how everything seems so much more possible.

Neurosis – The Family Heirloom

It’s crazy, the things that make me nervous. It’s really silly, little things for which I have my upbringing to thank for. You live and grow up in a particular environment; I guess you imbibe the nervous tics and habits of the people you see around you. You see your elders behave in a particular way and whether it is making sense or not, you have a tendency to integrate it into your way of behaving, which, by the way, may have been perfectly alright and functional till then, only to be thrown into a spiral of nervous dysfunction.

 

Thankfully, none of it is a deranged type of dysfunction like beating the person in front of you in a queue so you can move ahead faster, or spitting from my balcony to see if I can hit the head of someone walking by, or talking to myself loudly while in public places, or referring to myself in third person when in a conversation with someone else, or holding an annoying kid upside down by his ankles till he stops screaming. The things that get me on the edge are all seemingly insignificant things but they manage to tie my stomach in knots each time. The worst bit is that I know the reasons for my stress are completely, if not most of the times, irrational. But even though I know that, I cannot rationalize enough to bring my blood pressure down.

 

When I was in school I usually didn’t get pocket money. When I was in primary school, everything was taken care of for me. I had a bus to go and come by. I had my lunch with me. When I graduated to secondary school, I went walking to school and came back the same way. And when we did go out socially back then, we avoided taking autos and taxis. Buses or walking was preferred because they cost less. Even now it’s the same story except I now have more pester power and am very young-adult-type-ish lazy. Anyhow, this particular idiosyncrasy of my family has left me predisposed to nervousness every time I get into a taxi or an auto. I constantly eye the meter like a sleeping dog guarding the house. Beyond 20.00, every time the digits change my blood pressure jumps up a point. I intensely dislike traffic jams and I don’t have to tell you why. I have actually thought of getting down and walking because the meter was moving faster than my vehicle. I think I might have done that but like any other traumatic memory I seem to have repressed it.

 

Then there were the ominous warnings of the dire consequences of staying out late. Late for my parents till recently was 9.00 pm. Now it’s 11 but I have stopped caring. At least I pretend not to. Pretend, because it makes me nervous if I’m out after 10.00 pm. All thanks to my parents’ supposed clairvoyance about possible fallouts from spontaneous and inevitable breakdown of the society’s moral codes spurred on by the onset of sunset. And all this despite being caught in traffic jams at 12 in the night. I know alright, that it’s okay to be out late if you are careful and anyway things are not how they used to be 6 years ago. There are people out late these days. And it’s not like I live in New York or I venture into dark alleys all by myself because I find that one dark corner very interesting or take candy from strangers or carry a board around my neck that says, ‘Come, mug me.’  I’m not even alone when I’m out. But still, you know? Sigh.

 

This one is the last but not the least by far. Just like I haven’t figured out why the rainy season makes me nervous, I haven’t figured out why, if I’m still in bed and the clock strikes 11, I get nervous. It could be memories of my parents hollering at me about how half the day has gone by; the urgency in their loud voices that made me feel as if I have missed the last bus from Timbuktu to civilization. I don’t know. I’m still to figure some things out, yes.

 

There is a method in psychology where they tell you to do exactly what scares you so that you are not afraid of them anymore. I’m on that therapy. And I have meekly declared war.