Saturday, August 15, 2020

A Happy Day


Today morning, in my area, the flag was raised virtually. The flag was real, the masked people raising it could have been real, the rest of us were virtual.


There was a roll call. Intelligence, like old school Principals, lies to keep track of the unfaithful with that. There was a lot of chest-thumping. No one was missing. Not even the dead, we later found out.


But the occasion, like all such, had a glitch. Midway, after the anthem before the huge collective roar along with the greetings of Happy Independence Day, a shrill slurring voice could be heard, “Appy Indurrans Die”. 


Intelligence looked into the affair. Was it a kid, Alexa, Siri? Why is the kid saying Happy Hinderance Day? Whose was it? Blood boiled, sky darkened, crows blessed those who looked up and prayed. Old retired judges looked into the matter. Anti-socials said Bah. The judges sulked, such contempt was new. Bah, the reply. The case was settled fast, before the mob picked up stones, beneath the flag. Yes, it was just a precocious kid. Whose, the mob brayed. A Gopher kid. Oh, the mob dispersed.


Gophers make up the majority in the area. They say that there were only them in the area seventy three years back. The Cossites bought land from them. Couple of Chayavars entered later. A Mommite too. Gophers and Chayavars used to be one and the same. But, evolution happened. One went up, kissing ass the other say, and of course the other went down. Gophers are supposed to be descendants of valiant warriors in battles no one has heard of. Chayavars have gained strength more recently, claiming to have sold chai no one has drunk. As for the Cossites and the Mommites, they too have their sub-classes, the rich, the poor, the fair, the dark, the coastal, the highlander, the evangelicals, the deckhands. 


There are a few as yet unclassified. There’s a flat near my house, four storeys high. The owner is supposed to be a contractor, a trafficker, a person of high social standing. The flat is packed with new lot. Some look like workers, some poor, some thugs, all like us. They have orchids on one balcony and variegated underwear on another. Their kids too piss from balconies. The kids’ parents, like the rest of us, spit and blow their nose from great heights onto those below who walk or exercise or do yoga and surya namaskar.


We, even the so-called commies, are all royalists even though the royals stopped being royals long back. We share vegetables and fruits. We invite each other for weddings and deaths. We share everything we can share.


We have not married each other. We are middle-class and just not good enough for intermixing. In seventy three years, only three aliens have entered these families. One a white, another a royal from up North, the third a priest from somewhere. No one is really sure if they are white, royal or priestly. But aliens who claim to be that are welcome.


We do not share anything we have to share, like water. (Pssst, we have been fighting over leaves too. The maids charge extra for sweeping courtyards with leaves. So, everyone wants trees, but not leaves.) Today, before the flag was raised, a tanker delivered water to the few untouchables. There was tension in the air, waiting for the guttural curses and the unholy expletives that usually followed. Not today.


Today, the flag and the anthem united all. 


After that, we went back to our busy routines. The virtual groups came online. It is still the month of Karkkidakam, the month to read the Ramayana. The Gophers and the Chayavars have their own to help with the reciting, and never the twain shall mix, not even to recite Ramayana. The extended families come next, they have never seemed closer. There’s usually some old goofy uncle who tries to collect money for some fund or the other. Then, the old school and college groups. There’s usually some fight in at least one, some bloated ego clashing with another. The kids and adults try to grab data for online games, discussions and classes, always in that order.


The coronavirus has certainly kept us busy. It’s been long months without touch and smell, it’s been long months with too much virtual contact.


No one is really scared of the virus. But, that’s just not the problem, right? In February and March, even in April, it was a status symbol. Only the upper classes, only those from planes, the virus had such high foreign status. But, now, it comes by foot, damn it. Anyone who catches it is labelled poor and ostracised. Bloody local transmission.


Some politicians are trying all that they can to remove that stigma. Not just the politicians, even others, we hear. When there’s a social or official function one wants to skip or when a mother-in-law threatens to show up or when a month’s paid rest seems so tempting, they have been claiming to be corona positive. They test negative as and when they like. Who’s bothered, it’s on taxpayers’ money.


Ah, before I forget, there was another glitch this morning. 


A man was found dead. The stink got to the neighbours two weeks late. He left a suicide note saying, “Wishing all of you a Happy Independence Day well in advance. Love you all, Indrans.”


The old judges investigated that too and wondered how the kid knew about the death. Indrans looked happy in all the photos on social media. 


The judges also wanted to know how this Indrans had managed to take part in the morning roll call.


They too said Bah, with such contempt.



Sunday, August 2, 2020

The Match



Everyone’s in a rush to get weddings done before the government changes the good ways. Parents can’t believe their luck. Only 20 people are allowed at a wedding. No arduous trips to hand out invitations. No large halls. No messy feasts. For once, marriage or at least the wedding could be bliss. But, 20 is still too large a crowd. 


I had to be involved in one, that too quite actively and in a non-gastronomic capacity. According to our old tribal ways, the uncle has much to do in a god-fatherly way, mumbling incoherently so-you-wannabe-family-now, making offers others can’t refuse.


My nephew did not really want me there. Neither did my sister. That’s how tradition works. People assume there would be displeasure and do the worst.


They tried to complete all pre-wedding formalities via videoconference. Even completed a virtual tour of each other’s houses (as if they would find the skeletons in the closet). 


But, how can you go ahead without meeting even once, some idiot asked, not me that time.


We went to the house of the prospective bride. My nephew, his parents, his sister and the ol’ grumbling godfather.


Everything was done according to the directives of the Health Department. We were seated in the verandah. Their water-sprinklers had been modified to disinfect guests. That started a sneezing fit. The girls’ side moved further inside and shouted greetings. I realised too late that I wouldn’t even be pacified with refreshments. Not even a glass of water. The two socially distanced masked sides discussed how they could get close.


Without much ado, we got to the crucial part of the deal. The boy would meet the girl. The uncles would negotiate. On the girl’s side, there was no ‘uncle’ and her mother would officiate in that capacity, we were told. See, I need not have come, you could have done it, I whispered to my sister. She kicked me.


The boy was told “move to the right side” to meet the girl. The uncle “do the opposite”.


We followed those directions. My nephew stood outside a window of a room on the right side of the house. I stood outside a similar window on the other side. The windows had mosquito netting and were heavily curtained. I spotted a silhouette inside.


Pssst, someone hissed. I looked around. It was just an unfriendly reptilian neighbour with a dog, inspecting the garden. Stay away from the wall, the masked figure growled. Why is the human and not the animal without a mask, I was about to ask.


Oye, a voice called from deep within.


Oye oye, I replied.


I like your mask, she said.


You look wonderful, my Pavlovian response.


Sorry we can’t give you anything to eat or drink, she said.


The lady had me and all my attention with such correct concern. 


Oh this cursed corona, I cried.


It’s going to be such a bore, no...I really wanted a paani-puri counter at the wedding, she said. There was deep anguish in her voice.


Parotta and beef curry too, I suggested.


We traded more of such sweet memories for a while. The deal was almost done.


I wanted to discuss something really serious, she said.


Go ahead, I encouraged.


I am not a virgin, she said.


Thank god, I exclaimed. An immaculate conception would have been tough, I added.


Pardon, she said.


Never mind, I soothed.


I am so glad you have taken it so well...guys can be such hypocrites, she said.


I am no ordinary guy, I thought of saying.


Are you a virgin, she asked,


What, I spluttered.


She repeated the question. 


I gave the textbook answer. It had worked in the past. 


Everyone is a virgin in a new relationship, I said. 


That’s cool, dude, she said.


We returned to less serious talk.


Have you seen Indian Matchmaking, she asked.


Yes, I admitted without guilt.


Who did you like, she asked.


Nadia’s mom, I replied without hesitation.


Man...you are not at all like how you were in the video calls, she hooted with laughter.


I hooted too. Not too sure why.


The meeting was wrapped up. 


My nephew too had a satisfactory meeting with the lady on his side.


During the drive back, my nephew talked about his meeting.


His account: I am so glad I got that opportunity to meet her, even though it had to be like that. She started by mentioning that it looked like a scene from ‘Mathilukal’ (Basheer’s novel and Mammootty’s movie based on the same in which a prisoner in a jail talks to someone on the other side of a wall). In all those video calls, she never spoke like that, mature, understanding, serious, deep. All the time, it had been about food and crap shows, the type Maman (uncle) likes. 


Realisation did not dawn that day or the next. 


Both sides realised about the mixup eventually, well before the wedding. My nephew had moved to his right, not hers. And, we had talked to the wrong ladies.


My nephew thinks Oscar Wilde might be right and that she might become like her mother. I don’t know if the girl thinks that a nephew with such a godfather can’t be that bad. 


Anyway, that’s how such stuff are made in heaven.