Difference

On my way to office and back, I pass by a crazy fellow. I feel Nature had been in a rather surly mood during his creation. He has knocking knees, squint eyes and his fingers are curved as if they lack bones. But he isn’t scraggy and dirty as other crazy people; he is in different clothes everyday and hasn’t shriveled so far. And he does not beg. Obviously, someone is taking care of him.

He plays with a piece of red wire, about six inches long, shaped into a rudimentary ‘Z’. He twirls this between his thumb and forefinger and circles himself while doing so. Sometimes he smiles, laughs, jumps around and claps his hands in sheer glee.

The red wire hasn’t changed and neither has his singular dance. Not in the last two months, at least. He might have been at it longer.

I bring this up because: Here I am, with full mental faculties, good knees and well focused eyes. With a bit more formal education than general populace. Still, I am unable to sustain interest in a single thing for more than half an hour.

Even less, at times.

And, here is a person with a fractional brain, finding the same thing interesting for an extended period. Something unimaginable to my fully functional, highly educated and trained grey cells.

Between me and him, with that 'one thought at a time' mentality, doesn't that crazy fellow have a better chance of becoming a rishi?

Thank God for small mercies!

At my workplace, I hardly speak. During meetings, I listen to the crap but seldom talk. I have my lunch by myself. Even the post lunch stroll is unaccompanied. I go home alone. By now, you might have gleaned it.

I am a misanthrope.

In the last four years, my work location has changed 5-6 times. But Uncertainty always ensures I be assigned the busiest and the most public place in office.

My first place was next to the women’s loo. Some might want that kind of luck, but it was the hardest part of my job. It is well known that women talk. But, in the safe haven of the loo, the topics become bitchy.

The discussions are heated.

And the volume, loud.

The facilities manager ought to make women’s loos sound-proof since these caring mothers, loving wives and adorable daughters fail to realize that it ain’t vacuum and sound waves do travel outside.

And impinge on the ears of the person sitting there.

In my case, very sensitive ones.

Thank God for small mercies that I did not understand Tamizh that much, or I would have been privy to what should have been reserved only for female ears. For that matter, I don’t care much about male ears and much less for the gossip.

My next place was in a big room, right next to the door. Anyone walking in, being taught well by elders, was compulsively polite. They used to greet me the time of the day and, naturally being quite concerned about my health, used to enquire, “How are you?” Good friends (yes, I do have a few, despite everything) asking this once in a while is great, but not petty acquaintances and certainly not colleagues. Colleagues, who will not stand still for two minutes when you die , as is the custom in my company to ‘honor’ and ‘remember’ the one who passed away. It wasn’t infrequent that the same people asked me the same question every time they passed by. Since even I was taught well by elders, I was polite for quite some time.

That was one of the toughest weeks I had.

My innate sarcasm bubbled through and I started answering thus: ‘Better than you’ or ‘Was feeling good till you walked in’ or ‘Why did you come today?’ or the plain old ‘Please go away’. People, not being much touchy and dumb enough not to understand sarcasm, still asked me, “How are you?” Since I work as a Consultant, improving processes is a part of my job. I took a print with the following words:

Good morning/ Good afternoon/ Good evening.
I am fine. Thank you for the concern.
I bite.
Door to your left.

Next place was beside the cafeteria door which was next to the loo. My friendly colleagues, out of habit, used my desk as a receptacle for keeping water bottles (empty or full), lunch boxes (empty or full), coffee cups (empty or full) and what not, sometimes leaving oil or tea or coffee rim imprints on it. They would wail their ‘Sorry’ while leaving, magnanimously letting me follow the clean desk policy.

I bore with it for two full days.

Then I used to mix the coffee with tea or hide their lunch boxes, sending the owners on a wild goose chase from his seat to mine and back to his and so on. One fellow even quarreled with his wife on phone, accusing her of forgetting to pack him lunch. As luck would have it, he, too, spoke in Tamizh, and I think I missed the good parts.

Now, I sit in front of a printer. One that is common to the whole floor, seating about 30 odd characters. Most of them are women.

Only components missing are a loo nearby and a cafeteria across the aisle.

Then I can become a full-time sociopath.

Thank God for small mercies.

Instincts

Humankind might have evolved a bit more than our terrestrial quadruped co-habitants, as in, we use silicon based instruments more than carbon based ones. But, at the end of the day, we are still guided by instincts.

Fight or flight.

When I see kids, my instincts compel me to scare them.

Scare them for good.

That could be an extension to my misanthropy. After all, kids, no matter how small, are still people. Or could be brilliant planning, because I don’t want to, somewhere down the line, fight with or run away from these kids. My talent has been put to good use to silence crying kids (I can see new parents nodding) or make quiet kids cry (I can still see you nodding, new parents). Had there been a Six Sigma certification for scaring kids, I would have been The Grand Master Black Belt for I have never failed.

Till yesterday.

My workplace is a good two hours away from my dwelling. Thankfully, a single train covers the maximum part of it. That ensures I can absorb a book, watch the world pass by or just nap. Yesterday, while returning home, a small family arrived and arranged themselves around me. Large grandmother, medium mother and an angelic four-year-old girl (small, of course). The mother takes a seat in the front, with the kid on the lap. The granny sat next to me, gladdening me instantly since
1. There was no room for fourth seat
2. The kid is right in front of me and I could have some practice

The kid, for reasons best known to Him, insisted on sitting next to me. Of course, she got her way, what with kids these days. The first thing she did was stamp on my highly polished shoes. Then she started swinging her little legs, leaving muddy marks on my beige trousers. This went on for around ten minutes, and I could not sleep due to the constant disturbance. Then I realized she was looking at me; I looked at her, she flashed her i-am-cute-so-you-are-supposed-to-bear-wth-me smile. I bared my big canines and the little one recoiled, and sat motionless for some time during which I fell asleep.

About half an hour later, with a particularly violent jolt, I awoke and checked if the kid was the cause. She was fast asleep.

Good job done.

I went back to Slumberland. After an hour or so, when I opened my eyes, I saw the kid snugly ensconced between my right arm and my side. Her little hands were around my tummy. My left hand was holding her head, preventing it from being swayed by the train’s motion.

If she was asleep earlier, she was cosy and asleep now.

How did this happen? That too, to The Grand Master Black Belt in scaring kids?

I vaguely remember some tugging at my arm and me raising it, but apart from that I recollect nothing. Logically, the kid must have felt the cold draft coming through the train window. Guided by the primal instinct to seek warmth, her sleepy brain must have sought it at the nearest place, the Uncle (sigh!) with big canines. The one who had given her a fright some time back.

Being just a kid, she is forgiven that she forgot.

My sleepy brain must have commanded my right arm to be raised and allow the leg-swinging, polished-shoes-stamping, beige-trouser-muddying kid with the i-am-cute-so-you-are-supposed-to-bear-wth-me smile to be accommodated. And my left arm deliberately left its place to support her head. And remained there so that her fragile neck muscles not be jerked.

What contradictory instinct prompted me?

True rasika and music concerts

When it comes to classical music, I understand less than nothing.

No, this is not false modesty.

I really don't understand anything. I am more on the feroe naturoe side, with very sensitive and highly untuned ears.

I cannot differentiate between Raag Malhar and Raag Miyan ki Malhaar. Neither can I understand the nuances of Raag Puriya Dhanasree or Raag Jhinjhoti. But, I have felt ecstasy with Raag Malkauns, the adrenaline rush with Raag Durga and wept with Raag Asavari.

In fact, I have picked up the names of these raagas and other related terms from the Margazhi utsavs at Chennai and few concerts at Mumbai. Thank you very much for noticing my knowledge.

I won’t get into how a Chennai rasika differs or resembles a Mumbai rasika. That means comparing cultures, which can never be free from controversy, for which I have no stomach as of now. It is already full with butter chicken and jeera rice.

Indeed, I am one of the more hedonistic people.

And pretty observant.

Based on the fifty odd concerts I have attended, I have classified the people who attend musical concerts. Mind you, this is the general classification and there would be (and I pray, there are) more groups out there waiting to be explored. So, here is the list:

The Culture Vulture
Rarely found alone, a Culture Vulture is either too rich or has too much time to spare or wants to show off his ‘deep and intense interest’ in all things that can possibly have the adjective ‘cultural’.
Or any combinations thereof.

A culture vulture parades her (generally plus-sized) carcass in dark colored designer traditional wear, dripping with oversized bling and bindis, clutching the latest mobile handset in her perfectly manicured fingers. I am sorry, ladies, but culture vultures are mostly female, though males are also making their presence felt here.

They come fashionably late (frequently after the alapana is over), insist of air kissing every known face, nod their heads more forcibly & more often and check if someone is checking them out.

They buy the most expensive seats, closest to the performers and make sure they irritate the general populace by regularly leaving their costly seats, gesticulating madly, talking over their mobiles. Since they are the ‘true’ music lovers, they always stand tall when they are walking away, ensuring everyone has a good look at them. They chew gum as if their lives depended on the movement of their mandibular muscles. They distract the musicians by flash of their expensive cameras. And they always leave mid-way citing ‘business’ constraints.

Though you might desire to shoot them in the head, they are the sponsors or are related to them and, most unfortunately, cannot be eliminated.

The Boisterous Ignoramus
Mostly male and mostly alone, the boisterous ignoramus knows precious little or nothing about music. But that does not stop him from doling out knowledge; even the fact that people around may not be familiar with him is the least obstruction to his magnanimity. He believes in explanation, elaboration and elucidation.

Right when the music is on.

His desire to share knowledge is so great that he disregards the cold stares, verbal grunts and closed body language you exhibit. I had to silence one particularly stellar example of this kind by digging in my fingers into his shoulder.

I know that was un-musical (if there is a word like that) but, after 'a woman scorned', Hell hath no fury like a hedonist interrupted.

Nostalgically Yours
This silver-haired kind is generally found in groups of two or three, of heterogeneous composition. They are from the ‘good old days’ when, based on their geography, Bade Ghulam Ali Khan, Hirabai Barodekar, Ariyakudi Ramanuja Iyengar, Chembai Vaidyanathan Bhagavathar and other stalwarts ruled the roost.

They dicuss how the current crop lacks the ‘force of shaking the world’, whatever that means.

Right in the middle of a concert.

As the concert progresses, the gati of their talking changes from vilambit to drut to ati drut. and the matters under discussion slide to being more worldly, like someone's son going to US for higher studies, or someone's daughter-in-law is breaking apart the family and so on. This kind is more perceptive of cold stares and generally stops talking immediately, only to resume after a couple of minutes.

I like to listen to old people, but I am mean beyond measure when they meddle with my aural pleasure. I once silenced a group of three geriatrics by taking few threatening steps towards their leader, but I stopped six feet short.

They were dangerously armed.

With walking sticks.

The Incessant Drummer
Only males do this, thank God for that. The incessant drummer believes his very birth is for percussion. He drums on his arm rest, on the backrest of the chair in front of him, on his mobile, on his bag, on his knee. He drums through all the pieces, all the tempos and all the time.

And hopelessly out of tune.

As perceptive as the boisterous ignoramus, he looks at people, but only for recognition for the great show he is putting on for them. If seated next to such a specimen. I generally change my seat, if possible.

At Chennai, there was this guy who was drumming on his knee incessantly. Twice at my request, he did stop only to start again within five minutes. Third time, I drummed his knee.

Only once.

Only harder.

With my fist.

He changed his seat.

I am not responsible for the consequences if you don’t look menacing, like I do, while trying this method. I know that was un-musical too (since I used it twice by now, it is definitely a word), but you have to do some things for the betterment of mankind.

The Expert Cribber:
Belonging to either gender, this type knows something about music. But rather than going with the flow, they try to create their own tributaries or suggest alternate ways in which the performer could have sung/played. Though this type is irritating in its own respect, they shut up as soon as you stare at them. Keep staring at them at regular intervals to stop them from metamorphosing into a Boisterous Ignoramus.

For the rest of the concert, they might be stare daggers at you for not getting a chance to present their skills, but a true hedonist knows that someone else’s anger is irrelevant when it comes to sensory pleasure.

The Indulgent Parent
This kind brings their young kids, actively pointing out to acquaintances that it was the kid that insisted on attending the concert, how s/he loves the sound of veena/sitar/sarod etc. or how s/he used to sleep only when Darbari Kanada was on. They are also quick to point out that the kid attends violin and mridangam and piano classes along with karate classes.

If you are lucky, the kid generally sleeps early through the concert due to all those classes or boredom or airconditioning. Otherwise, s/he whimpers to be escorted to the bathroom roughly eighteen times during the three hour concert.

Or snacks noisily on chips.

Or fights with siblings, if any.

Or demands to be taken home.

Or all the above at the same time.

The Indulgent Parent is a sort of Culture Vulture, but rather than precious stones, they show off the fruit of their loins. If you are located next to them, change your seat.

Or you can, as it comes naturally to me, scare the kid into leaving. This might make you slightly unpopular with the parent/s but, remember if you wanted to watch kids playing, you would have gone to a park.

The Mobile Idiot
By mistake or by choice, this person will not silence his mobile. And the fateful instrument will start singing the worst remix of ‘Pappu cant dance, sala’ or ‘Munni badnaam hui’ when a jugalbandi between the kanjira and mridangam is in full force. His/her reaction is nothing short of classic.

First, s/he looks around in irritation wanting to kill the sinner.

Then s/he realized it is his/her own.

Then s/he sticks his/her tongue out.

Meanwhile, you vacillate between wondering whether the stuck out tongue is going to silence the pesky instrument and thinking of clubbing the clod on the head with something sharp.

S/he searches for the mobile, still ringing, takes it out of wherever it had chosen to hide, stares at the number for infinite seconds and then takes the call or cuts it off.

By now, you had decided to throw something, but you are ruing that you forgot to pick some sharp stones before you got in.

Does not happen more than once per person per concert, but with human stupidity being boundless, you never know.

The Connected Friend
This type will call his/her friend sitting at some other row/seat and tell her how s/he enjoyed the just ended piece and how the other thought. You are moved by this old fashioned human camaraderie and you pray they die together.

At that very moment.

The Applauder
This person’s claps and his ‘wah wah’s are the loudest.

Sometimes, even the longest.

And he really cannot understand why people are staring at him when all he is doing is appreciating the music. In fact, he is enjoying more than the others, as is evident by his response.

Can get really irritating for people who have particularly sensitive ears, like mine. But generally harmless.

The Quiet Enjoyer
The best type to be seated next to. They are neither seen nor heard when the concert is on. They may possess deep understanding of music or have none. Generally alone or in pairs, this kind switch off or put their phones into the silent mode. They consider it as a sacrilege to talk when the concert is on, even in between the individual pieces. They come, sit and leave quietly.

Sometimes, they shed tears.

They might note down the name of the raga, but apart from that, their pleasure is mostly aural.

Once, I sat next to an old couple in Chennai. In the three and a half hour concert, they talked only once, that too, when the lady wanted water which was in her husband’s bag. After the concert was over, the lady astutely observed I did not look like I was from around. That was strange, since I do look like a South Indian. I said yes, I am from Mumbai. She inquired how come you are attending a Carnatic concert sung in Tamil and Telugu? What did you understand? Where are your friends? I replied I came alone, was drawn by the music & the percussion and understood nothing. The couple was quite pleased that someone so removed from the culture could enjoy music per se. Out of sheer reverence, I touched the old couple’s feet and they promptly blessed me. They were quite moved and told me who they were.

The lady was noted singer of the yore and her husband was a well known mridangam player. Before retiring about five years back, their combined experience of stage performances exceeded six decades.

That one revelation taught me a lot.

Taught me what being a true rasika means.

American or Italian

I don’t like weddings.

In fact, I am a bit uncomfortable in the really fake, ostentatious, lavish surroundings where I see people covered in all the festal finery.

The same people whom I see in much less flattering claddings.

Actually, in much less.

Everyday.

Recently, I attended a marriage where the groom was a blue-eyed American. After the usual ritual of
- Handing over gifts
- Wishing the newly weds a grand success, whatever that means, and
- Getting myself photographed

I turn my attention towards that most interesting part of all weddings; no, not the gossip, but the food.

There were two counters, one Indian and one Italian. Since the Italian counter was a bit further away from the door as compared to the Indian, most attendees paid little or no attention to it. Additionally, the chef at Italian counter was tossing and mixing in a big pan, and most presumed it to be Chinese, the way it is made in India and may or may not have any similarity to the way our not-so-friendly neighbors make it.

After loading my plate with pasta and oat bread, I make myself comfortable in a chair, contemplating on the international nature of the wedding. Pasta, olives and white sauce make a good thinker better at thinking. A couple of solitary minutes pass by and in the chair next comes an old lady with silver hair and the typical ‘kind grandmother of Yashraj films’ look.

She flashed her dentures.

I flashed my steel capped teeth.

Since we started on a good note, I thought a chat would be appropriate. Diverting my attention from the excellently soaked olives, we begin chatting in Marathi. I have done my best to translate the conversation to the poorest of all languages I know.

Me: Did you check out the Italian……? (rest of the sentence cut short by Old Lady’s (OL) exclamation)
OL: What? Italian?? They told me he was American!!! He did not look American to me anyways. With those people, some ‘mix’, who knows?
Me: No, the groom is definitely American. I was talking about the food.
OL: (sheepishly) Ohh…food. No, I did not. Where are they giving it?
Me: Right next to the Indian one.
OL: He he…I just loaded my plate. Why didn’t I meet you earlier?
Me: Maybe because I wasn’t born then. (Again, I flash my steel)
OL: (Not understanding what I just said) I will empty this plate as soon as I can and get some Italian.

Her husband (OM) arrives and plonks himself in the chair next to her.

OL: Did you check out the Italian…..? (rest of the sentence cut short by OM’s interjection)
OM: He is not Italian. He is American. You are getting old, woman. Once we are done with the dinner, we are going to the first stationery shop and getting a diary for you. Forgetting nationality of the groom of our family friend’s only daughter! Ridiculous!!
OL: (coldly) No, not the groom. The food.
OM: The food is Indian. Just what looks Italian to you here?
OL: That counter…which has the words ‘Italian’ written in big words. You should not have forgotten your spectacles.
OM: Ohh…you mean the food? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?
OL: You didn’t let me complete the sentence.
OM: I get to talk in full sentences only on occasions like these, in the presence of other people. Otherwise….

I think it best to excuse myself on the pretext of getting some ice cream.

Which I do.

On my way out, I extrapolate this exchange of domestic pleasantries to those of my friend and her blue-eyed American groom.

Twenty years down the line.

Ahh…I just love weddings!