Waisted effort

I noticed the problem creeping in over the weeks but ignored the warnings. Probably it was too late. Finally, I could not put off accepting the ominous signs.Yes,one day my trouser waist could no longer be buttoned.

The questions before me were two fold.One,should  I buy new trousers - an expensive proposition or,two,reduce my waistline,seemingly a big challenge?As an interim measure the alteration specialist in our building was commissioned to increase the trouser waist by an inch.Then I went about looking at alternative methods of reducing my girth to more manageable proportion.My wife,of course,suggested the obvious.A crash course in dieting,which I nixed immediately as being impractical.

Walking would be the next best option as per my friends.I told my physician that I walked over six kilometres each time on the golf course.He dismissed this by saying that covering the distance in five hours was not an exercise.Besides,he said that I would recover more than the calories lost in the clubhouse after the game.So,a brisk walk was the treatment recommended.

I signed up with a neighbor to accompany him to Lal Bagh every morning.A couple of days later he declined my company.Apparently,that guy preferred listening peacefully to devotional music through his headphones while walking.Whereas,I looked upon this activity as a social occasion where I could discuss with him subjects of global importance like why our cows on the road were of a different colour than their counterparts in Europe.Or, why six out of ten cars we passed on the road were white.

Most mornings I would see our off-duty security guards taking our building dogs for a walk.This gave me an idea.A couple of my neighbours agreed for me to take their canines for their daily constitutional.I supposed they were relieved that they would not have to pay for this service.One Monday I set off with a sedate Labrador and frisky Pomeranian.Initially there was a feeling of camaraderie amongst the three of us.Soon I found that the dogs were actually taking me for a walk.Plus,they insisted on renewing their acquaintance with every lamp post on the route.But a bigger danger lurked round the corner.There were a whole lot of street dogs snarling at the intruders to warn them off their territory.The Lab cowered behind me but the pesky Pom insisted on taking on the bigger rivals.Very soon I was entangled in both the leashes.Finally,thanks to a passing newspaper boy a modicum of peace was restored and we hurriedly made our way back home.

It was then suggested that I join a fitness centre under a personal trainer.As there were several establishments near our apartment I began to do some market research.But I had no love for any such physical activity.Then one day an advertisement in the paper caught my eye.It was exactly what I was looking for.

So,here I am for the last one week in an alternative medicine spa near Whitefield.They do not starve me nor force me to do hard labour.I even managed to skip the morning yoga classes.What I look forward to most is the daily massage and the steam and sauna bath after that.Whether I will lose weight or not is a moot point.But,I am beyond the point of caring.

Fashion Statement

Recently I was on a forced sabbatical from golf as the course was closed for a tournament. Not having anything more useful to do I armed myself with a pack of wafers, parked myself on the La-Z-Boy and switched on the TV. Unfortunately on weekdays, particularly during daytime, Hindi movies are dated. However, it stirred up memories of the sartorial selection of heroes over the decades. Regrettably, I realized that my dress sense too was aligned to the same fashion during that period.

When the Beatles were at their height of glory I took a picture of their jacket and had a similar one stitched by a tailor in Basavanagudi.  I then went to Old Poor House Road and got made elastic-sides boots that the quartet wore. I skipped my visits to Odeon Hair Cutting Saloon for several months and I was good to go, with matching skintight trousers.

Nevertheless, one fashion of mine that I still claim was copied by Rajesh Khanna had its origin at my engineering college in Surathkal. One day, having no clean shirt, I wore a kurta over my trousers. Imagine my surprise when a few months later I saw that Mr. Khanna had copied my style in his movie, ‘Kati Patang’ without even a by your leave.

During the seventies, the latest fashion in the US was a stretch, knitted fabric, mostly with checks that was used for either jackets or trousers. A well - meaning relative gifted me a suit length of that material. I had it stitched at a venerable tailoring house on MG Road and inaugurated it at a friend’s wedding soon after. I was wondering why everyone was giving me strange looks. It was much later that I realized that a suit with dark blue, red and white checks was normally only worn by comedians in films of that era.

By this time, it was my turn to copy Mr. Bachchan and his bell-bottom trousers. A tailor in Malleswaram aided and abetted me in this endeavour. Unfortunately, the flapping bottoms would be covered with grease after a ride on my motorcycle. Further, the realization struck that with our height difference, what looked good on the Big B was not in consonance with my physique. In fact, my wife still comments about her shock when she saw me for the first time wearing ‘bell-bots’ much before our marriage.

But one item of dress that I am still proud about my reading of the fashion movement is ties. I Realized that the width of the tie is cyclic. If you saw the villain Ajit wearing a particular tie, you could be sure that ten years later a modern day villain would wear a similar one. I have preserved five ties of varying width over the last thirty years. They have served me well during this period without anyone calling me an old fuddy-duddy.

Today, I have accepted the realities of my shape and buy only ‘comfort fit’ trousers. It would be foolish to contend with those young tyros in the movies who wear their trousers below the waistline. I am no longer in competition.

Love for Phoren

When I was at college a Raj Kapoor film, ’Around the world in 8 dollars’ reflected the reality that an Indian traveler faced. Foreign exchange was scarce and a lot of explanation had to be given even for such a small amount to be sanctioned. Any shopping abroad was dependent on the host’s benevolence. Today the peripatetic Indian travels all over the globe. Honeymoon in Bali, gambling in Las Vegas; or even a cruise in Alaska. Foreign currency is no longer an issue with a liberal government doling out almost as much as one needs.

On my first foreign trip to Singapore in 1979 we were allowed a grand sum of $250.It was like being let loose in paradise. That is when I got hooked on to some wasteful shopping. At one store I saw these small two-pronged plastic forks meant for Hors d’oeuvre. As I was paying for them I imagined my wife serving hot tikkas and kababs with the guests being duly impressed by these forks. Thirty two years on the two packets lie unopened in our crockery cupboard.

Those days an average Indian used to go ga ga over anything with a foreign tag. There was always the reluctance to use the product as one was not sure when one would get fresh supply. A friend once brought me a bottle of spicy salsa from Spain. When I finally opened the bottle after two years the contents started frothing and oozing out like something from a Hollywood horror film.

A management guru once said that five percent of all expenditure incurred on shopping goes towards products that an individual does not need. My percentage is much higher, particularly after my frequent overseas sojourns. Our home is strewn with such unused items like baseball mitts, all- weather clogs in case of snowfall in Bangalore, Harley-Davidson motorcycle goggles, and something called a salad-shooter. I bought a pair of expensive stainless steel cocktail shakers from a store in the US called ‘Bed, Bath and Beyond’. On opening the carton I found that they were made in India from Salem steel. I still have a pair of padded knee protectors, bought in Houston after seeing Akshay Kumar wearing them in one of his ‘Khiladi’ films.

My ultimate purchase was a large battery-operated parrot. It automatically repeated twice everything that was told to it. My sons did not want anything to do with the bird and it was lying in the loft for several years. I recently discovered it and displayed the toy at a party. What followed was a raucous session with my friends challenging the parrot with the choicest cuss words in Kannada, Tamil and Punjabi. It was a show-stopper hearing those words repeated in a twangy American accent.

Nowadays it is no longer exciting shopping abroad as most items are available here, maybe even cheaper. But, one always lives on hope.

A catty story

From childhood I always wanted to own a dog. By adulthood I did manage to rear three, all of uncertain pedigree. The first one, Lassie managed to antagonize my mother by tearing to pieces a brand new saree hanging to dry. The second one, Bunty was pretty savvy. An elderly cousin of mine would visit my parents once a month for an hour till 8.00 pm. As her house was down the road I would escort her and also take Bunty for a walk. From then on exactly when that hour struck, Bunty would start pestering her to leave.

Biffy, the third one came to us under false pretenses. We were told that it was a Rajapalayam and we were excited that we had at last got a pure bred, without really knowing how that breed actually looked! The first visit to the Vet confirmed that Biffy’s Rajpalayam connection was a figment of someone’s imagination.

Our family was never into cats. In a weak moment we succumbed to our good friend Ramachandran's entreaty to lighten his responsibility of the umpteen kittens that his cat had littered. With a red ribbon tied round its neck little Pepsy came home in a lunch basket. She began proceedings by wetting our pillow. She soon settled down to a pampered life and generally controlled our life. One day Pepsy gave us a scare. My wife found her lying stiff on her back with all four legs pointing up. We feared the worst and started mourning our loss. To our surprise, in about fifteen minutes she was perfectly fine. Soon we realized this was Pepsy’s way of taking a cat nap and my wife named it the Rigor Mortis pose.

As per the norm in our house Pepsy, too was brought up a vegetarian. As my knowledge of cats was limited I bought the book “Catwatching” by Desmond Morris. The author claimed that cats would go blind if they did not get non-vegetarian food. This put us in a dilemma. Our love for Pepsy overcame any qualms we had. Niligiri’s soon found a sudden surge in their sales of canned Tuna and Mackerel. There was one happy and contented cat after that.

Some months later we had a crisis on our hands. Pepsy, being a comely lass soon had a stream of suitors yowling outside our home. I used a hockey stick to good effect to chase them way. However, we could not fight nature for long. Pepsy’s girth started to expand and D-day soon arrived. As my mother-in-law was a gynaecologist she was roped in to help in the delivery.

This became a regular event every few months. We had a tough time controlling the population explosion of kittens in our house. Soon friends reduced their visits as word got around that they would be handed a kitten as a return gift.

Arty Party

From childhood I was a recluse. I preferred assembling my Meccano set to going out and playing with other children. This continued in my adult life, too. I would sit in my college library and spend all my non-class hours reading up on various serious subjects. My working life followed the same pattern. Evenings would be spent reading from the scriptures or books on philosophy.

Two years back I started subscribing to six daily newspapers. Initially I would discard the supplement pages without even a glance. Then out of curiosity I started seeing the photographs of well-dressed people who generally seemed to be having a lot of fun. As days progressed I found that I would read the supplement first. I got a vicarious thrill seeing the same people being featured day after day. Somehow, I started getting a feeling of emptiness in life. Something seemed to be missing. I had this sudden urge to be with that crowd.

I consulted an old class-mate (now a corporate head honcho but nicknamed Rowdy in college), whom I went to every time I needed advice. Oh, you want to be part of the P3 crowd, he asked? I had never heard of that term before. He told me that there were two easy ways of getting in. I should join a Wine Society or an Art Society. I was a bit shocked at the first suggestion as the strongest drink I had till date was a cola. Plus, I found that I would have to buy at least ten bottles of expensive imported wine every year to retain my membership. The other suggestion was more to my liking. Unfortunately, my only links with art were cheap reprints of amateur paintings of the Eiffel Tower and India Gate respectively.

On my friend’s suggestion I joined a course called “The Science of Art appreciation”. In addition to Early, Medieval and Post-Medieval Art, this course offered Western and European art - modern and classical. Chinese, Japanese and South East Asian Art. At the end of the course I took part in a slide identification examination to evaluate the observation power of the students and their newly acquired knowledge. I was now armed with a very artistic looking certificate. The course also included free membership of the Neo-Artistic Society of South India.

I started receiving invitations to art exhibitions almost every week. Most of these were in the banquet halls of five star hotels. This would be followed by a cheese and wine session (so I had the added bonus of being a wine consumer gratis).Today, I can stare at a mediocre painting and spout such extravagances as “This artist paints with an enormous capacity for absolute empathy; a complete identification of himself with the figures he paints. He sets forth what it feels like to do something; not what somebody looks like doing it."

Life’s good!

Taxi,taxiiiii....

It was heartening to read in the press that our very own Ambassador car was voted the best taxi in the world, though one would not agree with it if one had the misfortune to take a rickety one in Kolkata. Over the years, I have travelled in taxis in several countries right from a Maruti 800 to an obscenely ostentatious Lincoln stretch limo. The experience varied from place to place.

I love getting in to conversation with taxi drivers. Unfortunately, my pseudo ‘Burra Sahib’ ego stops me from sitting in the front passenger seat. However, this does not prevent me from holding unfettered discussions with the cabbie. I suppose that being cooped up in the front seat the whole day, the driver also craves for some banter.

Taxi drivers in Singapore do not encourage idle gossip. The distances are short and they are already looking for the next passenger. They return your change exactly and are on their way. So is the average London cab driver. He is polite but the way the taxi is designed, there is no way one can have a proper dialogue. The private taxis in the UK are slightly different from the London cabs. On my first visit, there was this smart guy in a black suit with a board with my name. I presumed that he was a senior executive or the owner of the taxi company. I later found out that this was the standard uniform for these drivers.

The China cabs are a bit funny. The driver sits inside a fibreglass cage. I was quite puzzled until I was told that it was to protect the driver from a possible car-jack.Apart from this, of course, is the language barrier. At the airport, they help you with a diagram to your destination that you hand over to the driver. So, until the destination there is no conversation.

Australia has an interesting cauldron of ethnic mixture in its taxi drivers.I have been driven by cabbies from Egypt,Lebanon,CIS countries and ,off course,our very own Indian boys.Most of the Indian drivers are students,mostly from Punjab and Haryana.They take up part-time cab driving to take care of their living expenses.

In the US, things are a bit different. It is not in every city that you get a proper city cab. New York is a good example to chat with drivers as they are invariably from the Punjab (it does not matter from which side of the border). I have had a tête-à-tête in my poor Hindi about Bollywood films, the popular stars and their personal lives. In Detroit, I had a Pakistani driver. He was a qualified doctor from a proper medical college in Lahore. His was an arranged marriage with a US citizen and so relocated. Poor guy could not practice in his new country. He revealed to me that unlike Asian doctors, the US medics would never come to a quick diagnosis, in spite of clear symptoms, for fear of medical malpractice suits. There were times when the local doctors consulted him for his opinion.

However, in India itself there are varieties of taxis. The most ‘dented-and-not-painted’ ones are in Kolkata. In the seventies right in Park Street, my driver parked his car, got out and joined a morcha that was passing by. I looked silly sitting in the back seat not knowing when I would reach my destination.

One danger of becoming too familiar with the cabbie is that you end up being morally bound to be generous with the tip. Nevertheless, that is a small price to pay in return for some verbal stimulation.

Life of crime

For several years my wife has led a life of leisure, with most of her domestic work being handled by hired help. Every now and then, to make herself relevant she gets in to her house-spring-cleaning mode. I dread this because generally my belongings are her target to jettison.

Recently she unearthed from the loft a large plastic bag containing assorted items and confronted me with that. Initially I was inclined to follow Emraan Hashmi in “Ghanchakkar” and claim temporary amnesia about the contents. Instead, I decided to pursue the manly route a la John Abraham in “Shootout at Wadala” and took the flashback path to narrate my life of crime.

Like any criminal I started off in a small way. A few months in to my working life, I got a chance to travel on official work to Delhi. The hotel where I stayed was beyond anything that I had experienced. On the last day I gathered courage and put the hotel stationery in the room in my briefcase. My heart skipped several beats till I was ensconced in the safe confines of the taxi taking me to the airport.

After that I was like a shark who had tasted blood. Stationary was passé. I graduated to soap, shampoo and body lotion. As I went up the ladder and began staying at better class of hotels, the first thing I did after entering my hotel room was to check out the items ripe for the picking. Back home my collection increased to toothbrushes, combs, sewing kits, laundry bags, shoe shiners, shoehorns and a variety of ball pens. The housekeeping staff at the Trump Hotel, New York must still be mystified at the sudden disappearance of a bathrobe from one of the rooms.

I went out of control when I started my overseas travel. Anything ‘foreign or imported’ had a different aura. The airline cutlery was particularly tempting. There are still some of them being used in our home even today. Unfortunately, nowadays airlines are taking the safer route of plastic items that are not worth pilfering.

One mystery that I have not been able to solve occurred nearly forty years back. Our company CEO was on a visit to Bangalore and invited a few of the staff to a five star hotel in High Grounds. I was a staunch teetotaler those days. However, my boss convinced me that Bloody Mary was just a spicy tomato juice. I loved the taste and soon finished six of those. We then went upstairs to the Chinese restaurant for dinner. Next morning on waking up in my bachelor pad I had no recollection about what had transpired the previous night. I also had no clue how I had become a proud possessor of a red and white checked napkin that was wrapped around a set of shiny fork, knife and spoon with the hotel name engraved on them. To compound this further, there was also an unwrapped roll of toilet paper.

Today, I am a reformed criminal. But there are times when temptation mocks me. Like when I visited Barcelona…