Superstar India Page 6

  My own children, never having been exposed to such rigid structuring, take most relationships in their stride. But when it comes to formal/ceremonial occasions, there's no question of taking liberties of any kind. Kakas, Kakees, Mamas, Mamees, have to be given their due in the prescribed manner. But since weddings and funerals requiring such a show of rank and discipline are getting rarer and rarer, everybody's fine with the new, casual equation between generations.

  Today, it's a far more democratic set-up with kids having a say in even key decisions like buying a car, moving home, planning holidays. Everybody has an equal voice in the nuclear family, which can be disorienting to elders who have still to accept the new order of kids and parents being on casual, buddy-buddy terms, exchanging high fives, swilling beer, cracking risqué jokes, sharing clothes… but there it is. With a nuclear family's intense bonding, cousins, aunts and uncles have become totally marginalized. Nobody has the time to nurture these extended relationships or ‘stay in touch’. I'm ashamed to confess it has been years since I saw some of my cousins who stay in the same city. Chances are we won't recognize one another on the street. With such a complete emotional and physical disconnect there is no family road map left to consult. I have no idea how Saraswat Brahmins conduct marriages and funerals. There's no one who can guide me, except my mother's sister, who's frail and housebound. I haven't visited her in years. But at least we speak to each other on my birthday, when she calls bright and early to wish me.

  Everybody has a voice in the nuclear family, which can be disorienting to elders still to accept the new order

  My own children do not follow any specific religious practices. They are entirely unaware of which ‘caste’ they belong to on either side. They know they are born to Hindu parents, but I'm not sure this makes any difference to their existence. They eat all flesh, follow all festivals and interact with all faiths equally. Whether this is good or bad, I can't really say. Will it lead to a sense of rootlessness twenty years down the line? Will they look back on their upbringing and wonder why we didn't focus more on religious instruction? Will they fault our methods, disapprove? I dread the verdict! I shuddered at the prospect. But as a parent I accept I'll be judged harshly—it is the fate that goes with the job! What does concern me are my own ambivalent feelings towards ‘traditional’ celebrations. If and when the children do get married, how on earth will I fulfil my obligations? I loathe the idea of six-or even four-day ‘events’. I would prefer them to exchange their vows in the privacy of our home, with only the few who matter in their lives being present to witness their joy. I would restrict the guest list and focus on keeping things quick and simple. But will I be given the choice?

  Extravagant weddings are such a collosal waste—why not give the young couple a better start to their lives by giving them money instead of an elaborate mehendi-sangeet-reception with a cast of thousands of strangers? Big weddings are a nightmare—people come, people eat and drink, people leave, people criticize and people forget. All that effort, planning, anxiety, insecurity, spread over months, goes straight down the tube. A few years later, something goes ‘phut’ and the marriage is called off. But does that matter any more?

  Last week I received an elaborate, gold-edged invitation to a beautiful young woman's third wedding! I was both astonished and delighted… why not? Here's a gal who refuses to give up, like Liz Taylor. She obviously loves getting married and wants each wedding to be extra-special, with all possible trimmings in place. This is the new India— nobody blinks when the bride says, ‘I do’ for the third time, surrounded by the very people who've attended her previous shaadis. She invites former husbands and countless exes who show up sportingly to wish the newly-weds. This is not a Bollywood script. It is happening… and if some sour-puss aunt does not approve… well, she needn't join the party!

  Desis are dirty

  It all started with Shilpa Shetty and Big Brother—the reality show in Britain that brought several sensitive issues out into the open. Tormented and taunted on the show by other participants, Ms Shetty was accused by them of being a ‘dirty Indian…’ This was after a particularly disastrous attempt by Shilpa at impressing her housemates with chicken curry cooked by her, and eaten, desi-style, using her fingers instead of cutlery. Did that make Shilpa ‘dirty’? One of the barbs flung at her after she picked onions out of the gravy was ‘God knows where those hands have been…’ There were other references to ‘odd’ Indian habits by the inmates of the Big Brother house.

  Soon after this controversy had blown into a ridiculous racist war, I found myself at a very posh Steak House in Dubai, enjoying a late-night dinner with two polished gentlemen, one of whom was thirty-something and very ‘cool’. He was the New Indian with Attitude (it comes with money and success on foreign shores). He'd ordered ribs with rice on the side. The steak knives we were given (you know these lethal-looking ones with serrated edges?) were doing their job efficiently enough with the filet mignon. But the Cool Dude would have none of this. He attacked his ribs ‘n’ rice with his fingers (most Neanderthal, I thought admiringly), consuming the mess in exactly the same way most Indians slurp down a thali heaped with mounds of rice drowning in sambar. The other, older gentleman stated his disapproval while looking around embarrassedly to see whether other diners (mostly Whites) had noticed. The Cool Dude continued to wallop down his ribs ‘n’ rice with gusto, stopping briefly between mouthfuls to say. ‘Chill out… I'm paying for the meal… I can eat it any which way I want to… oh, by the way, do we correct foreigners who tackle chappatis with a knife and fork? I find that equally absurd.’ Hmmm. Good perspective. Is this what they mean by India Poised?

  Newcomers to India are often startled by the prolonged guttural throat-clearing that follows every intake of food or drink. We think nothing of excusing ourselves from the table and heading straight for the nearest washbasin. If we could, we'd carry our stainless steel tongue cleaners with us, wherever we go, such is the dependence on keeping our palate free of any residue.

  The first time foreigners witness, or rather hear, this gargling operation, they jump nearly out of their skins. ‘Is the person gagging? Something wrong?’ ‘Yes, I mean, no— the person is okay—just clearing his throat,’ we offer helpfully. The sounds are pretty alarming—like a gut-spilling exercise after an extended choking bout. That we indulge in this disgusting-to-others practice without the least self-consciousness is another example of our, ‘I am so-o-o-o clean… I nearly vomit out my meal minutes after consuming it.’ Well—others subjected to the sound effects produced nearly upchuck theirs! But do we care?

  ‘Dirty Indians’ on one level, seems ironical, given our age-old mantra, ‘Cleanliness is next to Godliness.’ Most Indians would like to believe that's exactly how they lead their lives. Most homes will be reasonably neat and tidy, some homes obsessively so. But behind the chakmak lies another story—what you don't want in your own home is nonchalantly flung out of the window into the neighbour's compound. As long as your personal space remains pristine and you can look around with a satisfied, smug grin at a ‘clean’ kitchen, who cares that the rotting garbage has been selfishly deposited in someone else's space? Living in a high-rise myself, I'm appalled at the used sanitary napkins, stained underwear, empty cans and even bits of broken furniture that are frequently found in the driveway of what is considered one of India's most expensive pieces of real estate. Who are these people who think nothing of chucking their dirt out of an open window? Why—my worthy neighbours, of course. So-called educated, urban Indian elite, with the latest BMW parked downstairs.

  The idea of using garbage bins is a comparitively new one to Indians. Public parks (the few we have) do feature bins, but most get stolen (what use would anybody have for such a container? You'd be surprised!) or are simply ignored. People discard wrappers, cola cans, condoms, plastic water bottles, leftovers—oh, just about anything they no longer need—anywhere and everywhere. Our beaches are strewn with plastic—aggressive bans or awareness cam
paigns have done little to remedy the situation. ‘Have garbage, will throw’, seems to be the mantra as even posh people in Merc SLs roll down tinted windows to spit out a stream of betel juice. Our railway stations are perhaps the dirtiest in the world. They stink, they assault the senses and one can hardly take a step without putting one's foot into something disgusting—this includes the shit of children encouraged to empty their bowels on tiny pieces of paper placed on the platform. Uncleared garbage overflows from dumps all over the city, even though municipal workers try and deal with mounds rotting for days, even months. The hovels and slums with open sewers make one wonder whether the so-called ‘quality of life’ can sink any lower. Sub-human conditions appal the unwary, with rabbit-sized rats scurrying around mountains of putrefying muck. Add the unrelenting lashing of Mumbai's monsoon rains, and you can figure out for yourself just how fragrant India's premier city really is, behind the veneer of spit and polish.

  Personal vs public hygiene, reflects the average Indian's essential selfishness. It is said we are too individualistic as a people, that we think of ourselves before we think of us an a nation. Nowhere is this self-centredness more evidend than in our response to garbage. So long as the dirt isn't at our own doorstep, we really don't give a damn… or, er… shit!

  The story is pretty different in India's villages, where over 70 per cent of the population live. Many years ago, I was in a village called Bani in Saurashtra, and was mesmerized by its beauty. Apart from the embroidery and other crafts skills which have found world markets, it was the cleanliness of the entire community that impressed me. The mud-covered circular hut interiors, lined with gleaming brass utensils, were far more attractive ‘spaces’ than any of the elaborate ‘Italian’ kitchens with parquet flooring that have captured the imagination of middle-class Indians. Nearly every new ad for a residential complex features those pseudo-Italian kitchens with granite-topped island-stations and fancy chimneys to take care of stale curry smells. The Bani story repeated itself several times over, across India. But with a significant difference—rural abodes in Maharashtra may have been equally neat and clean, but the village dwelling was rarely minus overflowing gutters and outhouses that consisted of four bamboos covered with old rags or torn sarees located just a few metres away from the huts. The village well and its environs were rarely cleaned, with moss growing along the inside of the walls and muddy patches where the water pots were lined up. Personal hygiene was another matter, even in Bani, where the scarce water situation in the harsh desert meant wearing the same set of clothes day in and day out till they were threadbare. Baths were an equal rarity, leaving the clinging, rancid smell of sweat and stored butter hanging in the air.

  Is it just our food habits that offend the West? I knew, while visiting friends in New York, that the snooty doorman, taking one look at my saree, would smirk before saying, ‘Oh… Indian… just follow the curry-smell to the 15th floor…’ He was not wrong. I don't know what it is about our spices, or whether the real culprit is the insulation in cold countries, but one can actually smell out a desi family, thanks to the masala trail. ‘Follow your nose,’ I was told in Germany, when I asked for an Indian restaurant. So, how come we don't feel as overwhelmed by our masalas back home in India? Same spices, same cooking. Our apartment block doesn't smell of biryani or sambar. Even our homes don't exude strong odours, unless the drapes are made of velvet and there are no windows in sight.

  But these are poor alibis and excuses. The sad truth of the matter is that Indians are dirty. But Indian dirt is different from phirangi dirt. It is a cultural thing— we find the fact that most Europeans don't brush their teeth really disgusting. We are also convinced they rarely bathe, especially in winter. We insist they smell, which is why they have such an aggressive perfumes and deodorants industry. But despite their best efforts to camouflage their B.O., our sensitive noses manage to detect the revolting combo of cigarettes, beer, beef and strong coffee. We also stare disapprovingly at the lank, limp, stringy blond hair of Westerners and wonder whether they ever shampoo it thoroughly, or is it just sprayed into place every day? Oh— and of course, we know they prefer toilet paper to water, and that fact alone is enough to make Indians cover their open mouths with horror. Westerners watch the row of silent squatters along a highway doing their ‘jobs’ in full public view and cover their eyes! Often, I'm asked, ‘Where are all these people going, carrying cans of water?’ I can't get myself to say bluntly and crudely. ‘To shit…’ So I answer. ‘To bathe their cows…’

  It's too depressing to explain that for millions of Indians, there are no lavatories—just holes they dig in the soil, or a favourite kerbside spot. Right across from where I live, I see a familiar sight every morning, as residents of the slum close by walk in a single file across a long, narrow path built into the bay. They space themselves very carefully (five feet between each defecating individual), and chat companionably as they perform their morning ablutions. No self-consciousness, no shame. Men only.

  I have never ever spotted a woman in all these years. So… when and where do women ‘go’? In the dead of the night behind the mangroves, an informer tells me. But what if a woman has the urge to ‘go’ some other time? ‘It is not an option, she has to suppress the urge,’ is the prompt reply. Children of both sexes use the footpath all through the day. Little girls sit together, singing songs, with the little boys at a short distance. The girls hold up their frocks, the boys wear just tattered T-shirts. At some stage in the little girls' lives, they stop peeing or crapping in public. My guess is that happens once they begin to menstruate. The boys join the men, at the onset of puberty.

  There is no place for pedestrians to walk on, given the piles of excreta lying in rows. Seeing this sad situation, a neighbour who'd came back after twenty years in America thought of an ingenious plan. He positioned his domestic help at strategic points along the seafront right in front of our complex. His staff were given bundles of two-rupee notes and instructed to hand them out to potential crappers as an incentive to go do their thing further down the road. It must've worked, for I could no longer catch the morning crowd, determinedly adding fertilizer to the small patch of garden near the shore. The air is slightly cleaner now, but also because some social organization has constructed a sauchalaya close by. These public conveniences charge a small fee, but for the slum-dwellers it's still unaffordable— imagine six members of a family shelling out ten rupees per day for the use of a toilet. That's a lot of money for a family getting by on perhaps one thousand rupees a month. Combine that stench with the sharp foul smell of rotting fish, and even this helpful system comes crashing down.

  *

  As I drove home from a meeting one day, I watched a large group of foreign tourists taking video clips of a group of naked urchins bathing in a temporary water tank on Marine Drive. The children were entirely oblivious to their stares as they splashed around happily in the filthy water—the same that had been used to wash a pile of clothes earlier. I thought to myself, ‘At least these kids are bathing… when was the last time these camera-toting guys had any contact with water and soap?’ Yes… one does become defensive. Toilet paper? Ha! Imagine wandering around with a dirty, smelly bum all your life. Yuck. Any Indian doctor will tell you how unhygienic it is to not wash thoroughly after emptying one's bowels. How infections thrive and travel when the toilet paper treatment is inadequately performed. So, how dare those paperwallahs laugh at us? We may not use forks and knives to eat our food—but even a villager keeps his teeth clean with a rustic ‘toothbrush’ made of neem twigs—neem, the natural antiseptic that we, superior Indians, have been using for centuries, much before Dettol and antibiotics arrived on the scene.

  And yet, walk into any kiraana store today, and the array of personal hygiene products will stagger you. Not so long ago, India's range of hair care, skin care, body pampering and related ‘eesentials’ would've barely filled a shelf. Today, there are any number of brands vying for consumer attention. You can get them all—
from creams that take care of crow's feet and cost an arm and a leg, to hair gels smelling delightfully of favourite fruits that address styling issues for men and women. Personal grooming for both sexes is a number one priority, and it is not uncommon to see more and more men undergoing facials/manicures/ pedicures/bleaching/waxing/eyebrow-threading in unisex salons across the country. If anything, men's beauty products form the fastest growing segment in the same space. And not surprisingly, make-up artists are being booked well in advance by bridegrooms who want to out-glow their brides.

  Outer beauty is certainly competing with the so-called ‘inner beauty’ that pageant queens make a mandatory reference to before winning their tinsel crowns. Going by the aggressive promos of deodorants, I imagine Indians are becoming increasingly aware of the B.O. problem in the tropics. But paradoxically enough, the same people who douse their armpits with overpowering deo-sprays, continue to wear polyester clothing, synthetic bras and nylon underwear. God help you if you're trapped in a slow elevator going to the top floor of a high-rise. The odours are enough to gag you. Ditto for sliding into the backseat of a limo with the smartly-attired chauffeur sweating buckets under his dark polyester suit. So… yes, we've started placing bathroom fresheners in the loo, pot-pourri satches in our cupboards and dried lavender petals next to our beds. These have replaced natural ventilation and camphor, evening dhoop and neem branches, which in the old days would keep mosquitoes, ants, cockroaches and bad smells away.

  Homes back then were certainly far more eco-friendly, with cross-ventilation, mud or cow-dung-washed floors, large doorways and high ceilings. But not one of our award-winning architects and Page 3 interior designers bother to address our actual housing requirements when they design their Legolands and win prizes for thrusting uncomfortable living concepts on bewildered people who'd rather keep their options open. The bigger pity is that in our rush to live a ‘modern’ life, we've shut ourselves off in hermetically-sealed boxes. Most ads for new, ghastly apartment blocks boast of several amenities that seem a bit crazy and out-of-context. Jacuzzis, shower stalls with the latest showerheads? When, in reality even the poshest Indians prefer ‘bucket baths’, pouring their own mix of hot-and-cold water over their bodies using lotas (silver for the rich, steel for the poor). These make for the most satisfying baths. If an Indian wants a shower, he waits for rain!