3:2 Debate Is Life, The Rest Is Just Prep-Time. Chapter 1

This is part 1 in a series of 4 parts. Scroll up for later parts....

In the north of our country, storytelling is not just a way of life but also one of its basic necessities. A man may have no qualification, no job, no woman, he may be penniless but he’s never really poor unless he’s out of stories, at least not up north. Anyone who’s been there will know what I’m talking about. Come sundown, the towns and cities retire from their bustle and scatter into little groups. In these groups they narrate tale after yarn after anecdote, the stories being rooted equally in fact, fable and hearsay. Around their fireplaces they gather, and listen wide-eyed. The lady of the house serves an unending stream of tikkas, kebabs and pakoras. The grandfathers tell tales from the partition, the grannies stories from the Mahabharata and the dads recount old Tendulkar lore from the nineties. The mommies do their bit with the story of how Mrs. Sharma next door hasn’t fed her family anything but khichdi ever since she had her second child.

One might wonder what business these people had doing any of this when they could be watching Ekta Kapoor’s gems on TV or surfing the internet mindlessly, just like the rest of the country did. One might ask what sense it made to spend every evening doing something so utterly unproductive and useless, especially in the midst of a recession.

Without offence to anyone, the questions are laughable at best. As anyone with even a slightest sense of the Indian north will tell you, this ritual is not optional and storytelling is not a choice for the people to make. Such a way of life is pre-ordained by the land and its rich history. The more logical will tell you that this is how things inevitably are when a region is so gloriously encumbered by hundreds of intermingling cultures sprouted from all parts of the last 5000 years. They will tell you that when there is a tale around every nukkad and a legend surrounding every mohalla, then no other way of life is preferred. Nay, not preferred, possible. No other way of life is even possible.

Many of you disbelieve me I’m sure. You think I exaggerate. So did many of my friends in college, especially the debating ones who thought they could argue against this evidence. Then the epic Delhi trip happened and they never doubted me again. This is a story from that land of stories.

3:2

We were a motley group of six, travelling to Delhi for the same reason we always did, to debate. Turns out most of the good parliamentary debates in the country happen in Delhi. Ever so often you would find us aboard a low cost airline or a train headed to Delhi to try our skills at some national debate. To be honest, we were minnows at these competitions, historically disadvantaged (no seniors had ever been good at this and therefore we had no-one to coach us) and educationally challenged (engineering doesn’t help much with debating, and we were often up against law schools). Yet we participated often, and practiced eagerly, in the hope that we would, one day, some day, far in the future, perhaps, maybe, hopefully, God willing, amount to something at a national debate. To complicate matters, the institute didn’t pay a penny for all this travelling, in fact they didn’t even approve of us skipping lectures and labs to attend these debates. If that wasn’t enough, our debating society wasn’t granted official recognition by the cultural council either. Damn, they didn’t even let me mention it on my resume.

But we still debated, risking attendance, cajoling professors into letting us miss that one lab, adjusting marks for that one quiz, passing us this one time. We still debated despite getting severely clubbed by the competition on each occasion. There was something noble about it, not giving up at something you really wanted to be good at, despite biting the dust so many times. And there was something innocent in the way Suddu, at the beginning of every trip, still believed that this would be the one where he would finally “get it with a girl”.

Anyway, this time around we were there for the Premchand Debate, Hindu College’s national debate. As always, we dreamt of breaking. For the uninitiated, “breaking” in debating terms refers to making it past the league stage of a tournament, into the quarterfinals. Few teams from our college had ever broken at any debate, and none at Premchand.

[The airplane taking us there was oddly asymmetrical. It had three seats on one side of the aisle and two on the other.]

As soon as we landed in Delhi, we began to see representatives of the storytelling culture. These people are everywhere. They seem to be ordinary citizens performing ordinary tasks but in truth they are the appointed upholders of the tradition of storytelling. The ones dressed as taxi drivers tell unending tales of “fuel price hike” and “having to come back empty” and “how the poor man suffers”. The ones pretending to be bathroom attendants sing ballads of how the government forgot to pay them and how tips from good Samaritans were keeping them alive. Then there is always the one who is dressed as a software engineer fallen on hard times. He tells a good tale and is the chief of the storytellers. To listen to his story you have to pay with your baggage, though you’re usually unaware of this little detail till the narration is over and you look behind you where your bags used to be.

In Delhi, storytelling isn’t a mere pastime, it’s an industry.

[The cab that took us to our accommodation had a weird set of headlights. More accurately, there were flashlights attached to the front where the headlights should have been, three on one side and two on the other]

To be continued....

Of Menstruating Men and Peeved Women

A friend of mine recently landed himself into a remarkable and unexpected kind of soup. The results of this incident were so shocking, at least to my friend and I, that days 1 through 5 of the female cycle will never be the same to us again. Without any delay, here’s what happened:

It was about a quarter to seven in the morning. No, no one was fresh and bouncy, everyone had been up all night preparing for PAF (Performing Arts Festival), which is quite a major event around here and taken rather seriously too. Anyway, my friend, always cheerful, was doing his best to keep the spirits of the team high. His attempts were directed in the only direction he knew anything about, that of one-liners and situational guffaws. As is always the case, the opportunity to yank out a laugh presented itself soon enough.

A freshie (first year) had decided to become the centre of all attention. Not for very fun reasons either. This kid had a presentation at 12.30 the same afternoon. You know, the kind of presentation that you uninterestedly make in class to elucidate some irrelevant point to a bunch of other uninterested no-good freshmen. He was cribbing that he needed to go, that this presentation meant the world to him, that they couldn’t keep him here like this, that this whole PAF thing was a sham etc etc. Funny story, no one was asking him to stay either. To quote the director verbatim, he said, “Arey jaa na yaar, kaunsa bahut badaa role kar rahaa hai tu (Whatever, leave if you will, its not as though you’re playing any major character anyway).”

Of course, this only sparked the freshie’s anger even more and he began to make faces that can only be analogized with the mating behavior of a baboon. He danced around yelling his dissent. He called out names that in another institute would call for some serious ragging or at least a thorough washing of his mouth with soap. He threw his hands around in a funny little tantrum, much to everyone’s amusement. In short, he was behaving erratic. Perhaps even hormonal. In fact, if you thought about it in a funny way, you might even say that he was PMSing. Yes you might say that, but would you get away with it?

Back to my friend, who was noticing all this and waiting for the right moment to quip in. As this kid jumped off the stairs in the Open Air Theatre and was just about to leave, my friend found his chance. He called out, “Toto,” this was the silly name his character had in the play, “Tera period chal raha hai kya? (Toto, is it that time of the month?)” Just as expected, the crowd couldn’t stop laughing for the next minute or so. The solitary girl who was still around at this hour was having difficulty standing because of how much she was laughing. Toto, of course, walked off in a huff.

Anyway, when practice was supposed to resume again that evening, there was a very noticeable dearth of ladies. A grand total of zero had shown up. Somewhat irate, the director called up the ladies. The response at the other end was startling, to say the least.

Director: Hi, how come you guys aren’t at the practice yet?

Ladies: We’re not coming.

Director: Not coming, what? Why not?

Ladies: Why should we come, if you guys talk like this…

Director: Like what?

Ladies: Hrmph…you know what I’m talking about, we’re not coming.

As one can imagine, the director, with only a day left for the PAF, had little choice but to beg and plead with the ladies. The team spent another hour or so cajoling the ladies into showing up and assuring them that nothing of the sort would happen again, even though none of them had any idea what had happened. They came ultimately, they were always going to, I mean a lot was at stake for their hostel as well.

When they did ultimately decide to turn up, word trickled out slowly that their reluctance to practice may have had something to do with someone having said something disrespectful about women and their periods. A little shell-shocked, my friend began to investigate. He knew one of the ladies better than the others and asked her what had happened.

“Some bastard thought he could get away with being a Male Chauvinist Pig”, she said to him. When my friend gently indicated that he may have been the aforementioned pig and tried to explain himself, he was greeted with a tirade of the sort that one expects only from parents, teachers or bosses.

He tried telling her that the kid was behaving erratic, that the joke was directed at the kid and not the lady. That it is common to ascribe hormonal behavior as menstruating, that the joke was a joke because it was directed at a guy, that he meant no ill, that he had picked up that kind of joke from certain women itself, but all in vain. The lady was convinced he was sexist. She talked down to him and told him, “I can’t believe it’s you who I’ve been abusing all day, I had a higher opinion of you.” After some more chiding, she left him with the classic, “Periods hona koi gaali hai kya? (Is it a bad word (sin) to menstruate?) ” and walked away.

By this time, even my friend was quite convinced that he was, in fact, a sexist bastard. The discovery that the girl he had seen laughing so hard that morning had gone back to her hostel and spent the larger part of the day crying didn’t help his happiness levels much either. Confused and seeking redemption elsewhere, he narrated his tale another one of the ladies. She summarily dismissed his explanation with, “Don’t lie, you made the period joke because he wasn’t dancing with the others, didn’t you?”

Finally, one of the ladies told him the only thing that made sense to him that day, “Just don’t say anything about this periods-weriods at all yaar”. Exhausted and convinced of the force of that argument, he gave up and resumed practice.

I’m not sure what really happened to spark off such a reaction that day, but one thing’s for sure, my friend has deleted PMS/Period jokes from his repertoire for good. Quite a pity too, I rather enjoyed them while they lasted.

The Things I'll Do For A JoB

It's summer. Not summer like the way it is in Mumbai, where its fashionable to bitch about how hot it is. No. I'm talking about a real summer here.

Summer like 45 degrees C and 4% humidity.

Summer in the way that water supply is limited to once in two days.

Summer in the way that people pray for the safe return of those who venture out during the day.

Summer in the way that you wish that God would throw a planet sized bucket of water on the Sun and douse its anger even if just for an instant.

This is Bhopal, and when most of Bhopal's population is vacationing somewhere saner, I've decided to head here. However, my trip here is not some miscalculated holiday. I'm here because, as a wise man once said, I need a job.

[
Why in Bhopal?

Here's why:

I often mock people who stay stuck in Mumbai all their lives. I laugh at them for being closed to the experiences that other places offer. I rubbish their claim that Mumbai is the best place in the country because most of them have never lived outside it (I have, btw). I breezily dismiss their contention that they manage to get a feel of other places simply by visiting them. I often preach to these folks that they need to stay in a place at least for a few months to really experience it.

So when I got a chance to practice what I so vehemently preach, I jumped at it. That's how I find myself in Bhopal. That's also how I realise that in 5 days outside it, I miss Mumbai just as much as any of these people .In fact, I can't wait to get back there.

]

My welcome to Bhopal was eventful. The pick up car developed a flat a few seconds after take off. The driver treated this like your average everyday event and went about fixing it on his own. It took half an hour to get started again. That's when the air conditioning hit the wall and I was treated to 17 kms of dust storms early in the morning.

The following day I went to work, which is about 30kms in the direction of even hotter. Our transport was, of course, not air conditioned. I got through the day with the usual first day ritual. You know, medical tests, laptop allocation, email setup etc etc.

On the way back there was a group of 3 gentlemen sitting in the back. In the paralysing heat, with dust blowing in every visible direction and with a 30 km journey just beginning, I felt like my end was near. These guys, however, looked like they couldn't care less. They were having a deeply philosophical conversation. One of them was quoting freely from the Ramayana, Gita, Mahabharata, whatever. He would quote, then pause to explain and then ask for doubts. The others were infinitely curious and they kept quizzing him on the rehasya of what he was quoting.

All this was in perfect Hindi, not a word of anything else. No Hinglish, no Urdu dilution.

At first I was pissed. I mean it's the hottest place on Earth, the least they could do was shut up. But then I started listening, and very soon I was captivated. I got lost in the what they spoke and how they said it. I guess there's something magical when a language is spoken the way it was meant to be. Something magical when people speak of things written millennia ago but with each thought still as fresh today as it was when it was first thought. When the accents of the people are so in harmony with the region that their conversation is intriguing even when the sun is furious and the land is on fire.

Thirty minutes later, I'd completely forgotten the heat and the dust. In fact, I would've stayed in that vehicle a lot longer had I not reached my stop. It was only my first day, and I'd already managed to get a taste of India. The kind of taste that Mumbai can never offer. Maybe this place wasn't going to be that bad after all.

My dad always tells me that "you don't get nothing worthwhile without a sacrifice, and if you do you won't like it". On Day 2 I was asked to make my first sacrifice. I was being issued my safety boots and respirator when suddenly a gentleman came up to me with a smile on his face. It was the kind of smile that clearly says, "I may be smiling, but this is going to be fun only for me".

He said, "Sir mujhe ek baat kehni hai......yeh jo ....matlab..... aap apnee daadi udwaa lo" (Sir, there's something I have to say......your beard has to go). Aghast I looked at him unbelievingly. My beard??!! Why in God's name??

He continued, "Sir woh jo respirator hai usmein suffocation ho sakta hai, french cut se bhi..." (The beard can cause suffocation in the respirator, even if it's a french beard).

"French!....French!!!!!", I thought. This was no French beard! It was my very own self styled little crop. How dare he call it French!

Collecting myself, I realised that singed as I was about what he called it, the fact that he wanted me to get rid of it was probably a bigger issue. I stuttered all over the place, "Par...par ...par aap logon kee toh sabki moonche hain!" (But all of you have mosutaches).

He replied without the slightest change in his smiley expression, "Haan Sir moonch chalti hai". (Sure, a moustache is permitted).

Then he went on to politely tell me that even being unkempt (except for the moustache, of course) was "red-line behaviour" and all that could befall me if I were to behave in a "red-line" manner. The smile never faded, by the way.

Now here's the thing about my beard. The last time I was seen without it was years back. I'd had it shaved as an experiment. The experiment had caused me to face much ridicule (pun intended), lose half my friends (they disowned me) and not be able to go out with my family (they didn't want to be seen with me in public). Back then I'd decided that the beard and I would never part again. As Suddu put it, "Dude, I think a naked upper lip is just not your thing".

But who would explain all this to this heartless gentleman. So casually he asked me to snip it off, like it was no big deal.

Sigh! I knew I had to do it. The next morning, my chin saw the light of day after years in waiting. I didn't get rid of the moustache though, I thought it was best to hold on to whatever I could.

That was the sacrifice. The first of many, I assume.

Ahh, such are the times and such is life, the things I'll do for a job!!

Who do I vote for?

Having become a registered voter, who to vote for suddenly becomes a real question. Not a question as in hey-lets-debate-who-to-vote-for, but as in who to vote for next week. Real in the way that you've spent all your life so far talking about democracy and freedom of choice and representative government and blah blah...... but well, here's the chance to actually give it a shot.

Then the realisation hits home that despite the infinite fundae I distribute to people on governance (for free, no-less), I have no idea who to vote for.

Yes. Who do I vote for?

What do I base my decision on? What's the crux-factor, so to speak?
Everything gained seems to be at the at the cost of something even more important.

I mean, they tell me the following are the questions I have to answer:

Should I vote for a good MP from my area (so work happens in my constituency) or should I try and influence the right government coming to power at the centre?
Do I regard path-breaking progress such as the nuclear deal more important than homeland security?
Do I want a progressive economy or a stable one?

etc etc....


More realistically, my options often read:

Should I opt for the regionalism of the MNS or the moral policing of the Shiv Sena?
Should I choose rampant minority appeasement or blatant saffronisation?
Should I choose riots in Gujarat or genocide in Orissa?
Should I choose a government that doesn't value good international relations or one that sits impotent in the face of 16 major terror strikes?
Do I opt for a government that has real economic thinkers within it but has allies who claim they will get rid of mechanised farming and computers?
Do I choose a government that's losing grip over Kashmir or one that fuels communal disharmony?

Needless to say, the responsibility attached to my vote has hit home.
As for who to vote for, I still don't know.

Any ideas (fast!)?

Are We Ready For Women's Equality?

There is no dispute that women in India were given less than their due for most of the last millennium. There is no dispute that this inequality needed to be straightened out in Independent India. Again, there is no contention to the fact that the issue was social as much as legal.

In India, the status quo stayed simple for most of the last millennium: Women would be given virtually no regard in public life. At home they were given respect as masters of the home domain and the bearers of children.

Then came the British and ingrained ideas of "ladies-first" and chivalry into our social fabric.

Today, with women undoubtedly far ahead of where they stood in pre-Independence India, we arrive at two inevitable predicaments: 1. Equality vs. Chivalry 2. Discrimination vs. Reverse Discrimination.

On the first predicament:We're used to treating women with special respect and dignity. It's the gentlemanly thing to do. To let the ladies walk through first while you hold the door open for them, to wait while the ladies sit down first, to serve them first at dinner, to have a special queue for them at rail reservation counters etc etc. However when women are to be regarded as equal, all this is a confusing contradiction. Equality is essentially first-come-first-serve, not ladies-first. It entails an even platform for all the equal parties, in this case, men and women.

On the second predicament. We as a society are now well aware of the taboo that is discrimination against women. Not only that, we’re extremely wary of it. Woe betide anyone who says, does or feels anything that may be even remotely regarded as sexist. So great is our fear of being branded chauvinist that now we don't mind discriminating against men just so everyone is clear that we're on the politically correct side. A simple case of reverse discrimination.

Not convinced? This entry will now go on to explore a few scenarios where the above issues come starkly into view.

Consider now the issue of women's reservation. The overwhelming claim, from women everywhere is that they're equal and should be treated as much. That our laws and people should recognise the strength of the Indian woman and let her compete on an equal footing with her fellow male. Fair enough, but then on what grounds can we justify 33% reservation for women in educational institutes, jobs and government? Reservation by definition identifies a particular group as weaker/less developed and caters to help them out. It is, in its very concept, an unequal idea. Equality entails competing fairly with the rules of the game same for everyone. Reservation involves making things unequally easy for one group at the expense of another.

If we are to go ahead with reservation for women (which it seems we will), we brand them as unequal for all eternity. Not only that, other kinds of reservation have shown us that when we set reservation for women at 33% we will ensure that their participation in the reserved spheres will never go beyond 33% . That our idealistic figure of an equal 50-50 will never be achieved. Yet, statistics have it that a majority of women are in favour of reservation. Why? Is the demand for equality or special treatment?

Let’s now go on to infidelity laws in our country. As of now, a woman in India cannot be criminally charged with infidelity/adultery. Not even as an accomplice to the crime! In all cases of infidelity the woman is regarded as a victim and a victim only (Am I the only one who finds this outrageous?). So recently some good soul decided this was unequal and pushed for making the law more equal, such that even women who committed adultery could be subjected to criminal proceedings. What happened next? Women's rights groups all over the country were suddenly up in arms against the proposed change. Their contention was that this wouldn't solve the issue of infidelity and extra-marital affairs.
Firstly, I don't see how a law against infidelity will not serve to deter offenders. Secondly, even if it doesn't, how about we go through we go ahead with it because it's the fair and equal thing to do. Equality, isn't that why these women's rights groups exist in the first place anyway?

Let's come to the issue of equal employment opportunity now. At my college we recently had placements and internship selections. One of my friends applied to a global oil giant for an internship. A little background: The institute we study in has a 5% female population. The oil major who was selecting students apparently has a "very healthy male-female ratio". During the selections, my friend (an excellent debater) took charge of his group discussion session and gave it direction, meaning and coherence. The only other person who spoke during the entire GD session was another guy. At the end of it all, it turned out my friend didn't make it. Two ladies who were also part of the group however, made the cut. Like I said before, these ladies spoke nothing. Confused, my friend approached the interviewers. Which is when he was told about the "very healthy male-female ratio" and how it was essential to the company to maintain this to avoid coming off as "unequal".
Now let's analyse what really happened here, despite the blatant claim of equality made by this oil giant.
The college has 5% women and 95% men. Let's assume the applicants were in a similar ratio. Now the oil giant wants an "equal" number of men and women. So let's say for every hundred applicants they select 2. One male and one female. Since 95 of these hundred are guys, 1 guy gets selected out of 95. That makes his selection probability 1.05%. In the women's category however, 1 woman gets selected out of the 5. So the selection probability for a woman is 20%. This, apparently, is equality. It doesn't take much to see the very plain reverse discrimination here. Forgive the men for feeling just a little discriminated against.

Now let's analyse what is perhaps more important than any of the issues above. The matter of general attitudes towards women. Most of us are comfortable with the idea that men will take care of women. That they need taking care of. This manifests itself in daily life all the time. For example, it is customary for the guy to pay if a couple is out on a date. As another, we allow a separate queue for women at reservation counters.We have seating reserved for women on buses. All very gentlemanly, all very polite. Yet it is this very presumption of the "inherent weakness of women" that causes us so much grief. When society agrees that women must be taken care of by men, then it automatically implies that women will hardly be allowed to compete equally with them. That they may receive the love and affection a child gets, but never the mutual respect of an equal. In a much worse scenario, each time a woman is abused/molested/raped, it is a reflection of society's feeling that women are somehow less than men. Do we really want this to continue despite our urgent desire for equality?

When we talk of any equality, we have to accept that it cannot co-exist with special treatment. Moreover, what everyone needs to understand is that if we hope to achieve real equality, we have to oppose inequality at each instance, even when it favours us.

In summary, India has to make a choice. The choice between giving women a special place in society and letting them remain unequal or letting them become equal and removing many of the privileges that they currently enjoy. Essentially, we need to ask ourselves if we're really ready for real equality for women, and men.

Germania and the Germanians

(This post is a little old. It lay unpublished in the drafts for a while)

In almost two months amongst the Germanians, in Germania, what strikes me as most remarkable is that I still don't know a single complete sentence in Deutsch. Evidently, it's not really a language you can pick up by listening to people.
Does that mean much to me?
Well, I've reached the stage where I'm so used to people saying things I don't remotely understand, that I find it hard to notice when someone is addressing me even in English. So I would say that it does.

What's far more interesting than the Germans' Deutsch however, is their English, or Dinglish as many call it.
I understand that all Germanfolk learn English in school. At a level such that about all of them, can communicate at least in rudimentary English (except the ones who will later go on to work at travel desks, it seems). Most do better.

However, given their relative unfamiliarity with the English of regular use, the scope for unintended puns and unforeseen innuendo is boundless. This entry is about just a few such jewels.

Funnily enough, the colloquial word for "Goodbye" has "Choos" as its German equivalent. To add to this, the local Schwabish dialect has "ley" as a frequently used suffix. So in short, it was common for people to tell me to "choos ley" while parting. (In the hope that my blog may someday have an international readership, "choos ley" = suck it, in Hindi). In time I began to derive a sick sort of pleasure by responding in kind.

Take the case of the young hulk I happened to meet at the gym. I noticed he was lifting weights equal to a small truck. However he was using a lot of ten and twenty pound weights instead of a few heavier ones. Being in need of some light weights, i dragged a couple of heavier ones to where he was and asked him if he'd switch four tens each for my two forties.
Before anything else, his eyes went wide and popped outwards slightly. I wasn't alarmed. I'd seen that look before. It was the look of someone who was thrown into the world of Deutsch -English translation without warning. Regaining his composure he told me (accompanied by numerous meaningless hand gestures), "No no!! No....I'm climaxing!". Needless to say, he had no clue why I spent the next couple of minutes rolling on the floor.

This other time I wanted to put me a chair on my balcony and rest my tired workingboy legs in the fresh air. The balcony being a shared one, I casually asked the girl next door of she'd mind me putting out some furniture. Thrusting her head and neck backwards inexpleciably, she told me in a flurry of words "Because not, because not!!". A little confused, I decided it was probably best to abandon the idea altogether. Five minutes later there was a hurried knocking on my balcony door and from outside I could hear her screaming in explanation, "I mean 'of course not', not 'because not', I mean 'of course not'".

Apparently the potential for such unknown gaffes is not limited to the average German speaking person. It extends even to those who are in-charge of writing notices or printing signboards. At the laboratory where I worked, there hung a seemingly nondescript board over us all. On it were these words of profound wisdom: "Drawers may unclasp if rack is tilted". Every morning when I walked in there it took a lot on my part to resist the urge to scribble a little "Amen to that!" underneath it.
In a similar incident at the mall, an area was marked as "ränd central". No comment there really.

All in all, if you're one for language tourism, then Germany's the place to be.

Suddu's Adventures in Lokhandwala Market

When i was only about six months of age, my parents decided to go vegetarian. For a variety of reasons, health being primary among them. They decided, however, that I could eat anything I wanted and when I was old enough, I could make the veg/non-veg choice on my own.

The decision to quit all things non vegetarian was not an easy one for my Dad, by no means. You see, he grew up in a typical north Indian family, where "mutton-sundays"* and "kaleji-contests"** were as deeply woven into the local tradition as, say, marrying off one's sons for money or,say, losing one's entire life savings in a night of gambling.

[
*Mutton sundays: A North Indian tradition invovling gorging on huge quantitites of delicious home made mutton for Sunday lunch. It was usually followed by a long and snory slumber session next to the family mutt, who would be stoned for the same reason.

Due to the security risk that the tradition created by putting entire cities to sleep, Mutton-Sundays were outlawed by the governments of Madhya Pradesh, UP and Bihar in 1979. However many towns in these states still secretly maintain the tradition but reduce the security risk by increasing the number of vegetarian policemen on duty on Sundays


**Kaleji-Contests: Annual contests in many North Indian states. They typically involved local stalwarts competing with each other to see who could eat more "Kaleji" (liver) before passing out. The Indian Health Journal (1982) found these contests to be the cause of 73% of heart disease cases in the states of Punjab, UP, Haryana and MP combined.

]

To my Dad's credit, he never faltered in his resolution, not even once. To this day he is meat free since '87. But for years after he'd quit, he grieved over his irreversible loss.

In this torn state he did what any decent, God-fearing parent might. He lived his dream through me. That's right, I became his little race-horse. Or perhaps his race-pig.

Ever so often in my early years, he would take me out for an untimely meal and get me to sample some timeless declicacy that he happened to be feeling nostalgic about. He would sit with me as I ate it, savouring the aroma of his lost love. I was a good pig too. I sampled eagerly and ate well. Indeed, I even asked intelligent questions. He answered them right back, always.

When i look back, I can remember innumerable long chats with him at the local Chawla's-Chic-Inn or in the narrow south-ex lane that housed Qureshi's Kababs. The discussions were deep and solemn, and they always revolved around non-veg food. I would quiz, he would lecture. Things like, "How many different types of animals can be eaten Pop?", "Paa, have you ever tasted deer?" or "Does fish make you intelligent Papa?" formed the meat of our discussions.

It was on just one such occassion that I asked my Dad, "Whats the tastiest kind of meat you've ever had?"

His answer was prompt, without a second's hesitation. "Rabbit, of course," he declared, "just melts in your mouth."

"Wabbit!!!!", nine-year-old-me asked incredulously. "Where do you get wabbit???"

"Well, not at a restaurant or a pickup like you kids are used to. If you want something as delicious as rabbit, you have to go the jungles and get it yourself. It's a do-it-yourself kinda thing, just like anything else that's important in life."

What followed was a thirty minute discourse on a hunting trip my Dad's "Forest-ranger-uncle" had taken him on when he was eleven.

Apparently catching a rabbit wasn't such a big deal once you got to the depths of a jungle. All you had to do was park your truck with its headlights on and very soon a few rabbits, fascinated by the wonder that was the headlight, would come stare at them. What's more is that the headlights would throw them into a trance-like state and then it was the easiest thing to go and pick up one of them. Following this the rabbit was usually quickly converted to dinner. And if my Dad's taste-buds were to be trusted, a delicious one too.

Now, my Dad's a great guy. Honourable, honest, upright etc etc. But like any true Arora he's been guilty of stretching a story sometimes. I mean, any real Arora knows that the price of a good story is probably greater than a fib here or a lie there. The rabbit story may well have been one of these "slightly stretched" ones. Nine-year-old-me, of course, was oblivious to any of this and lapped up the story like a hungry cat.

Years passed by. I grew out of nine-year-old oblivion and started recognising my Dad's stories for what they were: interesting anecdotes often reworked in his head for effect. With time I began rigging stories of my own and gradually dismissed my Dad's stories as having no real truth in them. The rabbit story being one of them.

But I was wrong, and it took a Suddu to prove it to me.

Which, of course, brings us to the question of who Suddu is. Well, Suddu is a friend of mine in college.

And what is Suddu doing in this story?
A lot actually. Firstly, he looks like a rabbit (see picture for proof). Secondly, this is HIS story.



So we skip forward many years from the time I heard about how rabbits were supposed to be caught and we reach a point in Lokhandwala market where we find our Suddu driving his Mom and little brother home.


Like i said, Suddu looks like a rabbit, and as the story will prove, behaves like one too (It would not be even remotely inappropriate if you referred to him as Suddu McWabbit, Sudarshan "Bugs" Bhatija, Bunny, Carrot Boy etc etc etc) .

It was about 8 pm, a time when Lokhandwala market is at its busiest. Suddu was in the driver's seat and his brother in the passenger's. Suddu's Mom was in the back.

Suddenly out of nowhere, or so it seemed, Suddu's keen eye caught sight of two "really awesome headlights" (from here on the quotes indicate Suddu's exact words when he first told me the story).Indeed, just like my Daddy told me, Suddu (and his brother too) was completely enraptured by the sight of the lights. In the trance that he was, he completely forgot that he was driving (albeit at the 5km/h that Lokhandwala market allows at that time of the evening). His car kept sliding forward and as is often the case when drivers forget their car is moving, it hit the car ahead. In doing so, Suddu set off a chain of events that the residents of Lokhandwala now refer to as the "push".

Here's what happened.

Suddu's car hit a Qualis right ahead of him. The impact threw Suddu (and his brother) out of their trance. However it was too late to prevent the Qualis from jerking forward violently and hitting a Zen right ahead of it.

An auntie was driving the Zen.

Here's the thing about Lokhandwala aunties. They're atrocious drivers. I'm not being sexist, just honest. However, every once in a while there comes a time when they're involved in a car mishap where they're not at fault. At this point the aunties of Lokhandwala take on a whole new form. A violent, lethal and extremely self righteous form. A form that screams out revenge and sends a chill through anyone who ever dared question their ability to drive.

The auntie in the Zen was no different. The moment the Qualis hit her car, she instinctively clasped her head in her hands and said "Oh crap!! Not again". Then a moment later, she realised that she hadn't suddenly hit the brakes. In fact she hadn't even hit the accelerator instead of the brakes. Indeed, she hadn't even lost track of the road because she was staring at herself in the mirror. Then the auntie, in a moment of inspiration, realised what aunties in Lokhandwala rarely get to realise: that it wasn't her fault.

Seconds later, the auntie pumped her fists, unsheathed her claws and stepped outside, raring for battle. Meanwhile the Qualis' driver and Suddu had both broken into a cold sweat. The Qualis' driver because the Qualis was a taxi and he would have to face the music from his boss. Suddu because the origins of the "push" could be traced back to him.


The auntie ran, enraged, towards the driver of the Qualis. For the next six minutes, the auntie growled, shrieked, hissed and threatened to gouge the driver's eyes out.
The driver tried answering back in his defence.

He tried telling her that it wasn't his fault. He tried telling her that the car right behind him had bumped into him. He tried telling her that he was probably worse off, since his car had been damaged from both ends.
He didn't succeed in telling her anything. In front of the raw fury of the auntie, all that came out his mouth were little timid squeaks of nothingness.


Suddu was watching all this from the confines of his car and was feeling more and more frightened by the second. However Suddu is a debater and even in this moment of crisis he came up with a logical argument to defend himself. He mentally framed what he would say when she got started with him.

Also, all this mayhem had completely stopped traffic in Lokhandwala market and numerous cars were honking non-stop, asking Suddu to move ahead.

Meanwhile, after six excruciating minutes under fire, the driver of the Qualis managed to extricate himself from the auntie's clutches and he sped towards Suddu's car. Suddu by now had a line ready to blurt out as soon as he was challenged. So when the driver ran towards him, Suddu rolled down his window about a micrometre and declared with a fake, watery smile: "Its all cool because we all have insurance".

Suddu had somehow hoped that would have been the end of it, and rolled back his window. Except the driver of the Qualis spoke no english and had no clue what Suddu was smiling about.

Suddu had been to England very shortly before this incident. Like any desi-munda, he had been impressed by the standards of traffic discipline and respect for the rules of the road there. Seeing how this little scuffle was blocking the traffic entirely, his civic sense was aroused and he rolled down the window a micrometre again to tell the driver that it was perhaps best they took this argument to the side of the road. When he told me this story, he said, "Dude, at least in England people have the decency to go to the side of the road and fight. Seriously dude."

Realising that they were obviously choking the traffic, all three parties decided to park at the side of the road and then get back to fighting.


Suddu, just back from England, waited as the two cars in front of him moved. As the Qualis in front of him moved left, a new emotion arose in Suddu's bosom. An emotion far deeper than civic sense. One that ran in his very veins. In his ancestors veins too. The same feeling that ran through the blood of anyone who ever had any connection with that part of our land that lay in current day Pakistan. It was more than a feeling, to tell you the truth. It was a voice. Yes, it was a voice, and this is what it told Suddu: "All this decency, civic sense, responsibility etc etc is crap, and you know it. Remember, you're a Sindhi. So get the hell out of here while you have the chance."

I'm not kidding, he actually heard that voice, or he would never have done what he did next. He saw the empty space in front of him and sped off, leaving the other two parties gaping.

Of course, there was this one problem. The fact that "speeding off" in Lokhandwala market basically means revving the engine till you reach a speed of 10km/h and then have to stop abruptly.

So Suddu and family should have been less surprised than they were when the Qualis' driver caught up with them on foot. He started cursing and created a racket banging on the car's windows. The mood inside Suddu's car was already volatile and an enraged guy chasing them, swearing while he was at it, tipped it beyond the edge.

Suddu's little brother could hold it back no longer, and began wailing uncontrollably. Suddu's Mom, meanwhile, started to get hysterical, and can you blame her. Luckily Suddu instinctively locked the doors of the car, and continued trying to force his way through traffic.

After a while, Suddu did manage to get out of Lokhandwala market and a little while after that Suddu and family reached their apartment complex.

Suddu's brother got out of the car teary eyed. Through his tears he noticed that the car's front number plate was missing. Suddu, hoping that it was the tears that were blocking his brother's vision, stepped up to check the plate and realised, with a great deal of disappointment, that the plate was indeed gone.

Suddu looked up at the sky and sighed. What a world, he thought, and what luck. Of all the things he could have accidentally left before he sped away so cheekily, he had managed to leave the one thing that could easily be traced back to him, his number plate.

With another sigh Suddu realised he would have to go back. He realised he would probably have to face a very angry driver and an even thirstier wildcat (aka the Lokhandwala Auntie). He submitted himself to fate. Leaving his mom and brother at home, Suddu solemnly drove back to the scene of crime.

He parked some distance away and sneaked out of the car. Silently peeing his pants, he figured it was best to scout the area before returning directly to where the "push" had begun. He observed from afar that the Zen seemed to have left the area. That was good, definitely good. He also noticed that the Qualis was still there but the driver was nowhere to be seen. Suddu decided to observe from the other side, to see if the driver was inside the car. So he approached from the other side and realised that the driver wasn't in the car either. However, there was someone in the back seat. This hitherto unseen character was staring out of the window listlessly.

Suddu wondered if this person had caught a look at him during the "push". Probably not, thought Suddu. Suddu had been in his car all along and so had this person, making it virtually impossible for the two to have seen each other.
However, Suddu thought it was important to "establish this beyond any reasonable doubt" before making contact with the person.

So Suddu decided to "play it cool". He walked by the Qualis a couple of times, whistling loudly and tunelessly, so as to "seem unsuspicious".

When the person in the car showed no signs of recognition, he approached him cautiously. "Bad hit eh?", Suddu asked him.

"Yeah, some bastard rammed into us from behind" was the reply. Suddu flinched a little, but continued to "play it cool".

"Oh that's bad, that's bad", said Suddu, "You managed to catch a look at his plates?"


"No. The sunabitch drove off before we could do much. Wouldn't mind wringing his neck if I saw him though. I'm getting late for my flight and now the taxi driver has gone to get another vehicle, all 'cause of that bastard."

Suddu felt distinctly dizzy on hearing this, but still, he knew he couldn't show it. He tried a fake laugh, "Oh, Oh hoho, hoho....I don't think he'll be coming here again. Hoho, Oh hoho."

The man looked at Suddu, slightly worried if all was well with this talkative stranger.

At this point Suddu realised that if he stayed any longer, his cover would be blown. Besides, the driver of the Qualis wasn't going to be away forever. So Suddu politely said goodbye to the man in the car and thanked God that he had no clue of his car's number.

Of course, the plates were still missing. Suddu thought of investing a few minutes in their search, just in case the Qualis' driver found them on his return. He walked around the spot where his car would have been, trying to act casual while searching for his plates. No sooner had he started looking than a "typical Lokhandwala dude" came up to him.
"Duuuude!! Aren't you the guy who slammed his car into that Qualis up ahead?? Awesome dude, awesome. Look here I picked up your number plate as a souvenir. I guess you want them now don't you? Here you go...", and he held out Suddu's license plate.

Suddu, overcome by emotion, hugged the "typical Lokhandwala dude" and gave him the most rabbity smile in his repertoire.

That's how it happened.

That's how I realised how my father's stories were more than just entertaining exaggerations.

That's how I came to acknowledge the wisdom of experience.

That's how I learnt that if you'r headlights are awesome enough and you keep them on long enough, the rabbits will come, they always do.

All thanks to Suddu McRabbit.