Punjabi migrants like me, often referred to as ‘desi’, are a unique breed. ‘Work hard and party harder’ aptly sums up our motto in life. And most of us take pride in the ownership (and display) of top-of-the range possessions, and the bragging rights that come with them. A flash home, a luxurious car, latest gadgets, branded attire, there is nothing modest about us.

If the great Aussie dream is to own a home, the great Punjabi migrant dream is to own a grand palatial mansion. Undeterred by ramping up a huge mortgage, the idea often is to build/own the most contemporary home, a notch better than the one that our other Punjabi ‘friend’ owns down the street.

Once the house is built, the next feat is to throw out a lavish house-warming. The idea here is to take every guest around our new pad and ensure that we rub in every piece of detail about the joint. Size of the block, the estate or the suburb (and how it is more Toorak-ish than the other person’s), the builder who built it with details of special bargains extracted from him, and the fittings and appliances within, are all poured out to every single guest at the house-warming. The more skilled of us will even occasionally drop in, “We went the extra yard because we did not want our home to be the same like all the other Indians, you see”.

A Punjabi house-warming is a fascinating affair in itself – you have the proud (rather immodest) hosts who had waited a lifetime to unleash their supremacy on their captive audience, and you have the friends or guests who compliment the hosts and smile, while noting down every detail in the house to critique on their drive back home after the party. And in between all of this, there is Scotch with tandoori chicken, samosas with gulab jamun (all being served in the garage), bhangra music (for all kinds of dances), drunk men and sober women, designated drivers to take their drunk hubbies home.

Once the party warms up, the discussions inadvertently turn from house-warming to a raging debate about the political, economic, and social conditions back home in India. The participants range from hard core India bashers, to the loyalists (who have recently found some reason and glory out of the likes of Anna Hazare), and the outright indifferent individuals. Scotch often does not help the cause and decorum of these discussions.

Lately, we have taken our indulgences to the very next level. Any Punjabi get together or house-warming is now a global event as it is floated across Facebook in no time by its attendees, who also proudly tag their co-attendees to cheese off the ones who missed out on an invite. And to really rub in the point, a set of photos are posted to validate the fun we are all having at the party. The photos are usually of people saying “Cheers!” while raising ‘pegs’ or making ‘V’ signs, and let’s not forget the stock standard bhangra pose while yelling out, “Bruaaaa!”

Our appetite for luxury and imposing that luxury does not end with a house-warming. Often, the next event is the purchase of a car. The first thing to appear on a desi’s car is a personalized number plate – your own name (that will be me), or the name of your offspring, or for the more creative ones – Punjab, Jatt, desi or even surnames spelt out in clever ways, and occasionally, an abbreviated version of a religious symbol/word.

Once again, the size of a personal loan and the repayments will never refrain us from buying a car that will outshine the one owned by most of the people we know in our community. I was once politely reminded by a close relative at the purchase of my first ever car, which happened to be a second hand Camry, that all Indians buy a Camry. So for the next few days, we make sure we meet up with all our friends as we take them through the list of specifications in the new car, validated against a brochure. And the more skilled of us will also drop in, “This feature is not available in your car you see, as yours is a 2010 model”.

Punjabis are often branded as a fun-loving, loud lot of people and we indeed, enjoy every moment that life offers us. And the best trait as I see is that we are human at our very core – we yearn to be just that one step ahead of others, and we have no qualms in accepting that. We are proud of what we have, and we love to wear it on our sleeves. And if you reckon I have exaggerated anything, feel free to check out my Facebook profile. If you still remain unconvinced, I will be hosting a house warming early next year, so you can be a fly on the wall!

Ice caps as far as the eye can see. A few thin cracks have appeared lately. It is the North Pole. The morning news bulletin announces the world’s largest Christmas pageant has just finished rolling alongAdelaide’s streets. It’s time for work for the jolly old man, that takes him around the globe. He jumps out of the bed, dusts his trusted his baggy red suit and goes to the barn to raise the reindeers from their long slumber. He is surprised to notice Rudolph and co not as enthusiastic about this year’s southern sojourn.  On his iPod he listens to RadioAustralia announcing the passing of the Carbon Tax bill hailed by the Greens’ Bob as the dawn of a new era; but Tony’s team tagging it as the start of the browning of Oz. Santa senses it is the scare of global warming that has put a chill in his pollutant-free sled-pullers. But there is a job to do; time and tide waits for no man and certainly not Yuletide that tiny tots dream about. He goes to collect the goodies but alas, the warehouse is empty and all the elves have gone. Dismayed but determined, he decides to shop elsewhere.

Setting in motion towards the south, Santa’s sleigh lands in France, looking for novelties. Not much joy there. But he is fascinated by the frenetic speed of French printing presses pouring out Euros. Having collected bags full, he steers the reindeer towards the Rhine, expecting new mechanical gadgets the Germans are known for. More disappointment is in store. Their gargantuan mints are churning out a lot more Euros to be dispatched out of Deutschland. Having knownGreece’s slippery slide and realising that Papandreou’s people are near paupers and the new PM Papademos can’t sizzle the slowing economy, Mr Claus loads up a lot more bags to help the anguished Athenians buy presents for their children.

“Dodging bullets flying in all direction in the Middle East, he lowers his sled in Afghanistan but, not daring to land, drops carton-loads of Vegemite that he took home last year, to Australian diggers.”

Everywhere else in Europe, he hears the same story. Most factories have closed and moved to China, which has become a manufacturing behemoth.  Dodging bullets flying in all direction in the Middle East, he lowers his sled in Afghanistan but, not daring to land, drops carton-loads of Vegemite that he took home last year, to Australian diggers.

Gliding eastwards, he passes over Indian skies. Having heard that the land is now heralded as an emerging economy producing a variety of goods, he hopes to do heaps of shopping. Not finding any pace amidst the Nanos clogging up the roads, he at last lands his craft on the only available green patch, an IPL venue. Within nanoseconds he is hit for a six, chased out of the ground by two guys waving a large wooden implement that he later learns is a cricket bat. So be decides to buy one for future protection.  Flying up high he emulates the batsmen on the ground, swishing the bat in the air. Oops! He drops it and the bat lands on the roof of a new, swanky house.  His enquiries to find out what other useful things he could buy fall on deaf ears since every youth has a cell phone or iPod plugged firmly in them. The rest of the population is busy watching a cricket match between South Sudan, the latest country to be born and another unnamed country yet to be born; or a movie starring one of the many Khans. These are the two national pastimes, passions, hobbies – whatever they can be called. He scans the newspapers for discount purchases and all he sees is a string of scams – 2G, Adarsh and many more. Disappointed, he decides to move on toChina, the current ‘nation of shop keepers’ – to quote Gandhi’s words.

‘The only thing that matters is to live up to their Premier  Hu Jintao’s statement  at Bengaluru’s Infosys a few years ago that, “China is  factory to the world, and India is the back office.”

Hopping over the Himalayas, he astutely notices dams being built across the big rivers originating from the Pamir glaciers, and top class train tracks to Lhasa at such great heights. He nods his head, admiring the Chinese foresight to ensure water security and choke its southern neighbour in any possible future conflict. He manoeuvres his craft to land in the manufacturing Mecca, but struggles to find the land below, as it is covered with thick smog. Pollution is all-pervasive in PRC, a price paid for the proliferation of factories producing anything from pins to planes. The Chinese, proud of their numero uno position, don’t seem to mind.  The only thing that matters is to live up to their Premier Hu Jintao’s statement  at Bengaluru’s Infosys a few years ago that, “China is  factory to the world, and India is the back office.”  Good old Santa is taken aback to see all his elves among the thousands of local labourers working like bees, making and packing toys of every description. They have all quietly moved here since their previous workshop closed. Sad but satisfied that his former helpers are gainfully engaged, he fills his sleigh with piles of plastic toys and sets off on his delivery round to Australia.  Coming down the chimney is no more an easy task as in yesteryears, since the new McMansions have got rid of such entry points. However, he lives up to his large image and completes the task in time. Having delivered goodies to gadget-hungry Aussie kids, he starts his return journey.

On reaching the North Pole the next day, while unreining the reindeers he hears a huge roar from a billion Indians hailing their hero Sachin who has just scoring his hundredth century at the Boxing Day match at the MCG. Does the jolly old man know the bat he dropped landed on Sachin’s new house bringing Christmas cheer to a billion people?  It’s a record for him too!

Dear Auntyji

I have a particular situation that I was hoping you could help me with. I work in advertising and am a contractor. I am 45 years old but look much younger, according to others. In my profession, I feel that being young is a definite bonus and people expect you to know the latest in technology and to be hip. I am hip, but I am also 45 years old. I have worked at this advertising agency for almost 8 months, and I get along with people really well. While we are all friendly, I am not that close to anyone. Now I have a 25-year-old daughter, but I don’t want to let people at work know about this, because from this news will come the inevitable question about how old I am and consequently whether I have youth on my side to be dealing with youth-focused accounts. I am very good at what I do, but I still feel that there is nondisclosure on my part. When others talk about their family, I say nothing about mine, and because I am not married, everyone has assumed that I have never been married hence no children. Do you think I am lying by omission? What should I do?

Auntyji says

What a sad world we live in where youth is prized to the degree where we must feel that we have no other alternative but to lie and to hide our lives. Why, I remember a world where women wanted to get old so that they could be considered wise and their counsel would be sought. Maybe this was only in Bollywood films. Maybe I too am getting confused in my budhaappa. Now, about your situation. You are a contractor, you won’t be there for long. Focus on your work and get the job done. If, in the industry you’re in it’s important to be young and hip, then you have two options. Try to be young and hip, or buck the trend. But you know your industry better than I do. So do what’s right for you and your career. Besides, your private life is exactly that and is no one’s business. You don’t have to reveal anything you don’t want to. And don’t worry about lying by omission – information about your personal life does not apply in this setting.

***

Old school crush

Dear Auntyji

Recently I met up with an old school friend who used to like me in school, ever since we were both 12. We see each other once every decade and exchange emails once every 3 months or so. So he is a dear old friend. Anyway, we met up and we had dinner and spoke about old times. We laughed and laughed about crazy stories from school days, and Auntyji, towards the end of the night, Rahul told me that he found me very interesting as always, and as always, he loved me, but he would also love it if we spent some special time together. Auntyji, I am no fool, I always knew this guy held a candle for me, and I also know he found me very appealing. But what I am surprised about is the way he totally did not consider his wife – I mean, what kind of men are so cavalier about their marriages? Naturally, I laughed at him and said I was not interested, but I kept on wondering about what makes some men like this. Can you shed some light on this?

Auntyji says

Well, I am no pop psychologist, but I do know that it takes all kinds to make this earth go round. People will always say and do things that will catch you by surprise – so the best thing to do is never to make any assumptions, don’t make judgments, and take the facts as they come. So the guy found you appealing and put the hard word on you. That was his prerogative. You laughing at him (not coquettishly, I hope) and refusing was the right thing to do. Now move on. What happened, and never happened, should stay in the past. But if you are keen on understanding people, I can recommend one or two short psychology courses. But even those don’t have the answers. And by the way, this type of amoral behaviour is not confined to men alone. Like I said, it’s all about people and all the stuff they get up to. So you should just feel flattered, don’t hold this against your friend, and hope that he feels the same way in a decade’s time when you catch up with him again. At least it’ll give you something to look forward to.

***

Big-time Big-B fan

Dear Auntyji

I heard Amitabhji is in town. I am his biggest fan who ever lived. If you can organise for me to have dinner with him, I will donate $5000 to a charity of your choice. Can you assist?

Auntyji says

Here is what I can do. I am an Amitabh fan too. How about you give me the $5000, and you can come to my place and we can watch all of Amit’s movies and talk all night long about his acting, his comedic timing, his singing, his affair with Rekha, his stellar career and his role in The Great Gatsby. During movie intervals, I will mimic some of his greatest dialogues. And just for you, just for you, I will even do a rendition of his Jis Ki Bivi Moti from Lawaaris – just for you. Do we have a deal?

It is mandatory, say those who apparently know better than us, that if you have an internet connection, you just have to be on Facebook. They claim that this social networking site rules their lives and loves, and you know what, they’re absolutely right!

Now if you’re so deluded as to think you can survive without FB, as it has been admiringly abbreviated by those busy people who invented SMS-speak, I suggest you rethink your attitude and get on there. Why? Because it’s the best forum to see people – friends, friends of friends, acquaintances of friends of friends, making idiots of themselves for the edification of the net junta. Believe me, everyone who’s anyone who wants to be anyone is on FB, spilling out the details of their personal and family lives, peppering the net with their loves, hates, dislikes, irritations, bodily functions, pets….you name it!

Words of wisdom

I have a few favourites who can be relied on to brighten up my day with some new revelation that brings to the fore an essential part of their personalities, and I confess, piques my sense of the absurd.

For instance, I love the gyanis. This bunch of jokers comes from an increasing breed of pseudo-intelligentsia, who brighten our day by posting their opinions on FB. Some come up with ‘elevating’ quotes from the great, to which other wannabe smartasses respond, wishing that they had thought of the good ones themselves. For example,

Post 1: ‘The Dalai Lama is a paragon of peace, virtue and kindness. We are fortunate to bask in his glory and intelligence.’

25 likes

Reply post 1: ‘So true. For me he’s right up there with Nelson Mandela.’

Reply post 2: ‘Let’s not forget Au Sang Su Kii’

Reply post 3: ‘Of course, for India it is Mahatma Gandhi, the greatest hero of world peace that ever existed. I am proud to be Indian because …..’ (here the person explains why in tedious detail.)

Now tell me, what don’t we know about the above? Any normal person with a modicum of sense, a reasonable grasp of history and access to the news would realise that this exchange states nothing but the oh-so-obvious.

This lot discusses current affairs, history, human rights, books, music, celebrities…in fact, anything under the sun that is worthy of an opinion and that’s, well, just about everything. Some of the exchanges are truly hilarious, as they vie with each other to prove just how intellectually superior they are, definitely more so than their pals participating in the exchange.

Takes all kinds

And then there are the sensitive ones. They love to emote, and FB is their stage. They express the way they feel via posts, simply to let the world know that they are desperately in love, unhappy and dejected, or just bored. A husband and wife proclaimed their adoration for each other in verse and song recently, and when I recounted this to my neighbour, an extremely funny lady, she said, “Do they live in the same city?” Yep, they do! “In the same house?” Uh, huh! “So why don’t they just tell each other?” she asked. Exactly my point!

Another supposed ‘friend’ but in reality not even quite acquaintance, posted, “Sad and disappointed”. Just two responses to that one: “Why?” and “Go eat chocolate!” The rest of us couldn’t care a hoot!

Another namoona has made it his life’s work to garner as many friends as he possibly can on FB. The most obscure of relatives have been sent a ‘friend’ request, me being one of them. I have only heard of this young turk, never met the family and am related by marriage and two divorces. Why on earth should I be his friend? Yet another obscure relative has posted 1500 photographs of his newborn for the edification of friends and family, most of whom don’t know him and have no intention of making his acquaintance.

But then, there’s the other end of the spectrum in which parents have to check FB to find out what their children have been doing. There is this young lady who refuses to admit her mother onto her profile as a ‘friend’ because “that’s so, like, uncool and like, she’ll know whom I’m dating and all, how weird is that! C’mon, I’m 15, I’m not a kid!”

Phukat publicity

There are the ones who use FB as their exclusive advertising campaign, to let all of us unfortunates know exactly how rich, successful, happy and contented they are. Now here’s a story that you may find hilarious or pathetic, depending on your sense of humour. A guy living in one of the oil-rich Middle East states posted a photograph of his latest acquisition, a BMW 3 series convertible. His childhood friend living somewhere obscure in Obama-country posted a, ‘Really, you too?’ accompanied by a shot of his BMW, identical in all but colour. Another mutual friend with an unnecessarily enquiring mind soon discovered that the visuals of both cars had been downloaded from the BMW site and both frauds had painstakingly photoshopped themselves into the visual. Unfortunately, both had forgotten to remove the name of the series from the cars’ number plate. Busted!

Well, at least the cars got some free advertising out of that fiasco.

Marketing magic

And speaking of advertising, this is where the commercial aspect of life comes in. No matter what you’re peddling, be it home-grown organic chickens, personalised spa treatments, plumber services, you can get out there and let the world take note of your life. You can bet your “Hectic day, just unblocked 12 toilets in 9 hours!” is sure to get a record number of ‘likes’, and most people will think, “Well, there’s a man to call when I need something done with my loo!” Next, a few people will make inquiries, involving the 700 friends attached to the post in these intimate scatological details. But you can also rest assured that if you muck up the job, thanks to FB, you’ll have to change your profession!

FB is a forum where you can post a million pics of your family, tell everyone how proud you are that your 3-year-old can sing the national anthem (with a link to her performance on YouTube), boast that your son’s got his doctorate, that your daughter’s marrying a millionaire, that you know Amitabh Bachchan, that your cat has given birth to the cutest, itsy-bitsiest, lovely, little kitties, that you’re now the proud owner of a retro lawn-mower or that your 13-year-old was just awarded, ‘Geek of the Year’, which is, supposedly, a rare and coveted honour.

Of course, it has its uses. At least you find out just in time that the guy chatting you up at the pub wears fluorescent green underpants, transparent nailpolish and really likes Justin Beiber.  And that’s only by looking at his profile. Dads can now share their son’s varied views on Pippa Middleton’s derriere and mums can be pleased to know that their daughter’s now got an uncommissioned tattoo, although they may not be quite as happy at its position on her anatomy. You’ll also know that your husband has a stalker-like crush on Katrina Kaif and is a part of the John Abraham fan club.

So enjoy your time in the spotlight as a performer or a voyeur, at least until the next cyber-wonder comes by to entice from us the little privacy we have left.

Not before long, laddoo packets may be dislodged by laptop computers as Diwali gifts for youngsters, since their prices are sliding down like the world’s stock markets.  The catchy jingle, ‘Laptop for every kid’ has been used as an election sweetener by Julia as well as Jayalalitha, the recently recycled premier of Tamil Nadu, raising the hopes of the younger generation. From now on, will the laptop do the victory lap as the No 1 gift, leaving the laddoo to languish as a laggard? I doubt it!

We are now told ad nauseam that the carbon tax and computers will be the saviours of planet earth. It is too early to pass verdict on the former as it is going through its own taxing time in Parliament. But on computers, after an association of 25 years, my report card reads that they are a scourge. Before software supremos and hardware heavies harangue me, let me explain.

In the ‘60s when IBM, the then leader in the field, asked its marketing mandarins to explore the sales potential for personal computers, they concluded that there would be a demand for only four PCs in the entire world. Back then IBM’s mainframe units were the size of a wardrobe or even larger.  How many in the world would have a need or desire to own such machines. In the early ‘70s it was my privilege, as Tata Steel’s PR, to take VIP visitors around Jamshedpur Telco’s works where their computer room was a mandatory showpiece. The room was larger than a lounge with its exclusive airconditioning system, enjoying a privilege more than the firm’s MD.  So is it any wonder that IBM arrived at such a decision?

But within three decades, laptops lord over us and desktops dominate the office scene. In the BC (Before Computer) era, bosses used to dictate (literally at times) letters to lovely lady secretaries who were probably sneakily referred to as ‘laptops’ in boys’ circles, when no PC (political correctness) existed. Now those shorthand scribes have been short-changed by portable plastic gadgets doing everything the female fraternity did, except making tea.

Two of the main reasons for the mass migration of PCs into our living space are miniaturising the machine and maximising its applications beyond the basic business functions to infotainment.  The black box is now a constant companion in our life journey.

As an early convert to computers, in 1982 I bought a Commodore (not the Holden kind) with a grand 64kb hard drive. Two years later, enticed like the proverbial Eve, I went for the bytes of an Apple 2c as it resembled a portable typewriter over which old journos lavished more love than on their partners. That was in the domestic scene.

In my office setting, Compaqs came in like confetti followed by a deluge of Dells in updated avatars with new beauty features. Now every new model is designed to handle enhanced software and in turn, each new software release demands more grunt.  It is a never-ending merry-go-round and the result is a mountain of disused computers sitting like orphans without an adoptee in sight. But they are not alone; they have a good company of associated accessories – monstrous monochrome monitors, pre-loved printers, MFCs etc. These plastic playthings proclaimed to save the planet, are produced from non-renewable hydro-carbons and are now a blight on our landscape. If all the derelict desktops were decked on top of each other, they are expected to reach halfway to the moon.

The humongous holes at Australian mine sites resulting from export of shiploads of ore to China may one day be filled in by container loads of PCs  imported from PRC, on becoming obsolete. It is a win-win for Wen Jiabo who gets non-renewable resources and gets rid of plastic piles from PRC. Australia , according to an SBS programme, tranships e-waste to Ghana where they are burnt yielding bits of copper for scroungers and emitting columns of toxic smoke. A carbon tax conundrum?

Until sometime ago, as you drove along my city Adelaide ’s suburbs you may have noticed on certain days, mini mountains of plastic junk sitting on the footpath outside many houses. They are the pre-loved PCs, abandoned like unwanted pets after impulsive buying at Christmas, destined for the council dump. Now the councils have woken up and want your dollars to ditch them.  In my own situation, nearly a dozen of them have sought asylum in one of our children’s bedrooms since the original occupant has left the coop. The soft-shoe brigade of hardware hawkers keep counselling that we need to upgrade every two years to be up to scratch. So we still keep buying. We have become a soft touch and stimulus package punch bag.  At the current rate of acquisition and obsolescence, we may before long, need to surrender our bedroom too, to the computer conquest, and sleep outdoors. That is the harrowing part of hardware. The software story is even scarier. I will spare you of this until next time.

Nani ki kahani

Dear Auntyji

My grandma has the dubious honour of being the family encyclopaedia. She is 67 years old and is widowed, so does not have much else to do in her life other than to sit around and be waited on hand and foot by my mother and aunts. Now, fortunately for me, I happen to be her favourite grandchild. But I know she wreaks havoc in the minds of all her family members because she remembers every single conversation that happened where she was slighted, and she reminds everyone constantly of these moments. She has interesting stories to tell, but often, in the middle of all these stories, she will bring up something that was said to her which caused her offence, even though none was intended. Of course, the person who made the remark would cringe and be embarrassed, but Nani has no qualms carrying on with the story after harping for a minute about the remark and how offensive it was to her. There is a manipulative side to her – but she used to be very beautiful in her youth – and for some reason, instead of becoming a nice person, she just morphed into a bit of a shrew. This happened after my Nana died. The reason I know she likes me is because I look just like her in her youth, and she constantly reminds me about how all my mannerisms and demeanour is just like hers. Fortunately for me, I have enough self awareness to realise that she can be manipulative, and I don’t want to be like that. But most importantly, I hate how she makes my mum and my aunts and my cousins feel. She causes them sadness and unhappiness sometimes, and I think she can be a better human being and would be loved more if she lost that ability to constantly remind people of their less-stellar moments. What can I do, Auntyji? I have some power in the situation, because I am quite aware that I can never do any wrong in Nani’s eyes. How do I use my power for good, so to speak?

Auntyji says

Oh, I do like self aware people who can see a wrong and have a desire to correct it. This situation is quite simple and for you, very easy. Lucky for you, you are the apple of your Nani’s eye, and so you have an exalted position and you must use this position of power to redress the imbalance in your family dynamics. So the answer is simple. The next time Naniji starts telling one of her interesting stories and pauses momentarily to digress on the slight, you must jump in immediately and gently remind Naniji that this slight must be forgotten and that the hearers feel bad but please continue with your story, Nani. Nani of course will be surprised, and will probably continue with the rest of the story. However, if she really is a shrew, this could backfire on you and she could turn on you and tell you what she thinks of you – but this is unlikely, because for her, this will be like looking up and spitting. If she does go down this road, you must gently remind her that no one likes to be reminded of things which cause them pain. She will probably counter that it was the truth therefore must be spoken. In this instance, you can just look at her with a mixture of love and sadness in your eyes and let her continue, and then bring this up again the next time she retells a slight. Ultimately, she will get the message. Of course, if she fails to get the message, then you can have a quiet word with her, and tell her how much it pains you when she brings up stories from the past that hurts your family. Who knows what is motivating your Nani to behave in this intolerable manner. But the important thing here is for you to address this issue. Having a Nani is a wonderful thing – and it’s now your duty to ensure that yours becomes the family treasure that she deserves to be.

***

Is star power hereditary?

Dear Auntyji

It has just occurred to me and my friend that there is an inverse relationship between the star power of the parent, and that of their progeny, when it comes to Bollywood. Do you think we are on to something?

Auntyji says

Well, my dear fellow, you are definitely onto something here. If you look at the statistics, there is definitely a correlation between the career success of the original Bollywood stars and their children. For example, look at Hema Malini. She was the ultimate dream girl, the uber babe, the saucy siren from the south who entranced an entire nation and not just Dharmendra with her good looks and dancing skills. Hers was an epic career. Meanwhile, her daughter Esha looks like the mutant hybrid child with throwback genes – and who proves in each of her movies that two good looking people don’t always have good looking children. Esha cannot act, sing, or even look good to save her life. Her career is the inverse of that of her mother. Look at Amitabh. He was a megastar who united a nation in prayer when he was injured. His career success is unparalleled. Meanwhile, Abhishek, although talented, struggles to find his niche. Rajesh Khanna – success, Twinkle Khanna – not so successful. Rishi Kapoor – success – Ranbir Kapoor – success and him are still not yet friends. Jeetendra – success, Tusshar, meh. Then you have the other spectrum of stars with average careers whose kids have gone on to mega success. Tanuja – the plainest of the plain janes – yet look at what Kajol has achieved. Babita – who achieved mediocre success, has two daughters who have conquered Bollywood. Rajesh Roshan and Hrithik. The list goes on and on. The morale of the story is this. The universe always runs in balance. What is given in abundance in one generation is withheld in the next. It is the way of the world. I think this is a topic that needs to be addressed further – so interesting it is. So your friend and you are definitely on to something here. I think the topic deserves my further attention.

Generous gentleman?

Dear Auntyji

I have an unusual twist of a question to ask, and I would be most pleased if you could help me. I will tell you the complete truth Auntyji, so you can give me best answer. I have been told I am fairly attractive, but I don’t think I am that attractive. What I do know is that I have a good personality. I like to talk to people all the time and I can be friendly. Anyway, in the last couple of months I have been going to a shop that sells very expensive foodstuff, and there is an Indian man who manages the fresh produce section. At first, he gave me a special on the pomegranates, instead of $10 each, he sells it to me for $7 each because I buy at least two each week. The last three times I was there, I also bought this and that, some coriander here, some beetroot there and some Spanish onions for my cucumber raita. Anyway, I am beginning to notice that I don’t just get a couple of dollars off here and there, I get close to 50% off on all the items. Further, I have checked the receipt and there are no individual items listed, it’s just one obscure price, for example, greengrocer, $18.85. Now, I am a wise shopper and I like to get special treatment if I am a loyal customer. However, this is beginning to make me feel quite weird. Furthermore, this shop posted its annual results and they suffered a loss for the year, and I can understand why. I feel like I have contributed to the financial setback of this store. Now, I never asked the man for the discounts – he chose to give them to me; he is the manager and probably knows best which fruit can be discounted. However, a 50% discount is a fair bit. My friends at work tell me that he is interested in me, but I have never given him the impression that I have any interest in him, other than as a fellow subcontinental type. What to do, Aunty? Can I continue to shop there? Should I say something? Is this unethical? Who is the guilty party here? Please help me, as I want to live an honest life. By the way, this is not an isolated incident. Sometimes when we go to our local pub, the chef sends us some free food because I stop to say hello to him. Also, at various cafes, I occasionally get a free muffin or biscuit with my coffee. I never ask for any of these things. They are just given to me.

Auntyji says

Oh, my little Anarkali, you are a regular little ibis you are, gathering food here and there, wherever you go. This is an unusual situation. I’m glad you told me about the free food at the pub and the free muffin. This puts things into perspective. Well my dear, you must have a very engaging personality, and people must warm to you instantly if they offer you free food. But here are two things that stand out for me. One, you have an engaging personality and people warm to you, and second, people consider you attractive. Now, in the case of the pub and the café, well, loyalty deserves a little reward now and again. These are small items and happen every now and again – so I can understand this. As long as you make the offer to pay, you don’t take any of this for granted, and you don’t entice them to give you food for free, it’s ok to get a freebie every now and again. However, the subcontinental man is more of a worry. 50% off is a large discount, and we need to consider whether it was at the end of the day and the food was going to be thrown out or the stock was going to be reduced anyway. But it seems to me that there is more to this. So, you have two options. One, stop going there. Or two, the next time you shop there, ask the man for the prices of everything you are buying, and then express surprise at the receipt. Then, if he says that it’s ok, he is giving you a discount, you must insist on paying him. The fact is, if the man is giving you heavily subsidised food each time you go there for no other reason than because it’s you, then you need to put a stop to it. If it was his shop and he engaged in this practice, it would be ok. But it’s not his shop and he is giving away the inventory willy-nilly. It’s a form of stealing, and is immoral and unethical. If this was your sabziwallah in Khan Market near Lodhi Gardens, it would be acceptable. Unless he was young and single and there was glint in his eye each time he handed over your baingans and aloos. So what are you going to do, my little gobi ka phool? Are you going to be an accomplice to a questionable act, or are you going to address this issue, and right a wrong. Pretend it was your daddy’s shop and the checkout boy was giving away stock to the little churail who lived across the street who always shopped wearing her sheerest yellow sari, with a huge red bindi on her shameless forehead. Would you like it, then? Well, don’t be that saucy wench in the yellow sari. Get your moral compass to point north and pay your way through life. Just because you are pretty does not mean you should get a free ride in life at the expense of someone else’s profits.

Cricket tragic

Dear Auntyji

My Aussie husband supports the Indian cricket team because, just like his British ancestors before him, he thinks nothing of coming to my country and appropriating all that is good and proper. In any case, he calls the Indian cricket team his ‘boys’, and when they are touring or playing, all the household dynamics change. Our lives revolve around the game. Now I could live with this because, well, I love Dan and he is a wonderful human being. But when the Indian team is playing, he becomes the human barometer for their playing performance. He stays up all night watching the game and I can hear him shouting and swearing when Sachin gets out. Then, he walks around the house like his mother just died and yells at us and gets angry. If he goes to bed during a game, he wakes up every hour to check the score. So as you can tell, he’s cricket mad. Now I understand that he is a diehard fan, and this emotional aspect gives him a very affectionate element to his personality, but Auntyji, why must he cry and carry on and make our lives miserable when the game is on and the Indian team is playing badly? The children are beginning to dislike cricket season because papa goes psycho. What can I do to make him understand that it’s a game – he should not make our lives miserable because Sachin could not hit more than 20 runs?   Do you have a solution for me, Auntyji, because the cricket season has already started?

Auntyji says

Well, well, well! This is an unusual one. I think that every household has its diehard cricket fan – but your husband seems to go beyond what is considered polite and courteous behaviour towards his family. He becomes an emotional terrorist during the cricket season. Hmm… What you can do is point out the error of his ways and the only way to do this is to find a cause of your own, such as your local book club, and then rant and rave at home about the philistines who cannot think about the subtexts in Anna Karenina. Celebrate your book club’s completion of a book with utter joy and jubilation, and mope around the house and live the lives of your characters in all their emotional tapestry, as you read the texts. Be as wildly exuberant as you can get – and naturally, you are entitled to become as obnoxious and militant as you want. Of course, if your husband objects, you can throw in his face that the book is as exciting and as important to you as his cricket game – and I am sure he will come up with pathetic excuses that mean nothing. Everyone knows that a woman, when she sets her mind to something, can change the dynamics of a household. So the fact that you let your husband selfishly terrorise you and your children during game season is just not right. This must be addressed – you do not want your kids to grow up hating cricket – not only would that be un-Australian, it’s un-Indian as well. So, put an end to all this tamasha. Cricket is important, but it should not come at the cost of a happy, harmonious household. Your husband needs to grow up a bit and learn to accept the triumphs and defeats of the game like a man. Could you imagine Donald Bradman, or even Sachin going home after a game and terrorising their families? No! If these men were real men and handled their emotions like grownups, then your husband needs to do this as well.

Our digs in London were walking distance from South Kensington tube station. The ride from there to Piccadilly Circus cost a tanner. The walk to Hyde Park corner from there took half an hour. We were students at the time and to save money stooped to all manner of tactics. The oddest of these was to keep the loo swing door open and let your mate in before closing and thereby save a penny. The popular English idiom of penny having dropped derives from this. Walking the distance was an honourable option as chances of cheating the transport system were nil. Our digs housed six boarders from as many countries. It was an amalgam of 4-5 languages and since our ability to speak the native tongue was at par with each other, there were no hassles in the communication department expect on occasions when someone wanted to prove a point in the cockney dialect. This was forbidden as Mrs. Kelley, our very English land lady who had a Scottish husband, would have nothing of it. She took it upon herself to groom the foreigners in the best of English traditions, with language being her primary concern! Frankly, initially Mrs. Kelley’s clipped accent sounded a bit odd in our ears drowned in a sea of Cockney – a lingo born in London after all.

There was no definitive bonding amongst the boarders but we were all young, inquisitive and new in England. Luckily, I had struck a friendship with Asgar Ali from Nairobi whose mother was the daughter of a tribal chief and father an immigrant Punjabi farmer from Pakistan. At that point of time in history, Jomo Keneyatta, a powerful Kikyu tribal chief had unleashed a rebellion against the rich British farmers. Consequently, the local press, who were after Jomo’s blood, conveniently branded him a terrorist!

Asgar was aware of this and so was I but it did not come as a damper in our relationship. Instead, as in India too we had gone through comparable situations, it was our wont to meticulously plan our weekend jaunts thus cementing our friendship further.

The speakers’ corner

On a bright Sunday afternoon, after the standard fare doled out by Mrs Kelley of roast beef with Yorkshire pudding and smelly Brussels sprout, the boarders normally trooped out. That afternoon Asgar and I headed out for the famous Hyde Park corner near Marble Arch to listen to the “soap box” orators. The orators were thus named because they would stand on old pine wood boxes used for transporting fruits and soap bars, and barely able to support the weight of a person.

This free-for-all speech corner was, and still is, a popular London attraction. Hyde Park combined rugged dignity with amusement value. It occupied a unique place in the hearts of freedom loving people. Nowhere an individual had the freedom to speak his mind so openly and at times, with subtle vengeance, so freely.

The British Parliament was the acknowledged mother of Parliamentary democracy, with freedom of speech being one of its robust pillars. In this context, symbolically, the Hyde Park gatherings where the speakers were free to air their views (in gay abandon), amply demonstrated a vital aspect of democracy in action. For a moment, ignore the brutal force coupled with crooked diplomacy the British crown employed to dominate three fourth of the globe!

Little wonder, then, that quite a few future parliamentarians of all hues from the emerging democracies honed their debating skills in this vibrant corner. As was expected, the black, brown and in between coloured faces in the gathering outnumbered white faces by two to one. The latter group were mostly IRA, Save Jesus and Salvation Army groups with some fellow travellers from the lunatic fringe thrown in.

The Kikiyu uprising was a hot topic and there were quite a few speakers, including a sprinkling of white speakers patronisingly taking the cudgel for the downtrodden blacks of Africa. One of them turned out to be a communist of the Russian variety .He had recently paid a visit to Karl Marx grave and was uncontrollably charged!

There was a flurry of clappings and colourful invectives as one can associate with a heterogeneous public gathering of this kind.  The guardian of the English law was a solitary unarmed bobby attired in his usual black uniform and typical elongated helmet displaying a nickel coated badge proclaiming his rank and a black leather strap latched to his chin. The mere presence of this uniformed person, popularly called “the bobby,” technically representing the Crown, was enough to ensure peace. No room for any uncivil behaviour as the law in this regard was forthright. Once the Rubicon was crossed, the law took its course and the offender booked, taken prisoner and produced before a magistrate the following day.

Londoners congregated to this corner of their city for innocuous fun and the people were generally in a holiday mood.

That day, after the crowd had started melting away in one and twos, Asgar and I too joined the slow but steady stream. Although it was nearly ten in the evening, it being summer there was ample daylight still left.

The encounter

We casually drifted away to the nearest oak trees to ease ourselves in Indian style. A couple of yards separated us, but as soon as I heard Asgar speaking agitatedly I sensed that all was not well. In a flash I zipped up and ran towards him and realised he had been speaking to a tall bobby. The “law” in the mean time having parked his push bike against a nearby tree trunk was busy taking out his blue coloured note book. He had made his intensions very clear – to slap a fine of five pounds, a fortune for us in those days, for public nuisance, coupled with the defacing of Her Majesty’s property.

Asgar was not very articulate and the Bobby had found that out and did not object to someone more articulate acting as a good Samaritan to do the explaining for him. I pleaded with the policeman saying: “Look here officer, my friend from Kenya is new to England like me and totally unaware of the codes of conduct here (we jolly well were briefed about this at the High Commission!) and being his first time offence (a typical desi style of pleading), could he be let off with a verbal warning. My friend will provide his dig’s address besides bringing his passport as well as university identity card for you to examine.” Surprisingly, the officer liked what I said and began putting his dreadful notebook back into his pocket. The next few moments he surprised me by asking if I was from India and if so from which part. This welcome change in the bobby’s mood encouraged me to reply in the affirmative adding that I was from Calcutta. No sooner did I finished saying so he gleefully told me that until about a year ago he had migrated from Calcutta where he worked as a traffic sergeant. The Railways and Police Force in those days were the largest employers of Anglo Indians. The bobby’s next move took me by total surprise. Asking Asgar to wait, he took me aside and in all seriousness advised me in colloquial Bengali to keep away from Asgar as he may well be a Kikui. That was a dirty word those days. Soon after, the bobby mounted his bike and headed towards the general direction of Marble Arch.

I had been instrumental in bailing out Asgar on another occasion previously when to my horror he was merrily using the bath tub as a bucket sub-continental style and pouring tumbler full of water over head much to the chagrin of Mrs. Kelley. But that’s another story, to be narrated some other time.

I have been rearing to add this piece to Back Chat the moment I read a centre page article in the Sunday paper a couple of weeks ago.  All two pages of it are about the rear of someone who is now hitting the front pages of women magazines. I don’t look out for them folks, but these glossies glare at even geriatrics like me at the groceries check-outs. I wonder what is it with western media s raving about the rump.   I feel their standards and tastes have reached the rock bottom.  The spread-out is not about the bottom that may one day sit on the British throne but of the one who brought up the rear at the recent royal wedding . Yes, it is all about Pippa’s figure-hugging hindquarter.

In those parts of the world where most of us come from  people admire females first for their  facial and other upfront features. It seems  such beauty benchmarks of the Orient take a back seat  in the  Occident where it is so common for girls to ask ‘does my b.m. look big in this’ while trying tight fitting trousers.

So it is no accident that the British press has promoted this MoH (Maid of Honour) to HRH (Her Royal Hotness) in a matter of days after she walked behind her big sister holding the train at the Westminster wedding ceremony. Commentators swooned over the tightly sewn gown gracing her slim figure with cameras constantly concentrating on her bell-jar bottom. Print media has now taken over from where the lens men had left. Party goodies peddler Pippa is now having a perennial no-holds-barred party popping at events like the Paris Open. Even as Rafael and Roger had their eyes on the ball hitting it with bullet speed over the net, the audience had a ball of their own with their eyes trained on the high-flyer in a low-cut Zara dress.

The girl from the coal mining ancestry, now uncharitably called gold digger, knows it is cool to cash in on her ‘hot’ image. According to a British columnist”she has become a global celebrity in an age where having talent is no pre-requisite for fame.”  A close acquaintance says”she is the most socially ambitions person I have ever come across”.  Is this below the belt comment a back-handed compliment? With her new found popularity, Pippa is riding on her posterior all the way to the bank with offers flowing from all directions.

American small screen goddess Oprah and TV queen Barbara Walters are having a bun(m) fight  to get the girl from this said of the Atlantic on their shows. Some magazines from Down Under are also up and running in the race to cover her. A brand name British bag maker has re-christened one of their bags ‘Pippa’ and pitched its price up. With Indians presence becoming universal, they can’t be left behind. Fancy footwear maker Aruna Seth who designed Pippa’s silver sandals for a party on the big day was there too, but her offer could not get a foot in the door; politely turned down.  Palace seemed to have stepped in to stem the flow, having learned a lesson from Fergie’s frivolous foray in grabbing promotional offers. Buckingham boss Beth has signalled that bucks stop with her.

The upward moving Middleton, someone sarcastically suggested   that she might consider changing her name to Upton. I have no credentials to sit on the judge’s panel of a beauty pageant. However  In my book, her face in not the kind that will turn a thousand heads away from her regal rear.  The picture of her leaving the hotel with her family the morning after the wedding is proof enough. It is more common than a commoner’s and no match to her beautiful big sister.

The law of gravity demands as one scales the social ladder, some load shedding may be required to speed up the climb. Pippa knows this and she has duly dropped her long-time boy friend, a former cricketer Alex Louden. She has given him the slip and now he is the 12th man and his odds of re-joining the game are long on. The close-in fieldsman now is George Perry her one time-flat mate and the future Duke of Northumberland whose castle is lot larger than any cricket field. Seeing the newly-wed bride earning a title, the little sister wanting one for herself can’t be called sibling rivalry.

In spite of all the hoo-ha about Pippa’s behind, the 29 year old was recently pipped in the post for the coveted crown of (RoY) “Rear of the Year” by 50-year old, TV presenter Carol Vordeman. I am glad that Aishwarya’s surname is spelt Rai and not Roy although she will win hands down. Back home  sarees and slawar save our women from such unsavoury contests.

The media has downloaded on us so much of the party prince’s posterior and we would love to see the back of her – figuratively.  Then if you ask why I have gone down the same ‘rave of the rump’ route, I reply : “isn’t this space called Back Chat?” It is nice to bring up the rear of this popular magazine with a light read.

Who flushed him out? Was it the CIA or its ‘trusted’ and ‘co-operative’ ally ISI. Neither. It was the KFC. No, not that fried chicken conglomerate founded by the genteel-looking colonel from Kentucky! What was it then?  Patience, dear readers…

On that quiet Sunday morning when other parts of the world were celebrating May Day, a few nondescript cars arrived at short intervals at that famous house at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. It happened so early in the day that even the usual suspects from the Fourth Estate, who keep an eagle eye on the building bearing an elaborate eagle on its crest, did not take much notice of the activity.

A day earlier the walls of the building’s Situation Room, where critical decisions affecting many parts of the world are taken, were washed and wiped for the May Day D-day.

The first to arrive was SOS (nothing to do with May Day) – Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, and the following vehicles brought Homeland Security Adviser John Brennan, Defence Secretary Robert Gates, the top military brass and Vice-President Joe Biden.

Now, the VP is useless person who is sent around to attend funerals of heads of states.  Was his presence a portent that this meeting had something to do with someone’s death?

The dedicated dozen watched every move and listened to every word sent over satellites from two dozen daredevils, several thousand miles away, as they stormed a high-walled mansion right in the middle of a military cantonment combing for the world’s most wanted – WMW – who was turning  out to be as elusive as Iraq’s WMDs.

Watching this drama from his den at CIA headquarters a few kilometres away, the mission’s mastermind Chief Leon Panetta the mission was providing a running commentary to the Situation Room.  When one of the MH helicopters hit the high wall and had to be scuttled, the White House watchers’ collective hearts almost collapsed, as did Obama’s re-election hopes. But a few moments later when the words “Geronimo EKIA” were relayed they jumped with joy and did a jig.

A few blocks away ISI operatives, monitoring this hide-out 24/7 at the command of some of their present and former bosses, puzzled over the cryptic message.

Junior operative Pasha asked his senior Gul what that word ‘Ekia’ meant. Gloated by his superior status, Gul said “ It is a Swedish store; they must be sending new furniture for the old man.  Haven’t you seen him watching videos on a decrepit desk for years.”

“Gul sab, what is ‘Geronimo’?”

“It may be chair. You know that store gives fancy names to their mundane flat pack stuff, all made in China”.

“I heard EKIA not IKEA”, junior said. “Arre bewakoof, we write everything left to right.”  Gul wore a smile satisfied with his smart replies.

“How could the SEALS get here? We are nowhere near a sea!”  This seemed to have stumped the normally-inventive Gul, who merely scratched his head, signalling no more questions.

In the capital, some 50 km south of this monitoring station, a much more serious discussion was going on in the Cabinet room among the PM, ISI Chief and the military moguls.

On entering the room, a surprised President queried why they looked so glum. The big guns in uniform said in unison “We have now lost our trump card we used to yank a couple of billions a year from those dumb Yankees who think we are fighting on their side.”

With a wry smile the President said: “Don’t worry chaps; we can still milk them by threatening to let our all-weather friends in Beijing to get a dekko at the crashed helicopter tail with secret stealth shield.” “Wah”, the top brass applauded.

The PM asked what if the enemy on the eastern side did a copycat job, to which the ISI chief said “The ‘baniyas’ don’t have a backbone.  I have threatened that we have identified targets to attack all their IPL grounds. And that will keep our cricketers happy.”

Next day newspapers all over the world carried the big story of the vanquishing of the WMW, and had ever since been rambling on how the SEALS smoothly sallied so far inland, until a couple of weeks later the entire plot was panned out for the whole world by a baby-faced blonde Aussie guy Assange through his WikiLeaks. The story went like this:

Last August when the CIA got a tip about WMW’s possible hideout, it swung into action.  CIA had truckloads of clues on their lean and mean target since he was created and crafted by them in the Cold War days to fight the Soviets in Afghanistan.

Senior sleuths specialising South Asia viewing reams of data cascading from laptops looked for every detail from the turban to the toe of their tormenter – his temperaments, tactics and tastes. Ah, tastes! Something clicked in Chief Panetta’s brain and a plan to open a chain of KFCs all over the Indus plain was born.

During his salad days in Saudi, young Osama was brought upon al Kabsa, a traditional Bedouni  dish of camel meat. During his nomadic years fighting the Soviets in Afghanistan, he developed a special liking for the Kabuli kind of fried camel patties.

Check-out chicks – all CIA trainees – in the new KFC outlets were asked to keep a keen eye on buyers of this special dish. Punjab, the culinary capital of the sub-continent, spurned this hard meat and the take-away venture didn’t take off.

However, at one particular outlet a couple of chaps kept coming every night for the take-away Kabuli Fried Camel. Word was sent to CIA HQ. A tail was put on these two couriers that led to a high-walled mansion in the midst of military bungalows.

On Sunday night the manager of KFC outlet in Abbotabad gave the couriers a huge bucket of nuggets as a gift for their patronage, besides the usual patties to the chief resident. A secret signal went westward. The bucket, mildly laced with sedatives, took care of the two dozen occupants in the first two floors. And a little later the stealth helicopters flew in. The rest, as they say, is history. So kudos to KFC!