CLOSE ENCOUNTERS WITH COIFFEURS

At the outset, I must apologise for plagiarising the title from Stephen Spielberg, the oldies would surely recall his first contact with the aliens in “Close Encounters of the Third Kind”, before he introduced “ET”, the Extra terrestrial. Hairdressers or Barbers, as we used to refer to them, back then, also bear a remarkable similarity to the aliens as they had eyes and ears everywhere. Barbers in India were the community endowed with the privilege of having the ears of the Kings themselves and naturally that gave them power purely through their nuisance value if nothing else. They were the matchmakers who would provide the information regarding prospectives brides and grooms in the nearby villages and even go on to to facilitate the ceremony. 

Then of course, having shed our locks the men folk specially so, because of the various religious ceremonies and rituals, we were always in dread of these “creatures with scissors”. The scissors was a very potent weapon which could render a man with his whiskers, suddenly exposed and feeling naked, you know how it is with these moustachioed types. Somehow this hair growth on the upper lip, so despised by women became the symbol of virility and valour for the Adams. The reason why we start to dread the visit to the saloon may be a matter of research, but to me it appears as though the blame lies squarely with our age old samskaras (rituals), ‘mundan' as we all are aware is our first intro with this species and naturally after the ignominy of making a public spectacle of being shorn of one’s precious locks the relations with the barbers were destined to be acrimonious. 

Even Alexander Pope, the author of “Rape of the lock” could not have visualised this torturous deed, else he would have come out with another masterpiece to describe this act of terror on an unsuspecting child, and to top it all, it ends up in a celebration. Obviously with the person concerned totally oblivious of the goings on. I am sure the pain and the anguish of the child when he looks up to you for help to bail him out from the clutches of this inhuman (!) form, armed with his deadly armoury of scissors and razors, would melt many a heart, but the ceremony is sacrosanct and has to be endured, so there goes the lovely mane! Since we have always treated our hair with such disdain, they decide to desert us when we need them most, in your middle ages, when you are desperate for the elixir of youth and the balding pate gives it away immediately, sweet revenge!

I am sure each one of us has had his brushes (pun intended) with the hair force (barbers naturally). The fairer sex of course has christened them in a more dignified manner, the parlours with hair stylists. But the French word for a barber is quite impressive, “coiffure”, not that it gives him some supernatural powers, au contraire, when you see the French men, you pity them for the kind of hair-do that they sport or actually do not sport, ie they prefer to crop them real short, bordering on a crew cut. Now for those of you who are wondering what is so special about this hair style, let me have the privilege of educating you. This hair style is patented by the village barbers, who normally practise it on the men folk with a brick as the throne for the customer and open sky as the roof, sometimes the shade of a Neem tree provides them some respite from the sun. It is referred to as Katora cut, implying a hair cut with a steel bowl on the head for measure for its accuracy. The army was so enamoured by this style, that they immediately adopted it as their own. So all recruits and the cadets under training now proudly (!) sport this. It has a number of advantages, the foremost being the speed with which the customers can be dispensed with and the uniformity being the other.

My encounters with this species would have commenced with the mundan ceremony of course, but since I do not have any recollections of the event, I presume it would have passed of relatively peacefully. The first time that this species caused havoc was on a very solemn occasion when my grandfather passed away, the elders in the family immediately bowed to the barber for a clean shave as is the tradition. The children were exempted, but enamoured by the shining pates, I decided to follow suit, I was all of four then but could take a decision, which, I daresay is not the same today! By the time the men folk returned after the cremation, there was considerable furore in the household, having shed my hair, when I faced my father, he was furious and all hell broke loose with the poor barber running for cover offering excuses that I had actually insisted on having the clean shave. It took the elders in the family to quietly whisk me away from the scene for the tempers to gradually wane. 
Then there were some innocuous ones who did not really leave an impression apart from their imprint on my anatomy shearing off a corner of my ear in a very deft and precise manner. Even a surgeon would have been proud of this incision, only issue is; this piece of surgery was not warranted. In fact this barber was a visiting faculty, he was a clerk but being a barber by caste could not help but practise his art on some guinea pigs like us. Needless to say, he made a quiet getaway leaving a piece of my ear in my hand. It was my mother’s turn this time to throw a fit and my father was at the receiving end having permitted that bloke to actually try his artistry on her precious child.
It was soon time to leave home and head for RIMC, where I was introduced to the crew cut, which you have already been apprised about. There our visits to the barber shop were a weekly affair, rather a weekend affair, as Mondays were inspection days and God also could not be your saviour if you had some growth on the side locks, which was the only part visible from the beret which adorned our heads. We took our chances though as the long winding queues outside the barber shop proved quite a deterrent to some of the adventurous kinds. On one such occasion, we decided to outsmart the barber himself by picking up his zero machine and donning the mantle ourselves. Naturally a disaster awaited us, having made a mess of ourselves; we rushed to his highness the barber himself to bail us out. It took all our persuasive powers and diplomatic skills to weather the storm, not to mention the better part of our princely sum of of 75/-of pocket money. 

We simply maintained the tradition at NDA carrying on with our crew cuts, the saving grace was “Heera” our barber who was really a precious one. In Sanskrit there is a saying, “Yatha naam tatha Gun”  he personified that. In our junior terms we were not permitted to have a hair cut in our rooms, but this man was special, he would find the time and steal a quickie. We were of course very grateful as that saved us from a visit to the barber shop. At NDA such privileges were treasured, as it provided us with some additional moments of sleep, the most precious commodity! He was also the harbinger of all kinds of news of the academy and a soothsayer also predicting accurately the events ahead, including the timings of the dreaded sessions. Forewarned we were forearmed so Heera was tipped handsomely each time he graced us with his weekly visits. On an odd occasion when we had a “Flat” day, (a day when there were no outdoors in the morning hours, a rare occurrence), some of us sacrificed the lion’s share of our breakfast and paid a visit to the salon. The barbers then would give you the hair cut and then provide the head wash also after all, you couldn't go back for a bath. Mind you the potent immunity booster used for these head washes was our very own “Lifebuoy”, (“Tandurasti ki raksha karta hai Lifebuoy”), no shampoos could match that.

Our hair also withstand the horrors of bearing the brunt of terrains as diverse as the glacier, deserts, jungles and mountains and they take their toll too. The balaclava which is a ‘must have’ in high altitudes areas to cover our heads has been christened quite rightly as the ‘baal niklava’ ( hair remover) , as each time it comes off, it takes a chunk of your hair with it. My locks by now had had enough, on an average the life of this part of the anatomy actually far outlives all the others put together, specially for the faujis. An average male visits the barber about twelve times in a year and taking the average life span as 65, about 785 say 800 times in his whole life. We do that 52 times a year and naturally complete this in just about 15-16 years. So balding is a natural consequence! Now a days the tryst with the barbers is primarily for him to find some hair to crop and some to colour and this I am afraid is a lost cause, what with the balding pate glittering already.

Bell's Palsy

Bell’s Palsy
(Sometime Jun 09)
I wonder how many of you are familiar with this medical mumbo-jumbo, frankly I wasn’t until of course it decided to pay me a highly unsolicited visit, one fine day, no not one of those fine days really. In the 42 odd summers that I have been here on this planet of ours on a tourist visa like most of us, I have had the privilege of being with the practitioners of Herodotus on a number of occasions. Sometimes it has been the routine common maladies and afflictions which help keep the profession of medicine alive in your sub-conscious. But once in a while the Almighty up there decides to remind you of the good fortune that you enjoy in being in perfect health, and that sadly only happens when we fall sick!
Well, I was hale and hearty just back from a hectic trip to Bangalore where I was hobnobbing with the IT whiz of the nation, INFOSYS, WIPRO, MINDTREE, MACMET , that was of course to impress you all! But yes it is true, I was actually there meeting them and feeling might important and knowledgeable. Important because, recession has brought these high and mighty also to our levels where, they consider our projects also worth a try. I recall my visit to Infosys a decade ago, during the IDT, when we were treated with total disdain, in fact the person responsible for conducting us around made it a point to rub this in a rather bashful tone that their clientele was all abroad and they did not take on any domestic projects at all! So times they are a changin’! Yes the meetings were fruitful and I was returning with a sense of satisfaction of having set the ball rolling and looking forward to some challenging and may be intellectually stimulating times ahead.
But the most modern airport of the country played the spoiler; I ended up losing my cell phone at the security check arena. It was a shock to say the least because you cannot even imagine such a thing can happen to you of all the people. At the security check of all places, when you put down the articles for screening, you naturally presume that the staff on duty is vigilant, but here on the contrary, there was total apathy and denial. It took some convincing for them to believe that I had actually placed my cell in the tray and that it failed to make an appearance on the other side of the X-ray machine. Their CCTV camera footage was highly inadequate and hence they could not zoom into the location to check as to who picked it up. All that they could confirm was that it was placed there by me. But even till date, neither has the Airport authority deemed it fit to apologise nor are they in a position to even confirm whether they are close to unravelling this mysterious disappearance. Naturally I was upset, a man without his cell today resembles an idiot, as he has no memory, all his contacts lost, he is lost in this big bad world, suffering the ignominy of queuing up at a STD booth (!?) for even a simple call. It is a humiliation which you would not wish even on your worst enemies. But thanks to the efficiency of Bangalore airport authorities, I was at Coimbtore airport trying to rack my brains ( I presume there are some grey cells still in tact, as I managed to recall a few numbers and could call up ) to get through to friends and inform them of the disaster which had struck and also locate the vehicle at the same time. To cut the suffering short, I landed up back home in a rather pensive mood, still recovering from the shock. But it was the next day when disaster actually struck and made you realise the futility of all the heartburn associated with the loss of a mobile phone. Since I had work to catch up on, I was glued to my laptop most of the day, trying to finish off the backlog, my eyes were shedding all kinds of tears, and the left eye even decided to twitch quite a few times. It was odd at first, but the logical conclusion was that rather prolonged exposure to laptop a t a stretch was responsible probably for this discomfort. But by dinner time, I had s inking feeling that there was more to it, when there was total involuntary leftward movement of my lips and this scared me naturally. Thanks to the chain of fwds which we keep getting bombarded with in our e-mails, we are wiser about a whole lot of things, including certain medical emergencies as well. The situation appeared to be alarming so, I dutifully landed up at the MH to be told by the doctor on duty that I was probably suffering from this Bell’s Palsy. But he was not very sure and decided to exercise his prerogative of giving me the benefit of doubt; asking me to take a sedative relax and be back next morning if things got worse(!) The doctor definitely deserves to be rewarded for his brave act, when he should probably have kept me under detention if not admitted me then and there.
Then what is this Palsy which has a ringing tone associated with it, no not the mobile ring tones which we all have got so used to these days, the good old bell is what I am referring to. So let me just put you all a little wise on this issue, on which I dare say that I have done some research and can claim to have a reasonable amount of insight.
Bell's palsy is a paralysis of cranial nerve VII (the facial nerve) resulting in inability to control facial muscles on the affected side. Several conditions can cause a facial paralysis, e.g., brain tumor, stroke, and Lyme disease. However, if no specific cause can be identified, the condition is known as Bell's Palsy. Named after Scottish anatomist Charles Bell, who first described it, Bell's palsy is the most common acute mononeuropathy (disease involving only one nerve), and is the most common cause of acute facial nerve paralysis.Bell's palsy is defined as an idiopathic unilateral facial nerve paralysis, usually self-limiting. The trademark is rapid onset of partial or complete palsy, usually in a single day.
It is thought that an inflammatory condition leads to swelling of the facial nerve. The nerve travels through the skull in a narrow bone canal beneath the ear. Nerve swelling and compression in the narrow bone canal are thought to lead to nerve inhibition, damage or death. No readily identifiable cause for Bell's palsy has been found, but clinical and experimental evidence suggests herpes simplex type 1 infection may play a role.
So this in a nutshell is the problem, the good news is that 85-90% patients are reported to recover totally in a period of three to six months. Also the statistics reveal that the incidences are not as uncommon as they may appear with international average being 1 in every 65 persons suffering from it some time in their life span. Although Japanese report the highest number of cases, but any Neurologist in India would tell you that Indians are also quite close to the international averages.
It is well behind us, have totally recovered, thanks to the Almighty!!

Tryst with Ivory Coast

Isn’t it a strange quirk of fate to have landed me here at Ferkessoudougou, even in my dreams, one could not have heard such a tongue twister for a name. But this is what providence is all about, no? I was destined to come here, probably in my last birth, there was something that I had left here which I had to pay back, or may be to claim now! Ivory Coast, the name strikes a bell in our minds, as my brother pointed out, Phantom! Yes, those of us who grew up reading Phantom comics, remember Ivory Coast was the place where, Phantom, the ghost who walks, the man who never dies and whose forefathers have fought injustice for last four hundred years lived. When I was reminded about it immediately the mind raced back to those days and the stories of Bandar tribesmen, who had poisoned arrows and a skull cave and his horse and the German shepherd, whom he referred to as a wolf. 

Well, it was but fiction! Not the truth at all, Ivory Coast was supposed to be the miracle of Africa, the Dark Continent, yes a miracle child, amidst all the anarchy all around this piece of heaven was surviving, no not just surviving but thriving. A bit of Europe in this quagmire called Africa, where no one wanted to be there except the power brokers, the super powers for their own vested interests to supervise their fiefdom, some American, French, and at times the erstwhile Soviet were always at stake, and their games were replayed in one after another of these African countries, Angola, Somalia, Congo, Sudan, Liberia, Sierra Leone and not to forget South Africa and now the latest to join the bandwagon Zimbabwe! But Cote D’Ivoire which is the proper name for what we know as Ivory Coast, was a shining example of how a country can be with the natural resources it has, provided, of course it has leaders with a vision who are self-less and with a little backing from its past colonial masters the French. Yes the miracle just went bust, the bubble burst but it did not happen all of a sudden, the writing was on the wall, but like the proverbial ostrich everyone just buried its face in sand which was nowhere to be found, just imagined. The storm would just blow over, so they thought and so petty politicking and power at any and every cost, as is the case with the politicians the world over. But the irony is that “Kare koi bhare koi” as they say in Hindi, i.e. to say, the sufferers are not the ones who committed the crime in the first place. The masses end up being the losers, who were just learning to breathe in the freshness of the new morn of independence. The politicians play games and the masses are the pawns that end up being sacrificed at the altar, well so what is new?

I don’t think I have learnt or seen enough of the country to become an authority on the issues, but the little that I have seen confirms what my first impressions were, i.e. the core problem is the former colonial masters. They would however like to believe that they are the ones looking for a solution. That is the bitter truth and the earlier they realize their folly the better it will be for them and for the Francophone countries. Colonialism unfortunately did not die with the Second world war, but thrived in the minds of the rulers and they would not let go, little realizing that they were not only ruining their erstwhile subjects but also their own countrymen also as they did not get over the colonial hangover. So they continued meddling what they should have left for the new nascent nation states to sort out for themselves. As it is the concept of nation states, an imitation of the European model, is most unsuitable for Africa as also Asia. The tribal and ethnic loyalties are far stronger in Africa than the artificially created national ones, and naturally so, these ties are centuries old and have been strengthened by common customs, traditions, dress and just about everything under the sun.

Trivialising the election process
Elections is serious business, but obviously our politicians do not want the electorate to take it seriously. Instead they would rather have us stuck in frivolous issues, when Munna Bhai wants to give a jadu ki jhappi to Mayawati, the issue is raked up for violation of code of conduct. Honestly does it actually matter whether a hug constitutes a violation, what should concern us is whether he actually has some issues on which he can focus, whether he has a vision for the growth and development. Unfortunately the Election Commission also gets embroiled in these petty things, similar to the PILs which were being lodged for every stupid thing in the Supreme Court.

RAIL TRAVAILS

Travels has not been misspelt in the heading, it is there by design as rail travels are more of a travail than travel. Most of you would probably agree, as each one of us has had his brushes with the Indian railways where we have not come out with our egos intact. In fact at times it has actually ended up reducing us mortals to where we belong; less our false sense of grandeur. The trappings of power are meekly surrendered when we face the mighty railways.

 My first introduction to this mode of transport was rather late, considering the fact that after that I became a frequent traveller long distance, if not in terms of kilometres at least in terms of the time taken to complete the journey. My father was posted in a tribal area, which till date is bereft of this giant caterpillar doing the rounds there, in fact I know of a number of friends who actually undertook a journey to Indore, the nearest rail head just to have a glimpse of the steam engines those days. So, deprived of this means of communication, naturally we were a bunch of curious kids!

My maiden venture was a non-descript affair as the enthusiasm gave way to boredom soon as the train barely moved and halted for longer duration than it moved. The journey was undertaken on a meter gauge rail track connecting Guna and Indore, where I had gone to participate in State level Table Tennis tournament at the sub-junior level. But the time that the behemoth actually trudged along, it was good, especially when we could actually sit down at the gate itself with gushes of wind splashing against our faces like the waves in an ocean. The journey was in a second class compartment which provides a kaleidoscope to what our great nation is all about, it covers the complete spectrum of our society which itself has many hues and colours. Soon I was to move to RIMC Dehradun for my studies, which provided me with ample opportunities to hone my rail travel skills. In fact, even prior to my move to Dehradun, we had to go to Allahabad for my medical examination prior to joining school. Although the nearest MH was at Mhow and there was another one at Bhopal and also one at Jabalpur, but I think the authorities wanted us to have a feel of things ahead so decided to despatch us to Allahabad.

Naturally I was overjoyed at the prospect of such a long journey by train. Those days number of trains was too few and a travel during summers without reservation was a nightmare which could drive even the toughest travellers nuts. Khandwa was the junction which was our boarding station on a train which was on its way from Bombay (Mumbai is rather recent in its origin). The junction at Khandwa also was quite remarkable as without any means of entertainment or engagement, a daily visit to the railway station was mandatory for the intelligentsia and the commoners alike for an intellectually stimulating discussion on all possible issues facing our young nation. In fact the arrival, departure schedules of trains, availability or otherwise of reservations, the going rates of various TTEs for provision of a berth in the trains and their tout coolies were all discussed quite animatedly. 

So my father and me, a young lad all of eleven armed with our ignorance of travails ahead landed at Khandwa junction and were shooed off from the reservation office for being foolish enough to even dream of a berth on a train bound towards Allahabad with two days notice, because that was the notice given by our hierarchy. It was only later that we realised that 48 hours of notice was actually a luxury as more often than not we didn’t even get four hours. A good Samaritan took pity on us wretched souls and introduced us to a coolie who could provide us with two berths at a princely sum of Rs 50/- each which was almost double the cost of the ticket itself. But we did not have a choice and succumbed. So we travelled with reservations as the TTE was kindness personified having received his share of the booty. This was my first exposure to bribery, very much a part of our culture today. Yes there were qualms about it, my father was not comfortable with the idea but he took the Yudhishthir way “Ashwathama mrito naro va kunjaro va”, letting his friend take care of the actual payment. Not directly involved, despite the conscious; a strange bedfellow, doesn’t let you alone and keeps nagging. Like a patient and indulgent husband you just learn to ignore it.

The return journey was actually rather eventful. Having completed the medicals in a record three days, there was no way we could have got a reservation and no good Samaritans there to bail us out, the only option was to travel in a general compartment. Those of you who have actually stood in queue in sweltering heat to obtain just a ticket, not reservation can empathise with us, but having endured the heat for almost three hours, we learnt that there was a ticket counter somewhere in the city which not many knew of and there were chances that we could get our tickets over there. We did manage to get hold of the tickets and there somebody also confided in us that since the passenger train starts from here, the only way to board the train comfortably was at the yard. So we marched on to the marshalling yard with coolies refusing to carry our luggage all that distance, my father actually carried the suitcase on his head. 

Sure enough we found the train absolutely empty and we could pick and choose the bogey. Gradually more people trickled in and by the time the train actually moved towards the station, the bogey was full capacity. But we were very comfortable and the passengers promptly locked the bogey from inside with strict instruction not to open it under any circumstances. But when the train actually docked on to the platform there was deluge awaiting us and it was practically impossible to ignore their hammerings on the gates. I am sure the bolt would have given way had one of the passengers not opened it, we were soon submerged under this deluge, and a crowd of almost three- four hundred bhils (the tribals) were everywhere. They were migrant labour who were returning to their village, the summer drawing to an end, back to their shifting style of farming from the drudgery of a daily wages labour. We were perched on the luggage space cramped but we did not dare to move as we would have landed up on some part of the anatomy of our worthy co-passengers. The smell was obnoxious and even the lavatories or the passage were not spared, every inch of space had a homo-sapien, we realised as to how the sardines must be feeling in their cans, thankfully they are not alive when they undergo this ordeal. We were on the verge of suffocation, but survived miraculously. Of course the night was spent without a wink, there was a sage also amongst the crowd, after a while we heard him voicing choicest expletives as a kid had apparently decided to give him a mastak-abhishek, you can't blame the kid after all how long could he have controlled his bursting bladder. Mastak-abhishek for the uninitiated is the pouring of water or milk or honey over a deity during certain rituals. The most famous being that of Lord Bahubali at Shravanbelgola in Karnataka. Just short of Jabalpur, the bhils simply disappeared, the train had slowed down and they jumped out lock stock and barrel.

It was only later that I realised the special significance of Allahabad in my travails as I had another interesting journey couple of years down the line. More about that later, but my journey to Dehradun was so breathtaking and picturesque that it got me hooked to the hills forever. Although major part of the journey was in plains but firstly the availability of a reserved berth did wonders for the pleasure of this travel. I was also enthusiastic about the period ahead, as I was actually looking forward to RIMC rather eagerly and that also would have added to the spell which I was under right from the time we crossed Saharanpur. The first glimpse of the holy Ganges at Haridwar and the thick jungles, flowing rivulets and streams provided the icing. By the time the train chugged into the railway station, it was dusk and the electrifying beauty of Mussoorie was at its full splendour for us to relish. The lights shone like a million fireflies. It was indeed breathtaking. I was hooked line and sinker!

STREAKS OF VIOLENCE

Streaks of ViolenceToday City hospital scene presented a true reflection of the state of violence within each one of us, a grim reminder of the state of moral bankruptcy where we have landed ourselves in. While I waited for the specialist for his advice with my sister, a doctor herself, there was commotion from somewhere within the treatment rooms. A shrill rather loud feminine voice could be overheard over the din, the tone and tenor was complaining. One felt, that maybe it was the usual case of the hospital staff insisting on clearance of dues before discharge of patients, or a shortfall of ready cash was interrupting the treatment. I confess, this was a prejudice as we often hear of such incidents and naturally I presumed that to be the case. But soon, two men came over to the lobby and in front of the receptionist got into an argument over some issue, which also bordered on them getting a little physical. We felt the issue pertained to payments and perhaps both of them were insisting on clearing the dues. Since all these events were on the periphery, one was barely taking notice and these inferences were not arrived at after any serious deliberations. But the events suddenly took a serious turn for the worse, the men with their ladies in tow suddenly emerged from within and one of them in a characteristic nonchalant style threw the choicest expletive at the other; establishing a rather vulgar intimacy of relationship with the other’s mother. This proved to be the trigger where the other suddenly uttered the most dreaded words for a Moslem wife, “Talak”, suddenly before the bystanders could react, the two men were at each other’s throats, one of them still had his arm ready for an intravenous injection, and it took quite a few of the security staff to separate the two. The man was naturally dripping blood all over. It later emerged that the two were brothers-in-law.
The incident by itself may be highly insignificant and for a Delhite, it may just be routine which does not even affect him. But it set me thinking, this manifestation of violence at the slightest provocation is a reflection of a deeper malaise which has afflicted the collective psyche of a large cross section of people in Delhi, devoid of human values, social norms and etiquettes, they are instrumental in causing grievous danger to the society at large. The macabre crimes which are reported in graphic details by the print and electronic media only add fuel to fire. I wonder, what is the aim of covering these crimes in such detail, are we conducting a tutorial for commitment of crime, that is what appears to be the case here. In the name of freedom of media and expression, I am sure we cannot ignore my rights of trying to preserve the innocence of a generation which has been handed over on a platter to the folly of blind imitation of Western lifestyle and values. Their ideals and values may be ok for them but can they be applied virtually without any concern for our own values. Yes, some of you may be already up in arms branding me as a saffron parivar wallah, but far from it I am no apologist for them. But I also have my own rights and views which need to be considered and may be mulled over before trashing them.
So let us look at the Mangalore incidents afresh, The actions of Shriram Sene were highly objectionable and condemnable, at the outset . They had no business doing what they did, abominable and each one of the goons deserves to be brought to book for their crime against women in particular. Having said that, do we need to introspect and carry out a reality check, whether it was their actions which were deplorable or the cause itself. Consumption of alcohol in India, by itself has never been a taboo; the vigilantes would immediately cite the “somras” which was the elixir for the “Devtas” as mentioned in the Vedas. Yes that is true and it is also a fact that values, like everything else in this universe are not static but are dynamic, ever evolving! So we cannot seek refuge behind our age old value system either. So what is the point of this whole exercise then, the raison d’être for my taking up cudgels is simply on behalf that silent majority, which does not approve of the pub culture in general and their own daughters visiting them. Can we not have any consideration for their sensibilities, theirs is a generation which has gone through the grind and today when it is time for their share of a quiet fade away, they are being subjected to these forms of agony. Having a party within the confines of four walls of your home and your girlfriend who enjoys an evening while savouring an alcoholic beverage, you are most welcome to enjoy it your way. Nobody has a right to interfere with their brand of moral policing. We however cannot extend this logic further and take it towards mindless proliferation of these pubs or watering holes all over. Gradually as the society transforms, if it does towards that end, then by all means, we could have more of these in years to come. But till then, we should hold our horses, but not in the Shriram Sene or Shiv Sena style.
While we are discussing this issue, I wonder if I can take the liberty of penning my thoughts on the rather over the top coverage which events related to gay movement get in our media. The premise is, that the aim of this coverage is to bring them out of the closet in the open; while sexual preferences may be a matter of personal choice, is it mandatory to highlight it in such a manner so that the uninitiated out of curiosity venture where in normal course they probably would not. All these so called surveys which are conducted by our progressive intelligentsia are by no means a true reflection of the society, on the contrary these are isolated cases restricted to a certain cross section only and not the middle class or the masses. So once again, there might be some merit in exercising restraint in our mindless pursuit of increasing circulation or TRP ratings through such objectionable means. I think we owe it to this gen X which is brilliant, industrious, having forsaken the yoke of colonial hangovers with an attitude of a world beater, to give them an environment of growth of mind over matter. The mindless pursuit of materialism prevalent in the West has not been a panacea for the ills of their society, so seeking solution there for ours is foolish to say the least.

CAPSICUM

I confess to not being much of a foodie but gastronomic delights do interest me as much as most Indians relish them. I also consider myself quite adventurous and am always prepared to try a new dish or even a cuisine for that matter. Not being fussy about dietary preferences has definite advantages, where we can survive under any and every situation. I am sure most of us have heard of some of our friends being so obsessed with Indian food that they prefer to lug crates full of “ready to eat” variety and survive on these and these alone. Vegetarians also are handicapped to an extent as, abroad vegetarian diet generally is a non-red meat diet, that implies chicken and fish are on the menu of the veg, eggs of course do not count at all as non-veg.

By now you must be wondering that “what has capsicum got to do with this”, a la Tina Turner’s what’s love got to do with it? Well it has a lot to do with recipes and for the continental and the Chinese cuisine in particular; this so called veg is a mandatory ingredient in almost every dish. Yes I know that some people simply relish it, but somehow my stomach is not amenable to it at all and practically short of throwing up; it puts me through a lot of discomfort. So I got about checking out as to what is so special about this veg which is referred to as “Simla Mirch” in the vernacular.

It is quite obvious that this is a misnomer with no chilly content in it and the Simla connection appears to be a colonial connection, with the veg itself associated with continental grub of the gora Saab. Simla was their favoured habitat after all. If one was to dwell deeper and check, I am sure my contention would be vindicated as I can’t think of any traditional Indian recipe with capsicum as an ingredient. We Indians have a tradition of healthy foods and every veg has not just nutritional value but is also medicinal. Just take a glimpse at the almanac of traditional veg and you would realise the wisdom of this stratagem. Methi, palak better known as spinach the favourite diet of Popeye, bottle gourd (lauki) or the widely acclaimed bitter gourd, popularly known as Karela all have tremendous benefits. Methi for arthritis, spinach for iron content, karela for diabetes, lauki for thyroid and so on. But capsicum apart from blessing you with the worst kind of burps does nothing else, then why is it still an ingredient in these dishes on the palates of the otherwise gastronomic delights? Well I am looking for answers, if you have any share it with me!

So staying with capsicum, it is indeed a herculean task to cull out the dreaded veg from my soups or continental dishes, which I relish sans this obnoxious weed, borrowing from Hayden’s description of his nemesis; our very own Bhajji. But not having much of a choice, I normally set about picking the capsicum, lest I myself end up being capsized! Yes this exercise is bothersome for me but is actually torturous for the people who choose to break bread with me as it takes inordinately long and I will admit quite irritating for them. But I can’t forego the sheer delight of the aroma of the otherwise mouth-watering dishes, so just too bad, like it or lump it, I bash on regardless. On an odd occasion when I have had to partake a few morsels, it has sorted me out, but that has not proved enough of a deterrent for me to abstain totally from these cuisines.

But I intend to spread this awareness amongst the ignorant masses so that they do not fall prey to this weed. In fact the Wikipedia has some interesting observations, to quote, “The fruit of most species of Capsicum contains capsaicin (methyl vanillyl nonenamide), a lipophilic chemical that can produce a strong burning sensation in the mouth (and, if not properly digested, in the excretory organs as well) of the unaccustomed eater. Most mammals find this unpleasant; however, birds are unaffected. The secretion of capsaicin is an adaptation to protect the fruit from consumption by mammals while the bright colours attract birds that will spread the seeds.”

So the capsicum types may do a rethink if they do not wish to be clubbed with the feathered species, while I am contemplating whether it would be worthwhile to set up a website to spread this awareness around!