the MIDDLE Path - Aniruddha Banhatti (the beginning after the end novel read .txt) 📗
- Author: Aniruddha Banhatti
Book online «the MIDDLE Path - Aniruddha Banhatti (the beginning after the end novel read .txt) 📗». Author Aniruddha Banhatti
wife. He• was saying, "This fool wants to stay other 2-3 days here. There goes my mattress".
"For 2-3 days?" his wife was shocked beyond belief. "And what are we to feed him with?"
So this was the famous village hospitality! I was so disgusted that I took the next bus home! And believe me, as 1 reached my flat, put the fan on, put the mosquito net, and as my head touched the foam pillow, I slept like a babe!
Storming the supermarket
On the broad general principle, I am against civilization. I feel nostalgia about the cave days when men were men, and, to keep the women-libbers at bay, let me add, women were women. During those happy days, there were no cars, no one-way streets, no park¬ing problems and most of all, there were no supermarkets.
It happened like this: The missus had heard about a new shopping place some eight kilometers from our home. I protested strongly. But you cannot argue with autho¬rity . You just have to submit. The missus not being able to drive, I had to take out the car and drive with her in the side-seat and 4 big¬shopper bags, which were pur¬chased in Tulsibaug, in the back seat. After two traffic jams, eight red signals, two wrong turns and one hour, we arrived at the supermar-ket. Mrs Banhatti had ~plained the system to me, and I was supposed not to behave like an idiot in the supermarket.
As I locked the car, I noticed that the missus had forgotten her money-purse on the dashboard. I took her purse, locked the car and entered the supermarket. The conditioned-air made me feel better immediately.
There were miles and miles of shelves stretched up to the horizon and scantily dressed ladies and well clad gentlemen pushed spar¬kling. chromium carts nimbly through the corridors. I looked for my better half but she was lost in the maze. I also took a chromium cart and drove it with quite a good speed through the narrow corridors, trying to locate my wife. I was not picking up anything from the shelves and everybody started looking at me oddly. At last I came to the end of the su¬permarket and still no sign of my lost wife.
She will be needing her purse, I thought, and scrutinized the long line of cart-pushers at the exit who were being let out by two supercil¬ious Paris Fashion models one by one., Every one in the line was awaiting her/his turn at the guillotine with baited breath. But my wife was not among them.
Everyone was looking askance at my empty cart. I took my cart ahead after being held up at one traffic¬ jam, or rather cart-jam, and after one accident, reached the entrance. Here I dissociated from the empty cart. The two bimbos at the en¬trance looked at me suspiciously. I wiped a bead of perspiration from my brow and got out from the entrance.
Everyone was looking at me as if I was some ignorant transvestite when I emerged through the wrong door clutching a ladies purse. Then I went to the exit door from outside. There she was!
She was arguing with the Miss World at one of the counters, when she sightedt me, she called me happily, at the lop of her voice. When she saw me coming to her, with her purse in my hand, tears of joy stood in her eyes.But the Miss World objected, ¬"Not thru’ this do-ah, Mistah, Come in thru' the en-trah-us" she said. Again I traversed through the whole supermarrket, provoking such remarks as "Anyone now comes in here". "There goes the neighborhood", "This is not a Jogging track" etc. as I ran through the corridors and just as I was reaching my wife, I slipped on the floor and crashed to the accompaniment of the coarsest laughter I have ever heard. I broke my collar-bone. How we took a taxi to the hospi¬tal, how our car was brought home, all these details I can tell, but I prefer to keep mum. No use remembering painful things, isn’t it?
Sussegaad!
THE word may not be in the dictionary, but it is the condensed philosophy• of entire Goa. I am told that it is a Portuguese word, or rather derived from a Portu¬guese word.
“Sussegaad" has no parallel word English.
"Very relaxed" is the nearest one can approach. It is not just a word, it is a way of life. It is being unconcerned about any happiness or tragedy.
"What's the hurry?" can be on other close but not exact translation.
In Goa, some sights are rare in Goa, almost nonexistent, the first being beggars. There are so few beggars in Goa that we almost get to yearn for them. The second rare sight is a dog and cat fight. We find dogs and cats cohabiting peacefully on the fishy leftovers.
The rare third sight is a person running after a moving bus. Miss¬ing the bus is not a phobia with the Goans. Their inertia is inbuilt and they will wait for the next bus rather than run after one. They are a dignified people and running after a mere moving machine will be an undignified act.
Take a look at the Goan shop¬keeper. See how comfortable he has made himself behind his coun¬ter. See the three bored looking assistants sitting on the stools. You enter the shop. The owner looks displeased. The assistants frown.
"Do you have any sarees?"
"What type do you want?" asks an assistant, not getting up from his stool
"Organza"
"Which colour?" the assistant asks, still sticking to his stool.
"Hmmm ... rather greenish-gol¬den".
"What range?"
"Say up to 500 rupees" .
Now the assistant reluctantly rises, selects three sarees and bangs them on the counter.
This is the inherent inertia of the Goans which they have proudly preserved, in these rat-race days. The entire Goan philosophy and lifestyle can be expressed in the magic word "Sussegaad"
The back lane musical show
Our locality is a lucky one. The housing society has a wide, busy road in the front, and a small by ¬lane at the back. Every morning we hear the piercing battle-cry, or rather, hawker-cry from one of the many frequenters of the back-lane. The cry is in a rasping voice, sounding not unlike a popular rock singer. The tune is different every day, giving you some exciting varia¬tions in the pronunciation of different vegetables. As the cry sounds, there is a stampede on the stairs and the small back-gate clangs open. This first bhajiwala is Hari - the "Cheap Stale”. His vegetables are one or two days stale, but his rates are very cheap. Most of the housewives and a few househusbands buy tomatoes and green vegetables from Hari. After he has finished business and left, hardly ten minutes pass when a resounding bass issues from the back lane, and everybody recognizes that it is the hour of the Madrasi.
The Madrasi is the "good quality-high price" chap, and those who have invited somebody over for dinner, or those who are hav¬ing guests staying with them stock-up from him. He has a choice of fresh vegetables brought from the market yard early in the morning. Housewives swear by the• Mad¬rasi's quality. Nobody yet knows whether,he is really a Tamilian, but everyone calls him Madrasi, because he looks exactly like Rajanikant, in fact he looks more like Rajanikant than Rajanikant himself does. Of course it is another matter that Rajanikant is really Maharashtrian and not Madrasi! After the territory is vacated by the Madrasi, the garlic-fellow clocks in. His cry is always the same. He shouts 'Kanadaaaaa-lasssssooonnn ' in a caressing falsetto and his shouting style reminds one of rapping. He sells onions, garlic and nothing else. He is the favorite with the non-vegetarians. Throughout the day these mar¬kets on wheels visit the back lane. Our railways can learn punctuality from them. Sometimes, especially on Sun¬days, fish vendors on bicycles appear as guest stars on the back ¬lane musical show. After so many years of listening, the wives from our society, I hear, are planning a back-lane awards night; or rather a back-lane awards morning for the best shouting star.
The award is very prestigious. It is decided that there will be no bargaining, with the winner for a complete month!
The cream of society
IT HAPPENED quite acciden¬tally. My friend Ravi gave me an invitation card for a party as he was not going to be in town that day. The party was hosted by a prominent industrialist.
"You will get to know the cream of society at the party," Ravi told me,
"And it will be a good experience for a down-to-earth, struggling author like you. The only thing is don't get intimidated. Just be yourself: You are a swell guy."
After such rare praise, I glanced at the glossy invitation, looked at my clothes and turned to Rayi. He read my thoughts. "Don't worry. Kurta and Pajama, especially soiled, is the in-thing nowadays. Either that or torn jeans and a printed T-shirt. Go as you are. Add a shabnam and nobody will be able to tell you from the jour¬nalists."
With this part(y)ing advice, he left me.
So I went.
A doorman, majestic in proportions and get-up, tried to scare me from the start. The light inside was so dim that one couldn't recognize the female from the male of the species.
After seeing my card, the door¬man had let me in and a chamcha (to stir the cream of society) caught me by the elbow and steered me to the inner parts. There, behind a bar, a worthy fixed me with a stony eye and asked in a gruff voice, "What will you have, Sir?"
I deduced that he was not a big shot or anybody like that, but only the barman.
"Scotch," I kept my head and answered.
"Which one, Sir?"
Here he had me floored. "Your guess is as good as mine."
"Sorry, Sir, we don't have the brand you mentioned."
"Give me any brand."
He looked at me with uncon¬cealed scorn and poured about two centimeters of liquid in a glass and asked, "How do you want it, Sir?"
"On the rocks," I said meekly and was handed the glass with two ice cubes.
As I moved away, I saw that the people there were divided into groups of five or so and talking in hushed voices. I joined one group and sipped scotch for the first time in my life -- and didn't like it. Somebody was saying, "- and what acting! Especially in the dying scene."
"Which serial are you talking about? The Sambandh episode telecast yesterday?" I butted in, emboldened by the intake of scotch. All were startled and turned scornful eyes on me. By now I had got used to the dim light and could tell the women from the men .
"We were talking about a Yugoslavian film telecast yester¬day on the ABC," one of the girls said in an icy tone. I was on the verge of asking how one could watch ABC in India but recalled seeing a dish antenna just in time and scrambled away.
After mingling with all the scat¬tered groups, I found that anything Indian was considered to be 'bad taste', including Osho and Zakir Hussain to my intense surprise. Only some obscure films, fads, fashions, music, paintings from some unheard of nations were considered culture. Even Pink Floyd and the Beatles were considered pre-historic.
"For 2-3 days?" his wife was shocked beyond belief. "And what are we to feed him with?"
So this was the famous village hospitality! I was so disgusted that I took the next bus home! And believe me, as 1 reached my flat, put the fan on, put the mosquito net, and as my head touched the foam pillow, I slept like a babe!
Storming the supermarket
On the broad general principle, I am against civilization. I feel nostalgia about the cave days when men were men, and, to keep the women-libbers at bay, let me add, women were women. During those happy days, there were no cars, no one-way streets, no park¬ing problems and most of all, there were no supermarkets.
It happened like this: The missus had heard about a new shopping place some eight kilometers from our home. I protested strongly. But you cannot argue with autho¬rity . You just have to submit. The missus not being able to drive, I had to take out the car and drive with her in the side-seat and 4 big¬shopper bags, which were pur¬chased in Tulsibaug, in the back seat. After two traffic jams, eight red signals, two wrong turns and one hour, we arrived at the supermar-ket. Mrs Banhatti had ~plained the system to me, and I was supposed not to behave like an idiot in the supermarket.
As I locked the car, I noticed that the missus had forgotten her money-purse on the dashboard. I took her purse, locked the car and entered the supermarket. The conditioned-air made me feel better immediately.
There were miles and miles of shelves stretched up to the horizon and scantily dressed ladies and well clad gentlemen pushed spar¬kling. chromium carts nimbly through the corridors. I looked for my better half but she was lost in the maze. I also took a chromium cart and drove it with quite a good speed through the narrow corridors, trying to locate my wife. I was not picking up anything from the shelves and everybody started looking at me oddly. At last I came to the end of the su¬permarket and still no sign of my lost wife.
She will be needing her purse, I thought, and scrutinized the long line of cart-pushers at the exit who were being let out by two supercil¬ious Paris Fashion models one by one., Every one in the line was awaiting her/his turn at the guillotine with baited breath. But my wife was not among them.
Everyone was looking askance at my empty cart. I took my cart ahead after being held up at one traffic¬ jam, or rather cart-jam, and after one accident, reached the entrance. Here I dissociated from the empty cart. The two bimbos at the en¬trance looked at me suspiciously. I wiped a bead of perspiration from my brow and got out from the entrance.
Everyone was looking at me as if I was some ignorant transvestite when I emerged through the wrong door clutching a ladies purse. Then I went to the exit door from outside. There she was!
She was arguing with the Miss World at one of the counters, when she sightedt me, she called me happily, at the lop of her voice. When she saw me coming to her, with her purse in my hand, tears of joy stood in her eyes.But the Miss World objected, ¬"Not thru’ this do-ah, Mistah, Come in thru' the en-trah-us" she said. Again I traversed through the whole supermarrket, provoking such remarks as "Anyone now comes in here". "There goes the neighborhood", "This is not a Jogging track" etc. as I ran through the corridors and just as I was reaching my wife, I slipped on the floor and crashed to the accompaniment of the coarsest laughter I have ever heard. I broke my collar-bone. How we took a taxi to the hospi¬tal, how our car was brought home, all these details I can tell, but I prefer to keep mum. No use remembering painful things, isn’t it?
Sussegaad!
THE word may not be in the dictionary, but it is the condensed philosophy• of entire Goa. I am told that it is a Portuguese word, or rather derived from a Portu¬guese word.
“Sussegaad" has no parallel word English.
"Very relaxed" is the nearest one can approach. It is not just a word, it is a way of life. It is being unconcerned about any happiness or tragedy.
"What's the hurry?" can be on other close but not exact translation.
In Goa, some sights are rare in Goa, almost nonexistent, the first being beggars. There are so few beggars in Goa that we almost get to yearn for them. The second rare sight is a dog and cat fight. We find dogs and cats cohabiting peacefully on the fishy leftovers.
The rare third sight is a person running after a moving bus. Miss¬ing the bus is not a phobia with the Goans. Their inertia is inbuilt and they will wait for the next bus rather than run after one. They are a dignified people and running after a mere moving machine will be an undignified act.
Take a look at the Goan shop¬keeper. See how comfortable he has made himself behind his coun¬ter. See the three bored looking assistants sitting on the stools. You enter the shop. The owner looks displeased. The assistants frown.
"Do you have any sarees?"
"What type do you want?" asks an assistant, not getting up from his stool
"Organza"
"Which colour?" the assistant asks, still sticking to his stool.
"Hmmm ... rather greenish-gol¬den".
"What range?"
"Say up to 500 rupees" .
Now the assistant reluctantly rises, selects three sarees and bangs them on the counter.
This is the inherent inertia of the Goans which they have proudly preserved, in these rat-race days. The entire Goan philosophy and lifestyle can be expressed in the magic word "Sussegaad"
The back lane musical show
Our locality is a lucky one. The housing society has a wide, busy road in the front, and a small by ¬lane at the back. Every morning we hear the piercing battle-cry, or rather, hawker-cry from one of the many frequenters of the back-lane. The cry is in a rasping voice, sounding not unlike a popular rock singer. The tune is different every day, giving you some exciting varia¬tions in the pronunciation of different vegetables. As the cry sounds, there is a stampede on the stairs and the small back-gate clangs open. This first bhajiwala is Hari - the "Cheap Stale”. His vegetables are one or two days stale, but his rates are very cheap. Most of the housewives and a few househusbands buy tomatoes and green vegetables from Hari. After he has finished business and left, hardly ten minutes pass when a resounding bass issues from the back lane, and everybody recognizes that it is the hour of the Madrasi.
The Madrasi is the "good quality-high price" chap, and those who have invited somebody over for dinner, or those who are hav¬ing guests staying with them stock-up from him. He has a choice of fresh vegetables brought from the market yard early in the morning. Housewives swear by the• Mad¬rasi's quality. Nobody yet knows whether,he is really a Tamilian, but everyone calls him Madrasi, because he looks exactly like Rajanikant, in fact he looks more like Rajanikant than Rajanikant himself does. Of course it is another matter that Rajanikant is really Maharashtrian and not Madrasi! After the territory is vacated by the Madrasi, the garlic-fellow clocks in. His cry is always the same. He shouts 'Kanadaaaaa-lasssssooonnn ' in a caressing falsetto and his shouting style reminds one of rapping. He sells onions, garlic and nothing else. He is the favorite with the non-vegetarians. Throughout the day these mar¬kets on wheels visit the back lane. Our railways can learn punctuality from them. Sometimes, especially on Sun¬days, fish vendors on bicycles appear as guest stars on the back ¬lane musical show. After so many years of listening, the wives from our society, I hear, are planning a back-lane awards night; or rather a back-lane awards morning for the best shouting star.
The award is very prestigious. It is decided that there will be no bargaining, with the winner for a complete month!
The cream of society
IT HAPPENED quite acciden¬tally. My friend Ravi gave me an invitation card for a party as he was not going to be in town that day. The party was hosted by a prominent industrialist.
"You will get to know the cream of society at the party," Ravi told me,
"And it will be a good experience for a down-to-earth, struggling author like you. The only thing is don't get intimidated. Just be yourself: You are a swell guy."
After such rare praise, I glanced at the glossy invitation, looked at my clothes and turned to Rayi. He read my thoughts. "Don't worry. Kurta and Pajama, especially soiled, is the in-thing nowadays. Either that or torn jeans and a printed T-shirt. Go as you are. Add a shabnam and nobody will be able to tell you from the jour¬nalists."
With this part(y)ing advice, he left me.
So I went.
A doorman, majestic in proportions and get-up, tried to scare me from the start. The light inside was so dim that one couldn't recognize the female from the male of the species.
After seeing my card, the door¬man had let me in and a chamcha (to stir the cream of society) caught me by the elbow and steered me to the inner parts. There, behind a bar, a worthy fixed me with a stony eye and asked in a gruff voice, "What will you have, Sir?"
I deduced that he was not a big shot or anybody like that, but only the barman.
"Scotch," I kept my head and answered.
"Which one, Sir?"
Here he had me floored. "Your guess is as good as mine."
"Sorry, Sir, we don't have the brand you mentioned."
"Give me any brand."
He looked at me with uncon¬cealed scorn and poured about two centimeters of liquid in a glass and asked, "How do you want it, Sir?"
"On the rocks," I said meekly and was handed the glass with two ice cubes.
As I moved away, I saw that the people there were divided into groups of five or so and talking in hushed voices. I joined one group and sipped scotch for the first time in my life -- and didn't like it. Somebody was saying, "- and what acting! Especially in the dying scene."
"Which serial are you talking about? The Sambandh episode telecast yesterday?" I butted in, emboldened by the intake of scotch. All were startled and turned scornful eyes on me. By now I had got used to the dim light and could tell the women from the men .
"We were talking about a Yugoslavian film telecast yester¬day on the ABC," one of the girls said in an icy tone. I was on the verge of asking how one could watch ABC in India but recalled seeing a dish antenna just in time and scrambled away.
After mingling with all the scat¬tered groups, I found that anything Indian was considered to be 'bad taste', including Osho and Zakir Hussain to my intense surprise. Only some obscure films, fads, fashions, music, paintings from some unheard of nations were considered culture. Even Pink Floyd and the Beatles were considered pre-historic.
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