TRAVEL TRAVAILS

All right tourists of this world, from Uzbekistan to Udaipur, let me give you some insight into the no-go territory for your forth-coming vacation. If you truly wish to enjoy holidays, stay away from – fussy toddlers, honeymooners and flatulent jerks. Don’t tell me that you weren’t warned. The intention is not to hurt any community but to state the facts. Honest, hand on my heart!

Go to any destination and the first thing that strikes you is that the resurgent-middle-class is on a vacation spree. Do not be surprised to find fellow Indians experiencing a National geographic moment in a Zambian bush lost in a herd of hippos, or clicking pictures in a meditative pose at Po Lin monastery on far-off Lantau Island.

Ever since tour operators like the Thomas Crooks, Dupe Pauls and Con and Kings are competing, tourists are going places. And in hordes! I have had nasty experiences with Thomas Crook and accordingly I warn all travelers to be prepared for last minute itinerary changes, hotels in red light areas and cheap connecting flights. What is assured is a vegetarian meal. So I suggest that you trawl the internet, plan your own itinerary, select your flights and pick your hotels. This way you have only yourself to blame for surprises if any!

Since I wanted to get away from the concrete jungles of Gurgaon, I opted for a cruise holiday. As luck would have it, the ship was invaded by several families in group tours. Given that meals are included and people have paid for it, meal time is full paisa vasool time.   Its good fun to sit and observe dispassionately. Some pile their plates to last for days, and wolf it down in two minutes flat. Appears as if it was their last meal on earth! Children amazed by the assortment of juices available, mix liquids and swirl glasses, spilling it on others.  The mothers meanwhile strategize new ways of procuring beagles for the kid who overslept and couldn’t make it for the breakfast.

While travelling in a coach to a distant island, I had no choice but to sit next to not one, but two, honeymooning couples. Double the fun! Now, I had two options. One was to enjoy the live action and meander back to my hey-days decades ago. The other was to resign to my fate, close my eyes and doze off. I chose the second one.

When you are desperately trying to sleep during a long journey there are bound to be some noisy kids, who somehow never get tired. One huge family had two really boisterous ones, Jignes(h) and Somes(h). By the grace of God both were blessed with shrill voices. And to my delight they were playing antakshari. Honestly my head is still buzzing with a raucous, “Mein Tees Markhan che… Mein Tees Markhan.” And with the amount of snacks being shared in the family, I was ready for a Khakhra to fly over my head.Good fun if you are in a good mood.

Ahead in the coach was  a cute little chap who  just had to go every two hours. The mother was baffled, “Why does he have to go so often?” Well dear, if he is shoving cookies from one end something has to emerge from the other end. Right?

In our eagerness to rush we have forgotten to wait.  Most will rush for front-seats, rest rooms and elevators.  In fact we rush for everything. But the moment we have to wait, we become uneasy and start shuffling our feet. Why? In the elevator, my foot was stomped twice. When I had had enough I pleaded, “Maam your kid is standing on my feet.” Instead of reprimanding the child, the lady gave me a quelling look and stomped my son’s foot while on her way out.

 And then on the return flight there was this mysterious flatulent jerk that kept purifying the coach with his Axe Effect. Towards the end I kind of guessed the culprit but couldn’t muster enough courage to ask the chap, “Hello, why are producing so much stink?”

It’s a free world after all.

Surprisingly the cruise was more a peek into the human psyche than any island or its culture. Irrespective I had a good time with family and enjoyed the refreshing change. With due respect to everyone, I hope we appreciate finer aspects of respecting fellow travelers. The ‘I me myself’ and ‘I got it first’ attitude holds a tiny-winy threat of sullying images.

A Sari Affair

The story goes like this. 'I was born on the loom of a fanciful weaver, who dreamt of a woman. The enigma of her gooseberry eyes, the secret of her smile, the texture of her moods, the shimmer of her tears, and the softness of her touch. All these he wove together. And he couldn’t stop. He wove for many yards. And when he was done, the story goes, he sat back and smiled'.

And thus centuries ago, the enduring, lasting proof of a classic Indo-Western fusion was created. Yes, I am the Indian counterpart of the Little Black Dress. To women who label me as desi, I have outwitted you all in my designer modern avatar. 

Casual cotton or breezy chiffon, elegant silk or intricate zardozi, traditional Banarsi or chic crepe, simple kota or conventional tanchoi……..The permutations are endless, but the nuances are critical. Connoisseurs can steal a glance and distinguish between one from Sarojini Nagar for 1100 Rs and one from Satya Paul for 11000 Rs. But the beauty is that both look equally elegant. 

I have been on several women, from Cherie Blair to Naomi Campbell to Liz Hurley, and trust me they have never looked better. Okay, on Cherie I felt more clumsy than classy but that’s because she pinned and tucked me at the wrong places. 

Honestly if you ask me, I love my cotton avatar. No, not the crumpled Ms Bannerji style. Mamta, can you please get me ironed once in a while? Interestingly, when politicians crumple me and make that extra effort to look ordinary, a-la Supriya Sule, know that those rumples hide more than they reveal. Cash not curves silly!
 

Contrasting the crushed cotton look is the starched handloom, Sonia, Shabana style. Umm…I feel all powerful, so graceful and oh-so cool. How about trying pastel chiffons Mrs. Gandhi? Lately extra starch is smacking of arrogance.

 My counterpart the bodice is no longer a simple piece of garment. It is an ornate piece of art. But I have been deeply intrigued by the full sleeved blouses donned by our President. I respectfully want to know who her tailor is. Madam honestly, I feel kinda awkward on a beach. Baffled actually.

You know, I have always wanted to ask Ms. Swaraj, the secret of that jacket she dons on me. Perhaps she hides a few barbs in there. Once inside the Parliament she covertly throws them on one hapless blue turbaned gentleman.

Then on the other end of the spectrum is Bollywood. It aint easy covering-up actresses folks. The blouse is non-existent. Instead there are inadequate straps, a few threads and enticing knots. I tell you, when these Bollywood types decide to take the sari route, they leave me red-faced. My corresponding garment, the blouse, is designed to reveal the silicone so painstakingly implanted. But I don’t grudge them. Thanks to them and K serials, I am alive and kicking! 

I have an axe to grind with Nitaben. Once a regular, she has now discarded me in a rusty dust-bin and emerged as Nita babe. Okay, sport and saris do not go together. If you want to run faster than Usain Bolt, leave me alone! Breaking shackles, Pune Warriors at the IPL have decided to drape their cheer girls in traditional dresses but ask the janta what they prefer. The hypocrites will say. “Yes, yes, sari is fine. After all, it is our national dress. But how about Katrina style?” (What they want is a wet Kat, under a waterfall types and not the Rajneeti style covered Kat.)

My worst nightmare is when men go for me in an attempt to evoke laughs. There are plenty of them these days on Indian comedy shows with stuffed blouses, jiggling beer bellies, ostensibly jesting away and inducing laughter. The outcome is ghastly and suicidal.  I would rather jump in a coffin and close the lid.

 But you know, when prima donnas turn up at award functions or memorable events, reveling in the thought of being a woman, they underline the feminine quotient by donning me. All of seven yards! Yes, because they know that one can never go wrong with a sari.

A ROYAL PAIN

 (Pages from the secret diary of Kate, The Duchess of Cambridge)

Ever since I witnessed a friend’s marriage in Bhatinda, mine appears to be a boring, formal affair. Was that a marriage? No Band, no Baja, no Baraat? Okay there was some music but that was hardly any match for the foot tapping, “Aaj Mere Yaar ki…’. Fine, there was some royal leg shaking at the private bash in the evening. It was no fun, in fact it was funny. Imagine stiff upper lips shaking stiff formal legs? That’s about it. No gaggle of giggly girls hovering around the bride. No bunch of boisterous boys high on beer around the groom. No malevolent matriarchs, no moody uncles, no grumpy aunts. No raging reds, fiery fuchsias or bright blues. It could have been a scene straight out of a black and white movie.  It was more like a Mad Hatters tea party. And the prize winning hat was undoubtedly Posh’s. Honestly I was about to laugh aloud, but remembered that royals are not supposed to laugh like commoners. They can only indulge in half smiles.

Though I was seated in Rolls the relatives trundled up in mini buses and reached the venue as if they were on a school picnic. The Brits should take some lessons from Indian royalty. From what I know, their ministers are the new monarchs and their personal jets ferry guests.

My marriage is being labeled as the wedding of the century. Why? Because royalty is a brand just like…umm say- Apple. The buzz around it has to be kept alive. Else it dies a slow death of ignominy. My marriage was an occasion to inject some life in a fading monarchy. Monarchy is the only brand left in a recession hit Britain. Do you know the names of the King of Spain or the King of Norway? No? See, so we Brits keep your interest alive by staging extravagant royal marriages. 

The British press is happily singing that Kate Middleton is Kate Simpleton. I might be a simpleton but my goals were clear. Just as smart Indian kids start preparing for the IIT exam from class eight onwards, I set my sights on the Prince even before entering the St Andrews University in Scotland. 

Let me confess, this royalty business is a royal pain in the…..Had I known I would never have set my eyes on the Prince. Though Willy was wise enough to marry for love, my father-in-law succumbed to royal pressures by keeping mommy Camilla in a clandestine closet. I was horrified to know that Diana, my late mother-in-law allegedly had to undergo a virginity test thirty summers ago. The stiff upper lip hushed that all was well. However, I refused to undergo any such test. Shouldn’t Royal men also undergo a virginity test? And horror of horrors what if they came out clean? Good Lord that would be such a royal embarrassment! 

Anyways, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. After a royal dumping Diana went on a royal romp, threatening the royalty with the prospect of an Arab heir. Imagine a black or a brown King? Royal Catastrophe! The ‘royal stiff upper lip’ stiffened and Diana died mysteriously in a car crash. They say paparazzi killed her.

 

 

Not only did I refuse a fertility check, I also refused to utter the word ‘obey’ during my wedding vows. I am a modern woman. A smart one! The fact that I hooked a Royal is proof enough. Let’s see who obeys whom.

 As of now my sister Pippa's derriere  is creating waves in the British press. And going by the magic of her gait  she will be marrying Harry in a few years, perhaps in Bhatinda. The marriage will again be like a breath of fresh air for a stale monarchy which sits uneasily in a democracy.