The Age of Innocence

In my view purely, it was the era of the dinosaurs. In lands not far away, in a time not long ago, children were synonyms of innocence, they grew up in naïveville. They took their time growing up. Period. Childhood was spent daydreaming, playing house – house, building sand castles and exchanging dolls. Happy hours began at 5 pm when the neighbourhood was invaded by kids, their bat & balls and little cycles.

Today seems to have evolved into a dark and twisted age, where, kids feed on play stations, attend free style dance classes, before they learn their ABC’s know names of their favourite cartoon characters. They even know how to operate the CD player and their dads’ laptops. Nursery rhymes seem to be a thing of the past, I was told by my nephew, clad in a batman costume who then happily showed off his skills to ‘Pappu cant dance saala’. Another kid I know, the first three words he’s learnt are – ‘mom’, ‘give’ and ‘mastaa’. The last word courtesy his fathers love for Metallica’s -Master of Puppets. So cute.

My first visit to a Salon was at the age of 18 and never once was I made to feel like an alien before it. Today there are salons for kids 1-15 years of age offering services like hair straightening, manicures, pedicures, threading, waxing etc. An article quoting mothers read, they felt their kids, if well groomed, were more confident. This makes me question the very foundation that kids are made to believe - outer beauty is the road to inner confidence. Not only are we instating shallowness, but fostering a plastic generation. As a little girl, I believed it was my birth right to try out mom’s new lipstick, as soon as she’d left the room, but to get my nails buffed while she waited for her pedicure, was an unthinkable treat.
Today’s ‘judge a book by its cover’ generation has blurred the thin line between being well groomed and being a narcissist. Finding comfort in one’s own skin has become a privilege of history.

The first time I spoke to a boy fully aware of my sexuality, was when I was 15. I’m thus taken aback when kids in playschool today, will not only list their girlfriends, but can tell you exactly why a boy is different from a girl. The birds and the bees really have no place left in one’s imagination. The ease with which they single out the pretty from the not so pretty ones is heartbreaking. When I was that age, irrespective of size, shape, colour, body hair, everyone was pretty (mom had me believe that - the only way I’d go to school!)

Are kids solely to be blamed when media exposure in today’s cyber age is slowly chewing away at the virgin mind? When Disney role models like Miley Cyrus and Vanessa Hudgens pose for lingerie or part nude, is anyone measuring the repercussions? When TV programmes have participating kids immolating steps that make judges cringe, while proud parents cheer on. Who is to be blamed, in this rush for fame?

Kids today spread their wings faster than the time we took to hatch, maybe it has its benefit, but the death of gibberish innocence that childhood once stood for is pitiful.

The Holy Immersion

With the break of dawn today Mumbaiwasi’s seemed divided, as the one thread that tied all, drifted far into the sea. The first day post the conclusion of a 10-day long celebration, life begs normalcy. Ganapati Utsav, in Maharashtra is celebrated with unmatched glory and dynamism. Visiting, I was fortunate to experience this life-size affair, first hand.
The festivity unfolds with the deity of Ganesha being worshipped to for a said number of days, towards the end of which, the idol is carried for immersion with great vigor. The city is dolled up with hundreds of large ‘pandaals’ or stands, with gargantuan idols. Today, almost every residential complex in Mumbai takes pride in setting up their own pandaal, with the community congregating at the time of aarti. Apart from heavy traffic, the ground constantly vibrates to beats of drums, majira’s, whistles, cheering & a mixture of Bollywood/ trance.

What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger – a phrase that best illustrates Mumbai traffic. The immersion process is done on the third, seventh or the tenth day. Thus through the week, idols are carried (sometimes in trucks) towards their final destination, as soulful believers dance along. Sometimes, the distance of a km is gay fully covered in an hour. Having lived in a city like Dubai, the close proximity of cars, the autos, number of people per square feet all seem a bit overwhelming, yet exciting. From my observation tower- the confinement of my auto, I silently observe.

As I’ve been told, it reliably pours non-stop on the 10th and final day of the Utsav. Scientifically, this is very important as the tide need to be high for the idols to submerge. Ways of the universe! The 10th day & it was our turn. I’m not one to have a religious stance but was happy to accompany the drill purely for my mother’s contentment. The idol that blessed us for ten days was a spot as compared to the commercial ones, which sometimes are as high as 20 feet. Commercial recognition many a times overpowers and defeats belief. Unable to completely immerse, ruins of these idols get washed ashore and are stranded as trash.

Cradled in arms, together we made our way to the National Park. Felt a bit cheated since our army of four did no dance – to my offer, of doing the snake dance, my brother threatened that immersing me along with the idol could be an option he’d be happy to explore.
The wind, the rain they all followed. The 15 mins walk towards the lake inside the Park made me want to label the episode as ‘A walk in the clouds’. Educational signboards with pictures of the rat snake or the tiger, added a hop in stopping to smell the flowers.
People in large groups flocked the reserve chanting ‘ganpati bapa moriya’, which when echoed in chorus, I believe, sends vibrations of oneness, of brotherhood, parity into the universe. Creativity too, finds itself on the other side of spirituality and you cant help give into chants like ‘twinkle twinkle little star, ganapati bapa superstar!’

An aarti is to be performed before the final immersion. Ever tried lighting a match in the rain? After the aarti we moved towards the lake where a team of professionals are deployed to take over. The feeling is indescribable, a ritual grown to be a part of you, is now biding adieu. Shows how humans are quick to form but not break out of habits. We handed our idol over, they swam to the centre of the lake, ceremoniously dipped Ganesha three times before the final immersion. The rain poured down harder, the water hazed my sight. With shaking hands and a shakier heart, I paid my last respect. The ‘dukh harta – vigneshvar’ emerged for the last time before becoming one with the soil again.

Phir bhi dil hai hindustani

There are certain things that only an Indian can do. You don’t need to be gifted, just Indian.
Take for e.g. our inherent ability to do the Bhangra. The ever eager non-Punjabi’s make it look so entertaining and simple. Arms in the air, move your shoulders, add in a few squats here and bbrrruuuaaahhh!!! Who cares, if the music you’re dancing to is Metallica or the Waltz! Another form much loved, termed as the ‘Sumo dance’ is a wedding special, which involves rapid movements of the elbow, usually into the faces of other people. If you belong to the state of Maharashtra, you’ll be familiar with the ‘Ganpati Dhol Mix’. It basically looks like you’re trying to shake ants from your pants while dancing on hot flames. This is the most accommodating form of dance, as I’ve seen this integrated into trance, into garba, into all sorts of other music with three beats and a half.

The other interesting thing is our palette, which is largely divided into pockets assigned as ‘Tomato Ketchup’ and ‘Tabasco sauce’. A table without these is not a table where food’s well enjoyed, then be it with your samosa’s or your pasta. Where else can the components of a ‘burger’ be Aloo Tikki and green chutney?

Being Indian allows you to cut into lanes unapologetically but abuse others who do the same. Where taxi drivers get into fights at signals and continue fighting even after the signal has turned green, then red and then green again! You will litter within your alley, but will be gung-ho about Singapore’s ‘keep this country clean’ drive. You are also capable of thinking any girl who exposes a shoulder/calve or smokes is ‘challu’. One of the few places I know of, where hundreds of cinema halls thrive on B Grade movies. Where programmes like ‘Thunder from Down Under’ take great pride in their size 22 heroines getting ‘jiggy with it’, but the same people in hundreds, take the streets to burn effigies of Richard Gere for an innocent peck on the cheek and politicians label cheerleaders as ‘ashleel’

We give death looks to anyone who dares to knock during our hour long conversations from public booths. Large hoardings scream ‘Apni behen ki maang bhari sitaroon se, aur apni khoon se?’ Kids have pet names. Most sardars are either ‘Titto’ or ‘Rocky’ and all dogs are ‘Tommy’. The Rock culture still rolls, as do hand pulled rickshaws. Auntie’s, dolled in saris’& bindi’s, drink alcohol out of steel glasses to maintain the ambiguousness of their preference. Police mammu’s will even accept ‘chillar chai ka paisa’ especially if your offense cant be listed under an ‘offence’
We swear by road side pani puri, pepped up with a sand storm and huddled together by hands, which will no time soon, be passing the bare requirements of health and safety . Yet we diligently wash our hands after eating.

But these are all flavours that make my country the spiciest on the continent!