Thursday, September 17, 2009
Saturday, October 18, 2008
three cheers to babudom!
Government offices are uniquely governmental. Its exterior,interior and inhabitants drip in its government-ness: a sense of active efficiency about doing absolutely nothing and cleanliness that would put to shame the best hotels in the world. For someone like me who is not a regular at such places, an occasional visit can be quite memorable and entertaining and so it was when i went to the 'water tax department-jonal one' to pay tax.
The use of 'j' instead of 'z' on the main board smelt of nonchalant but pompous babudom just as the chipped off yellow paint and plaster did on the outward walls. The entrance was preceded by a staircase and an rusted iron railing by its side, lined by streamers. I thought it was in honour of diwali. Got to know later that it was a permanent fixture; afterall who would go through the tedoius process of removing and hanging it for every festival? God! too much work!
A dark thin sickly woman sat at the door along with a strong huge long moustached fellow, both looking disgusted with life. An orphaned khaki uniform hung behind the woman, fanned lazily by the pedestal fan. There was another flight of steps, grander than the earlier one: mosaic tiled, chipped from the edges, paan stained. I was greeted by seven bulky ungainly blue machines, with big dials,very H.G. Wellesque, shaking and screaming monstrously. To complete the time machine look each had big black pipes connecting it to the other or just twirled around themselves. In a tax payment department it looked a li-t-t-le odd.
And how can i forget the tax collectors, the high priests responsible for water supply to every corner of the city. There were three of them. The first looked tired. Of what? Only he knew. He seemed to share the woman-at- the- door's disgust. Add a handful of lewdness and a dash of disdain and there! you have the perfect babu. However he faced stiff competition from his colleague, our desi Morrison. With an air of somnolence and ecstacy, this man was rubbing tobacco powder into his hand as if he wanted to dissolve it in his epidermis. After two minutes of vigorous rubbing he inhaled a pinch of it. Then again rubbed, then again snuffed. Intermittently he grinned as if wanting the approval of his colleagues. The trio was completed by the man who took the dues. The latter was yawning n shouting but the object of his abuse was no where to be seen.
When i showed the water-tax collector the papers he asked my name, looking at my signature, then at me, then again at the papers, and after deep meditation enquired "is this your sign?" I nodded. He didnt seen convinced so i glanced at the papers and realized that i had signed my middle name too which i did not tell for the sake of convenience. I apologized, clarifying the problem. It took him two minutes to understand and when realization finally dawned on him he smirked, that oh-u -dumb-girl smirk, all along looking at his colleagues, uttering " oh thats what, thats what is the problem!" All three laughed heartily and i could not tell why. Was it because the disparity of not telling but signing my name so enormously funny? Or because they had nothing to do since morning and this slight misunderstanding was an outlet for some action on their part, even if it was laughter?
At length they asked me to pay the tax.
A mini catastrophe struck when i started making the payment and fell short of five rupees. The tax collectors looked miffed and grumbled that they had no change so i searched frantically in all my visible and invisible pockets, but hard luck. One of the collectors even suggested that i go home and pay later when i had the entire sum, at which i felt like guillotining him, but managed a faint smile. Suddenly i spotted a five rupee coin under the table next to the hallowed feet of our desi morrison. I dived and produced it making it appear that it had just fallen. The same smirk, the same laughter followed.
on leaving i thanked them, wearing a toady smile. needless to say i loved the place. Just what i needed to pep me up.
The use of 'j' instead of 'z' on the main board smelt of nonchalant but pompous babudom just as the chipped off yellow paint and plaster did on the outward walls. The entrance was preceded by a staircase and an rusted iron railing by its side, lined by streamers. I thought it was in honour of diwali. Got to know later that it was a permanent fixture; afterall who would go through the tedoius process of removing and hanging it for every festival? God! too much work!
A dark thin sickly woman sat at the door along with a strong huge long moustached fellow, both looking disgusted with life. An orphaned khaki uniform hung behind the woman, fanned lazily by the pedestal fan. There was another flight of steps, grander than the earlier one: mosaic tiled, chipped from the edges, paan stained. I was greeted by seven bulky ungainly blue machines, with big dials,very H.G. Wellesque, shaking and screaming monstrously. To complete the time machine look each had big black pipes connecting it to the other or just twirled around themselves. In a tax payment department it looked a li-t-t-le odd.
And how can i forget the tax collectors, the high priests responsible for water supply to every corner of the city. There were three of them. The first looked tired. Of what? Only he knew. He seemed to share the woman-at- the- door's disgust. Add a handful of lewdness and a dash of disdain and there! you have the perfect babu. However he faced stiff competition from his colleague, our desi Morrison. With an air of somnolence and ecstacy, this man was rubbing tobacco powder into his hand as if he wanted to dissolve it in his epidermis. After two minutes of vigorous rubbing he inhaled a pinch of it. Then again rubbed, then again snuffed. Intermittently he grinned as if wanting the approval of his colleagues. The trio was completed by the man who took the dues. The latter was yawning n shouting but the object of his abuse was no where to be seen.
When i showed the water-tax collector the papers he asked my name, looking at my signature, then at me, then again at the papers, and after deep meditation enquired "is this your sign?" I nodded. He didnt seen convinced so i glanced at the papers and realized that i had signed my middle name too which i did not tell for the sake of convenience. I apologized, clarifying the problem. It took him two minutes to understand and when realization finally dawned on him he smirked, that oh-u -dumb-girl smirk, all along looking at his colleagues, uttering " oh thats what, thats what is the problem!" All three laughed heartily and i could not tell why. Was it because the disparity of not telling but signing my name so enormously funny? Or because they had nothing to do since morning and this slight misunderstanding was an outlet for some action on their part, even if it was laughter?
At length they asked me to pay the tax.
A mini catastrophe struck when i started making the payment and fell short of five rupees. The tax collectors looked miffed and grumbled that they had no change so i searched frantically in all my visible and invisible pockets, but hard luck. One of the collectors even suggested that i go home and pay later when i had the entire sum, at which i felt like guillotining him, but managed a faint smile. Suddenly i spotted a five rupee coin under the table next to the hallowed feet of our desi morrison. I dived and produced it making it appear that it had just fallen. The same smirk, the same laughter followed.
on leaving i thanked them, wearing a toady smile. needless to say i loved the place. Just what i needed to pep me up.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Bridges that Sell
When I began reading the Bridges of Madison County i knew two things- it was a best seller and a love story, that too an extra-marital one. Now, I am a reasonable person, lenient on others, strict on myself, so naturally someone's torrid liaison does not vex me nor brings forth a bitter diatribe against post-conjugal licentiousness. However touting that licentiousness as love is pathetic,rather insulting to the emotion I'd say. Francesca and Robert's sexual attraction is
evident from the start, each being for the other the 'someone' they did not have, the 'long-lost,now-found love' as most would put it. If we believe that Francesca fell for Robert because inordinate ennui had set in her life as her husband was not what she had wished him to be or/and because her surroundings were a bit prudish and orthodox for her liberal free spirit one still cannot deny the excessive emphasis laid by the author on their physical appearance and, the detailed manner in which each appreciates the other physically clearly shows that it was a case of intense lust not love. Francesca's remark that they made love a lot of times in a number of places is yet another proof of their enduring sexual adventure. The boredom is existent, the yearning for that perfect person they had always wanted in life, is also existent; so is the sex, but to sell all these ideas under the garb of 'the one true love of your life' is preposterous. A yearning springing out of boredom or vice versa, resulting in sex, does not have an iota of true love in it. When francesca ardently wishes Kincaid to stay on after their first dinner or when she tucks the invitation for the second dinner at the bridge wall its not due to profound love; when she buys a provocative dress for herself or when she agrees to accompany him for the photo -shoot at the bridge, mindful of the gossip it would generate yet choosing to be heedless, love is not on her mind,rather its the excitement and fun of doing something new, venturing into uncharted territory, something that she had longed for secretly. Her actions are coloured by her powerful attraction and its accompanying thrills. She is blinded or chooses to be blinded (for she confesses to behaving in a silly teenage way not knowing why) by her overpowering desire. Hence her participation in the affair. Later when she resolves to stay back, fulfilling her roles of a wife and mother, her decision is not born out of love or sacrifice but because the other course would be unbearably guilt-ridden. Where does love come into play when yearning and guilt are the instigators? One can argue for her love towards Robert when she warns him how she'd change(incase they are together) and how unsettling it would be for both of them yet the reason for her change is not love, but her own gnawing guilt. So it is not love for her children or husband or Robert that makes her do what she chooses to do. Its just the fear of not doing what is right. As for Robert he is the 'powerful' and 'primitive' hunter, a fast vanishing breed, whose search for his soulmate ends with Francesca and, his emotions are not explained. Sketching him to be a mystery helps to put the focus on the guise of genuine affection. By the time one realizes the psychological foulplay its too late.The book has sold millions of copies and millions who read it think it is or was 'true love'.
evident from the start, each being for the other the 'someone' they did not have, the 'long-lost,now-found love' as most would put it. If we believe that Francesca fell for Robert because inordinate ennui had set in her life as her husband was not what she had wished him to be or/and because her surroundings were a bit prudish and orthodox for her liberal free spirit one still cannot deny the excessive emphasis laid by the author on their physical appearance and, the detailed manner in which each appreciates the other physically clearly shows that it was a case of intense lust not love. Francesca's remark that they made love a lot of times in a number of places is yet another proof of their enduring sexual adventure. The boredom is existent, the yearning for that perfect person they had always wanted in life, is also existent; so is the sex, but to sell all these ideas under the garb of 'the one true love of your life' is preposterous. A yearning springing out of boredom or vice versa, resulting in sex, does not have an iota of true love in it. When francesca ardently wishes Kincaid to stay on after their first dinner or when she tucks the invitation for the second dinner at the bridge wall its not due to profound love; when she buys a provocative dress for herself or when she agrees to accompany him for the photo -shoot at the bridge, mindful of the gossip it would generate yet choosing to be heedless, love is not on her mind,rather its the excitement and fun of doing something new, venturing into uncharted territory, something that she had longed for secretly. Her actions are coloured by her powerful attraction and its accompanying thrills. She is blinded or chooses to be blinded (for she confesses to behaving in a silly teenage way not knowing why) by her overpowering desire. Hence her participation in the affair. Later when she resolves to stay back, fulfilling her roles of a wife and mother, her decision is not born out of love or sacrifice but because the other course would be unbearably guilt-ridden. Where does love come into play when yearning and guilt are the instigators? One can argue for her love towards Robert when she warns him how she'd change(incase they are together) and how unsettling it would be for both of them yet the reason for her change is not love, but her own gnawing guilt. So it is not love for her children or husband or Robert that makes her do what she chooses to do. Its just the fear of not doing what is right. As for Robert he is the 'powerful' and 'primitive' hunter, a fast vanishing breed, whose search for his soulmate ends with Francesca and, his emotions are not explained. Sketching him to be a mystery helps to put the focus on the guise of genuine affection. By the time one realizes the psychological foulplay its too late.The book has sold millions of copies and millions who read it think it is or was 'true love'.
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