India, a software superpower

In 6 Autobiographical Chapters

Chapter One (The Application)

To,

Recruitment In charge,

Hi-fly Technologies.

Subject: Application to offer myself for the openings in your firm.

Respected Sir/Madam,

This letter is in response to your advertisement calling for engineering professionals. I intend to offer myself for the career opportunities you have in offing.

It is with no ambiguity when I say that every engineering professional aspires to have their careers kickstarted with a start at your esteemed organization. Your renowned organization's name is synonymous with "Technology and Development" and it is hard not to have heard of you, especially among the engineering fraternity.

As of you to know me, I am attaching herewith my personal academic and other information in my resume for your kind perusal.

I hope to meet you in person and prove to you, my ability and deservedness to associate my services towards both our interests.

Yours faithfully,

Saaz Aggarwal

Chapter Two (The Interview)

Good morning to you madam. Myself Saaz Aggarwal. I am extremely most grateful that you are abling to consider my applications. I am very hardworking and sincere person. If you will give me opportunity I will forever grateful. I will work very very hard and you will never be causing to complains. My technical skills is very excellent. From childhood itself I am doing websurfing and I enjoy to computer games too much. So my mama-papa they are telling to me that you must have to become software engineer. Software engineers is very hard working and getting foreign opportunity also. Further, my communication skills is also perfect and I am having leadership abilities to demonstrate. Now I will tell little about myself. Myself Saaz Aggarwal. I am very sincere and hardworking person. Upto fifth standard I am standing first in class every day. I am very brilliant by nature and was getting into engineering colleges in many states but have chose to continue further studies in Pune itself. In hobbies I am solving aptitude test and CAT papers daily. Everyday I am enjoy the cricket on TV. Please to give me opportunity in your esteemed organization and I will never regret.

Chapter Three (My Date Of Joining Is Also My Birthday)

Good morning to you all of you my dear friends and superiors. I am not thinking any other company in whole world is bringing cake for each and every single employees. I am very extremely happy and lucky person to join company who is giving so much individual importance to all of the individuals and today is my birthday also so thanking you very much for birthday cake and celebrations. Today is my first day of working in company. I am very bright and fresh youngster. I am think to learn great deal and contribute to growth of company. I will be very hardworking and never complain about all the situations. My family is told to me that I should try my best in all the things. I will try to my utmost to satisfy my superiors in every works they are telling to me. I look forward to very long and fruitful associations with all of you my very dear friends. This is company to be exactly like family to me and I am extremely very happy, nobody can feel so happy as I am feeling. After many years I will work and company shall gain many benefits from me and I too shall grow along with company.

Chapter Four (Going On Site. One Month Later)

Now I have finish to my induction training. I am learning too many things about dotnet and so many nice-nice Microsoft technologies. All the colleagues are very friends. Company has offered many nice nice facilities and facilitate paying of electricity bill, telephone bills and the like. We are having too nice supportive environment in company. Next week ago I am going to put on live project in client-side. I will getting some allowances and the like. Next week I am getting loan approval to take bike. I shall bring peda for all the friends and superiors in office. My office is too nice place and we are enjoying many Japanese classes also.

Chapter Five (My HR Department. Six Months Later)

I was thinking that my HR manager was liking to me very much. Every time when I am seeing her I am saying hello with very big smile. She is also smiling and looking very much happy. One day she was telling to me that you must fill up training feedback form. I am ticking to every box is “excellent” so I am thinking HR manager will be happy with me. Now my six months trainee periods is over and I think so my performance is very extremely good so we shall be skip probation periods and HR will be going to do my confirmation in performance review. However such is not the case. I am be continue in probation only. My many other friends are there in other companies and this time all companies are giving 20% pay hike to all employees however here we are not getting. I am think so management is got confused in expansion mode.

Chapter Six (The Application. Ten Months Later)

To,

Recruitment In charge,

Cocacolasys Infotech.

Subject: Application to offer myself for the openings in your firm.

Respected Sir/Madam,

This letter is in response to your advertisement calling for experienced software professionals.

I intend to offer myself for the project opportunities you have in offing.

I am very intelligent and hardly workings 3 years experience Project Leader with extensive knowledge of Japanese language and cultural habits. I have worked on large number of Japanese client side projects and have become familiar with lot many Japanese peoples and cultural habits. I was also about to past Sankyu level of Japanese language certification however project pressures came and I was working daily till 2 p.m. in the morning so therefore I was unable to prepare for examination. If I was getting opportunity to pass examination then surely I would have been getting 70% or 80% marks. If I am sent to client side project in Japan then Cocacolasys Infotech will be getting my very good benefits.

As of you to know me, I am attaching herewith my personal academic, experience, and other information in my resume for your kind perusal.

I hope to meet you in person and prove to you, my ability and deservedness to associate my services towards both our interests. However please to excuse me from sitting for aptitude test. My aptitude is being very excellent. I am having 3 years experience and aptitude test need not be required for senior members of development team.

Yours faithfully,

Saaz Aggarwal 

First appeared in Sunday Mid-day on 7 May 2006, as part of a series in which Saaz parodied a range of humour writers, using their voices to tell Bombay stories.

The Economist Style Guide to the Galaxy

Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Express Highway lies a small un-regarded yellow brick Cooperative Housing Society. Nestled inside, roughly at a distance of Rs. 14 by rick from the nearest station, is an utterly insignificant blue-green kitchen.

This kitchen has – or rather had – a problem, which was this: though the dishes that lay in them had not been washed, there was absolutely nothing there for the cockroaches, which roamed freely under the sink, to eat.

 Many wise people pondered this problem. Some had brilliant ideas, and wrote long, sometimes rather witty, fortnightly columns and when the newspaper was delivered, they would spend long hours smiling back at their faces, oblivious of the cockroaches for the nonce. Nothing seemed to work.

 And then, one Thursday, two thousand and six years after one man had been nailed to a tree for saying how great it would be to be nice to people for a change, a young man sitting on his own watching Taxi No. 9211 suddenly realized what it was that had been going wrong all this time, and he finally knew how the world could be made a good and happy place. This time it was right, it would work, and no one would have to get nailed to anything. The young man, whose name was Maruti Suzuki had found, tucked under his cinema seat, a sheaf of printed papers with the cryptic title (in large friendly letters) The Economist Style Guide and it had answers to all the questions that had ever crossed his mind. Son of the well known Sangli-based half-Japanese barber Muchikapuka, Maruti was a roving freelancer and it was his kitchen in which the cockroaches sought nourishment in vain. Maruti picked up the sheaf and squinted at it eagerly. Unwilling to wait until Intermission, he shone his cellphone torchlight on it.

 “Clarity of writing usually follows clarity of thought,” he read. “Try to be economical in your account or argument. “As a general rule, run your pen through every other word you have written; you have no idea what vigour it will give to your style.” (Sydney Smith)”

 Wow! Maruti wiped perspiration from his brow at the force of the well-chosen words.

 Immox the hot, Immox the remote, Immox with the bossy staff who don’t permit outside food! He sat back and immersed himself once again in the film, his 29^th Nanny Pattycake movie in a row. He was working on a cover story on screen tragedy heroes, and Pattycake was his chosen favourite. Heartthrob of post-menopausal women throughout the known universe, Pattycake was also (Maruti knew) widely admired for his wit, cynicism and generally anti-religious attitude, and this was borne out by the parting exchange of their meeting a few days before.

 Pattycake had spoken admiringly of the 9:43 Bandra-Churchgate slow that he had used as a student and which still ran its unflinching schedule come April heatwave or August deluge. He held the existence of this local to be a final and clinching proof of the non-existence of God, thus:

“I refuse to prove that I exist,” says God, “for proof denies faith, and without faith I am nothing.”

“But,” says Man, “the 9:43 Churchgate slow is a dead giveaway, isn’t it? It could not have evolved by chance. It proves you exist, and so therefore, by your own arguments, you don’t. Q.E.D.”

“Oh dear,” says God, “I hadn’t thought of that,” and promptly vanishes in a puff of logic.

 They had laughed, and parted friends. Maruti now scrunched himself further into his seat as he skimmed another passage in the Guide.

 “Some words add nothing but length to your prose,” he read the reassuring words with a frisson of pleasure. “Use adjectives to make your meaning more precise and be cautious of those you find yourself using to make it more emphatic. The word very is a case in point. If it occurs in a sentence you have written, try leaving it out and see whether the meaning is changed.

Maruti let out a low groan. If only, if only he had known this before that interview with Sachin Tendlichibhajiaanre the littlest master-batter that this nation has ever seen! He resolved that he must do yet another interview with the great man, in which he would wipe out every single superlative and all the very’s.

The day of the meeting, Maruti received an early-morning anonymous phone call. “Gold seal!” a husky voice whispered into his fuzzy unwashed ear. “New organic treatment!” And it read out a phone number. Maruti grabbed a pencil, sought around desperately for a piece of paper and then tried scratching it into the floor but the point broke. The caller hung up abruptly. Maruti slapped his forehead in exasperation. He had been so close to solving the mystery, and now the clue was gone, out of his reach forever! To make matters worse, Tendlichibhajiaanre, when they met, spoke in familiar but cryptic and rather incongruous nuances.

“I facing many problems when I be younger,” he began earnestly, “But I trying my best and learning lot many important skills. Some people helping to me. Many poke the funs at me.” Maruti, taken aback, narrowed his eyes, unable to pinpoint what exactly this reminded him of, but his expression cleared when Tendlichibhajiaanre added, as explanation, “Boasting, is the secret of my success.”

 “An empty vessel makes the most noise!” he now intoned sonorously. “One drop of honey will attract more cockroaches than fifffty litres of sherry!”

“Pompous ass!” thought Maruti, but then sat up straight with a light in his eye when it struck him that this string of clichés might just hold a clue to his dilemma.

Trembling, Maruti picked up the Guide for reassurance. A thrill shivered through him as he read, “Lazy journalists are at home in oil-rich company A, ruled by ailing President B, the long-serving strongman, who is, according to the chattering classes, a wily political operator – hence the present uneasy peace. Prose such as this is freighted with codewords (respected is applied to someone the writer approves of, militant someone he disapproves of, prestigious  something you won’t have heard of).

Maruti was breathing hard. Filled with a new resolve, he now set out for Bombay Central to board a launch to the party where Kishore Biriyani was said to be standing at the Crossroads. Maruti knew that the party was his last chance for a solution to his cockroach problem. He was also eager to experience the fantastic globs of food passed around stuck on small sticks, which, Salman Corn had once told him, very large sums of money were paid for by very rich idiots who want to impress other very rich idiots.

This was before Corn had been convicted and clapped in irons for being a complete rascal. Still, Maruti had been well aware that he was not above a little bribery and corruption in the same way that the sea is not above the clouds. It was well known that when he heard the words integrity or moral rectitude he reached for his dictionary, and when he heard the chink of ready money in large quantities he reached for the rule book and threw it away.

Maruti turned once again to his trusted Guide for sustenance. “A newly invented metaphor assists thought by evoking a visual image,” said Orwell, “while on the other hand a metaphor which is technically “dead” (e.g. iron resolution) has in effect reverted to being an ordinary word and can generally be used without loss of vividness. But in between these two classes there is a huge dump of wornout metaphors which are merely used because they save people the trouble of inventing phrases for themselves.”

Maruti felt a surge of wellbeing rush through him. He knew now that he was very close to receiving the final answer. And then he saw it! The road leading to his Cooperative Housing Society was dug up for cable-laying and maybe a flyover or two. He walked balancing himself gingerly on a pile of loose black earth. Then, just outside the gate, he saw a large signboard with a black and yellow striped border and with large letters flashing in bright orange. Here was the answer he had been seeking all these years: “Inconvenience Caused is Deeply Regretted,” it said. 

First appeared in Sunday Mid-day on 16 Apr 2006, as part of a series in which Saaz parodied a range of humour writers, using their voices to tell Bombay stories.

The Potato Eaters

Annie Tharakan by Woody Allen

Annie Tharakan limped because her shoes were too tight. “Didn’t you try them on before you bought them,” her mother barked.
The truth was that Annie had not felt comfortable in the shoes but she could never bring herself to say no to a salesperson. “I want to be liked,” she admitted to Sushma-madam, the nerdy Maths teacher. “Once I gave all my pocket money away to someone who said she was collecting for the Deaf and Dumb Association. She sprinted away as soon as I put the money in a tin piggy bank which she held out to me, and I’ve never seen her again at the Solar System mall.”
Annie and her school-mates did spend a lot of time at the Solar System mall. They liked it because the escalators had shiny handrails and there were large signs that said SALE 50% discount on selected items, conditions apply. But also because it was air-conditioned and the toilets had a warm-air hand dryer which occasionally worked.
Sushma-madam was outwardly sympathetic but she would later mock Annie in the teachers’ common room. Annie’s mother, who taught Geography, happened to be there. She told the others about certain tribes in Borneo that do not have a word for “no” in their language and consequently turn down requests by nodding their heads and saying, “I’ll get back to you.” She too appeared warm and understanding and inviting of confidences, but later hit Annie on the head with the blunt handle of her imported rubber spatula all the same. “Why did you buy them if they’re too small?” she asked Annie, unaware that she was articulating a quintessential human paradox.
The day Annie bought the shoes, she had actually gone looking for bras. A nice-looking but slim sales girl with a name tag that said Cynthia came up and said “Have a nice day”. Annie was desperate but felt shy to ask for help because there was a man watching her and she naturally didn’t want him to hear what she said when she confessed her bra size to Cynthia.
For some reason, Solar System had put this pimple-faced youth in charge of Nighties. Women would approach the counter but turn around quickly once they saw him. Naturally, nobody ever bought any nighties. He was quite a pleasant-looking fellow actually, as he leaned comfortably on his counter, resting his chin on his arm, and watched while Annie crept round trying to pick up bra boxes and check the size and design without him actually seeing what was written on them.
Finally she gave up and wandered towards some loud sounds near the entrance. It was the finals of a song and dance competition. Annie watched with envy as Pravina who sat next to her in class swayed and bent to the sounds with simple abandon. Even Rishi, the boy whose father ran the kirana shop just outside Annie’s building was swinging beautifully. No one could imagine that the Rishi who helped at the shop on weekends and made home deliveries on his bicycle outside school hours could have reached the semi-finals of this national show with footfalls as stylish as these! Annie sighed. She felt sad and depressed. Slowly, she walked towards the food and grocery section, and inched to the chocolate counter stealthily checking from the corner of her eyes that no one was watching. Near the dog food counter, a boy and girl called Rinku and Pinky were sailing a ball at each other, skipping around, and singing a very silly song. Annie did not even have a dog. She did not know the meaning of the expression GIMROI. But she did have enough money to buy some chocolates.
There was no Zippy-mate raisin-enriched fun-bar, the chocolate that gives you more raisins, more chocolate, more iron content, more energy, more calories, more everything per cubic metre than any other chocolate. Annie did try asking two sales girls where she could find some, but they were very engrossed in whispering secrets to each other and when they detached, they would only look at the other shoppers and tell them admiringly, “Good morning, madam!” and “How can I help you, sir!” with so much charm, sincerity and enthusiasm that Annie just did not feel like getting in the way and she bought Cheepy-mate instead since it was marked down to Rs. 5 from Rs. 13.50 and also 15 for the price of 3. Their lovely green-striped aprons reminded Annie of Cynthia from the Ladies’ Underwear Department and filled with a new resolve, she went back upstairs, determined to get what she had come for.
Cynthia was kind and when she understood the problem, asked the pimple-faced youth (Annie saw from his name-tag that his name was Viren) if he’d mind going on his lunch break now. He argued for a while, then before he moved off gave Annie a deeply reproachful look which Annie knew would haunt her forever. Later, she stood in line at the till with the 3 bra boxes concealed safely at the bottom of basket filled with dog food and Zippy-mate and the shoes which were too tight. But when her turn came, she was horrified to discover that there was no barcode sticker on them and the till assistant had to call out loudly to the supervisor, describing the product in great detail so it was heard by not only everyone in the store but also Viren, the pimple-faced youth, who happened to be passing by at that moment and he turned around and gave Annie a triumphant sneer.
Annie was sad but it was a lesson she would never forget as long as she lived and a few years later when she became sought after as a witty dinner companion she would hold long discourses on the subject and repeat often “Location,” – and here she would briefly before driving home the punch line – “Location” (she would repeat for effect) “is everything.”
First appeared in  Sunday Mid-day on 19 Mar 2006, as part of a series in which Saaz parodied humour writers, using their voices to tell Bombay stories.

Bridget rides again

Sitting comfortably in back seat when ghastly screeching and lurching. Self thrown up in air. Moments of slow-motion lucidity observing self in highway accident and anticipating high drama. Scorpio shuddered to halt, 4 of us dazed but relieved that still able to move limbs and nod head. Foul scent of country liquor overpowering. Ravi at wheel trembling. First time in 15-year-career, accident of any kind. Father in front passenger seat also trembling but more from Parkinson’s disease than shock/horror.
Man on scooter racing down wrong side of road slapped self carelessly onto us. Ravi veered and car shuddered, landed in ditch in centre of highway. Urgent longing to believe that nothing has happened and we can carry right on home. However, car trapped, so unable to move.
Disembark! insists loud pompous voice at window.  Terrified of imminent lynching by crowd. Saved by flashback to movie in which heroine is dragged to stake screeching and howling. Had resolved that self would never be silly ninny but go with head held high and sophisticated smile on lips. Now have chance to show world. Pompous voice belongs to medium-size man, no match for woman of traditional build like self, and melts away (intimidated) into crowd.
Angry crowd gathers, shaking thunderous fists. Man on road is dying, put him in your car and take him to hospital! Yes, but car stuck in ditch, remember?
Scooterist prone next to scooter, unconscious. Pool of blood. Sardarji wearing lungi sidles up to Ravi asking, you driver? Yes, Ravi perspires. Police will come, says sardarji with sly look, tell them you are passenger! Tell them driver ran away! Man will die, your life ruined! Gives conspiratorial wink, nods from side to side.
Noisy traffic thundering past. Bike stops, and highly competent-looking individual alights. Is angel in disguise, off-duty inspector Galinde from nearby policy station. Waves crowd aside in authoritative manner. Whips out cell phone and calls for assistance.
Watch with amazement as ambulance arrives in ten minutes and carries away unconscious scooter rascal. Smell of spilt liquor still strong – bootlegging activity in vicinity, confides inspector.
Crane fortuitously passing by. Inspector Galinde stylishly commands it to halt, pull hook out of smashed Honda City and into our poor black steed. Daddy led to side to wait till crane has towed car out of ditch. Poor old daddy shaking violently now, less from Parkinson’s than fear of suffocation by crowd who have now developed loving feelings and clamour to help support him.
Mild-looking police team from nearby chowky pull up in van. Inspector Galinde hands over situation with flourish and rides away in puff of glory.
Rescue car arrived from home, hurrah. Police officer Chaher now wants to take Ravi to chowky to record FIR. However, am loth to let faithful long-tenure admin assistant into hands of police in middle of darkest night! Chaher, slow and reliable, reassuring, walking gingerly as might one with bunions on feet. Sit cosily on side of road under streetlight and give statement to police. Shrewdly remember to say was on way home from Mumbai (not “Bombay”) in order to impress personnel of force. Squeeze into small rescue car with box full of food packed by loving aunty to take home for family in manner of Red Riding Hood carrying basket to grandma balancing on knee. Moist patch on lap as last felt when dandled baby (now 19) on knee. Fear bladder accident due to stress and middle-age-woman-incontinence syndrome, however only raita from box of goodies.
Next day, send Ravi to police station for chowky procedure, RTO, insurance etc. No news for several hours. Pacing with worry and images of police brutality in manner of Bhagalpur. Try phoning chowky but no response and engaged tone alternate. Call 100, no response. Call several nearby chowkies but no solutions. Lady at police control room very kind but unable to help. Ponder calling commissioner’s office but what to say? “Hello Additional Commissioner Dhiware, do you remember me, I’m Saaz Aggarwal, can you help me find my driver?” Decide on the whole better wait for bit. Ravi returns unhappy but in tact.
Next day learn that man on scooter will never again ride down wrong side of highway. Corporator phones, suggests we pay money to bereaved family. Police officer at chowky agrees. Has yielded to stereotype that traditionally built woman wearing pearls in back seat of gas guzzling vehicle must surely be wife of crafty unscrupulous builder or similar (in manner of self and Bhagalpur blindings assumption). However self is merely hardened woman of world who believes that safer wear helmets, obey traffic rules, and avoid alcohol. Unfortunately only charity permitted by current circumstances is kindness and patience to those in immediate vicinity. Explain to all who will listen that if not for Ravi’s reflexes and superior control of vehicle, self would also now be needing all kinds of help or perhaps none at all.
first appeared as Bridget bangs-up on Mumbai-Pune highway, Lives to tell tale in Sunday Mid-day on 19 Feb 2006

Life at 80

I’ve heard that women often go mad when their kids grow up and they have no one to yell at any more. Well to be honest I haven’t actually heard anything like this but I’m sure it’s pretty common. Here, for instance, is what happened to me as my youngest one’s 18th birthday hurtled towards us, giddy and relentless: I turned 80, and my arms suddenly became too short.
First the arms. For years I’d held book in hand while reading. Then one fateful day, with no warning, I found that my arms had shrunk. They were just too close to my face, the words were all fuzzy, and I simply couldn’t read.
As for the business of 80 – it was a rare and wonderful accomplishment. I’d hovered below this significant benchmark for months, waiting, anticipating, as does one for headlines about the Sensex.
Finally, one morning, Sensexily, I crossed the psychological barrier forever. I did attempt some teetering, shifting center of gravity from side to side, but the needle stayed firm, and there was nothing between me and the carpet but my bath towel and that would have been a horrid sight for the cleaning lady, so nothing for it but step off the scale and admit it. I was now in my 80s and that was that, might as well brazen it out and pretend that this was exactly what I had been intending, bring on the samosas please and I’ll just have another two (or six) jalebis while we’re here.
Out of the window forever went the pompously named General Motors, the degenerate sounding South Beach, the holier-than-thou Fit For Life, and the rest. The weak and puny were welcome to their gym schedules. I had more serious business - lying in bed with a book, flexing that rapidly shrinking arm into an enormous foil bag and rattling large handfuls into my mouth. Of course everyone knows that pretending thin women look better is nothing but low propaganda by men who want to keep all the food for themselves – of course.
And it so happens that, being a woman of remarkable substance with karma rapidly coming to fruition, I have endured monthly felonies – a drunk driver, a forged cheque, a jewellery heist, and finally, on the first day of the new year, a hacking crime that crippled my office for 3 days.
Poetic justice, some will mock: for years I bossily insisted that we work on the first of January, virtuously demanding that we begin with gusto and ambition rather than lolling about bleary eyed and hung over. Instead, we struggled and cursed and I finally headed off (never one to miss a chance of cozying shamelessly up to officials in high positions) to my dear friends the police where I learnt to my dismay that this was not really a cyber crime, which would have been a super notch on my belt of serial victim-hood, but merely the plain or garden variety of extortion.
Later, the 18th birthday came and went, with noisy celebration by friends of the concerned party, and weary cheer from the exhausted family. Weary for the years of turmoil past, and cheer at the sighting of a white dove, holding promise of a calm phase ahead. I renewed my commitment to the stitching group and hanging out with the girls, exchanging recipes and such. I even relinquished hold (a little) on the kitchen where my ISO 9001:2000 habits had caused hardened crooks (I mean cooks) to run shrieking in exasperation. To be frank, we were just a short step away from blaring instructions on megaphones and frog-marching miscreants into long shower rooms with tall chimneys, but now the winds have signaled change towards less troubled waters, about which more another time.
first appeared as Geriatricks! in Times of India, Pune on 10 Feb 2006

Sallying forth

It was just an ordinary day. I sat in the office gazing (wistfully) at the hideous drainage pipes of the neighbouring building, weighing the relative merits of an antihistamine-alcohol combination against stout rope, versus a flying leap under the Flying Ranee or similar, when the phone rang. It was Arnavaz Damania, calling to tell me about the suicide-prevention NGO she had just launched.
Now I’ve known Arnavaz as one who combines such random virtues as bravery and love of fun with immaculate grooming, but ESP? Hmm.
Incredulous – stunned – at the myriad ways in which achievement courts fledgling NGOs, I waited. “So hard to raise money, you know,” she said. I nodded: I did actually know a bit about that story. “Painting exhibition in January to raise funds,” she went on. “Would you mind …”
So! My mind stopped leaping about in embarrassment and I began to preen a bit. After all, wasn’t I the one who had picked up a brush at age 44 and gloated as Mumbai art critics coined that soothing epithet “the painter Saaz Aggarwal”?
Yes, I would certainly make paintings for this noble (and providential) cause. But January - is it next year already? Looking back on the one nearly over, dear Queen Elizabeth comes to mind. “Annus Horribilus!” she once sighed, and here I have my own little Annus Extraordinarius stretching behind me.
It started with mixed reactions – gasps of horror, swoons of delight, no middle course – when friends learnt I had Pakistani visitors coming to stay for a week. The year then went ahead and brought us houseguests from Japan, Germany, England the U.S. and New Zealand – but none so exotic as those who looked, spoke, dressed and laughed just the way we do. Then bureaucracy and poor planning spoiled the fun and we never made our return over-the-border journey to the land of our ancestors.
Others holidayed in Egypt and Turkey, friends stowed away on a container ship bound for Madagascar, family members spent Christmas in Venice. And my trip of 2005 was 3 days, agog, at the Wanowari police station.
The fanciful parodies of Deewar and Page Three never prepared me for such courtesy and earnest hospitality – least of all by a group so short-staffed and ill-equipped. In this simple corrugated-iron roof shed with curtained-off store section, one plug point services TV and fan. So you can have one or the other, never both: Rwanda, not India (or Bihar, surely not Maharashtra). Impressionable at the best of times, I found myself practicing interrogation with Pratibha, my hapless drudge of yore.
Other less flamboyant young men served hors de oeuvres at the endless dinner-dos of 2005. Under fairy lights and suspended in a viscous atmosphere of mindless jabber, I gobbled fried yummies indiscriminately, pondering the lives of those who offered loaded trays to the laconic, the drunk and the greedy, bending their knees just so, and exuded huge pangs of compassion for the eager eyes and well-trained hospitable stance of Ravish’s boys.
And 2005 was the year in which smug satisfaction turned to dismay when I discovered that my name had changed. From the once popular, beloved, and idolized “Mumma” I had now become known in an off-hand, patronizing tone, as “Mom”. Certain cute and cuddly people had vanished, replaced by lofty individuals who stalked about the house, being witty like on television. Fundamental rules, in place for near on two decades, were carelessly flouted! On the bright side, I now have consultants who will penetrate for me the mysteries of contrasting mobile phone offers and other dread complexities of years to come.
Life is full of suffering, Buddha said. Nice to meet you, 2006, let’s get on with it.

first appeared in Times of India, Pune on 13 Jan 2006