Finicky!

That’s me. Or as a friend puts it –I’m ‘picky’. Well that does for me too. One needs to invent words - or use slang - as so very often the dictionary does not supply one with the exact meaning!

So, why am I labeled ‘picky’? Well take buying fruit, for instance. I will zero in on what I want to buy while the fruit seller sounds off with his usual spiel on how fresh the fruit is and how he has laboured over its selection. And then I will subject the fruit to the nose test. All fresh and just ripe fruit gives off a lovely aroma, an individual scent that fills the nostrils and makes the mouth water. Fruit must pass the nose test, if I am to buy it, and the fruit seller dreads my nose because it is very finicky – the aroma must be just right and after years of sniffing, I am an expert!

The nose test does for leather too. The shoe and bag merchant is intrigued. He can argue till he runs out of breath that he is selling only ‘genuine’ leather. But then again, genuine leather has that lovely, warm whiff that only leather can give and which no amount of polish can mask. Which reminds me of a happy incident. At one of the Trade Fairs at the World Trade Centre (located in Mumbai) there was a leather goods stall representing wares from Kanpur. I lifted up the shoes on display and, eyes closed, inhaled deeply (hubby, accompanying me, was highly embarrassed). The manager trotted over and asked me if I was in the trade! (Hubby switched from embarrassed to impressed!) I explained that, in his army days, my father would buy leather from Kanpur from which my shoes would be made up by the local mochi. Today, custom made shoes are exclusive. When I was a pre-teenager, store bought shoes were considered a luxury and all footwear was sourced from the local mochi. He came, took left and right footprints, inspected the leather and departed to return in a fortnight with the final product. We would put on our shoes, which had room for feet to grow (tested by pressing hard on the big toes) and parade up and down till the comfort level was established. Those shoes lasted and lasted and lasted and were only discarded when outgrown.

I particularly remember a pair of red moccasins – fringed and tasseled – which were copied from a catalogue. They were my favourites till I read a story about a girl who demanded a pair of red dancing shoes. When she stepped into them, she was forced to dance forever and her feet had to be cut off – it was either that or a dance to the death. Stories for children are so macabre.

Well then, so I am finicky, pernickety (I love that one – it conjures up visions of a little old lady, bun skewered with a knitting pin, and metal rimmed spectacles perched on the tip of the nose!), fastidious, fussy, particular and yes, of course, picky – take your pick. They all apply.

And there’s one more thing I am fussy about and that is being forced to listen to unmusical sounds. Which is why, today, I will stuff my ears with cotton while children in schools all over India make it a point to murder the National Anthem.

Remember?

Today’s Obituary Columnin the TOI informed me that a much loved colleague had passed away.

Chhoti (a nickname that connotes ‘small’) was a tall, broad shouldered, no nonsense, Parsi lady. ‘Statuesque’ is the adjective that comes to mind. I met Chhoti for the first time in very unusual circumstances. Unusual for the corporate world, that is!

I was a few months into my first job and the monsoons were unleashing their fury. An overnight downpour had flooded a lower floor in the office building thanks to an open window. The water stood shin deep and had nowhere to go. Staff were thin on the ground as public transport had come to a standstill, and there were just a handful of us who had signed in. We received the call, ‘all hands on deck and bring your wastepaper basket with you’ - WPBs in our office, in those days, were made of heavy duty plastic akin to buckets. Mystified, we wended our way to the floor in question, WPB in hand. There, Chhoti made us line up, shoulder to shoulder, scoop up the water and pass the ‘bucket’ on till the last man, stationed in the toilet, received it and emptied it. More than several buckets later, we were a tired but satisfied bunch – job accomplished! That’s when Chhoti discovered thin, puny, mini-skirted, red-gumbooted, little me. After her initial, surprised, ‘Where did you come from?’ we soon sorted out the introductions and went on from there. We never forgot our first encounter over the bucket brigade!

Chhoti ruled the Filing Department with a rod of iron and a formidable memory. She was also responsible for doling out the stationery. Woe betide the hapless staff member who misplaced a stapler or a punch or for that matter used up a steno pad well before its appointed time! But she was a loyal friend and a very helpful colleague. She also had a wry sense of humour. Everyone – temporary or permanent – who passed through the portals, encountered Chhoti at one time or another. And everyone who did would definitely remember her. Unforgettable – that was Chhoti!

Eating Ice Cream

Such a delightful experience! Or so one would like to think

A now grownup niece reminded me of a rather fraught episode. She had come visiting on a weekend which I should have been spending at home. Unfortunately, I was summoned by the powers that be and so to the office I went, niece in tow – she must have been around eleven at the time. She had a ball, as all children do in a grown up’s world, twirling on the chairs, stapling and punching paper, and making phone calls. Work done, I took her for an ice-cream treat. She opted for a jumbo cone and once she had been served, we hopped into a cab to take us home. Suddenly, I discovered that she was eating the cone from both ends, juggling the melting drips not very successfully. I had a dreadful vision of a sticky, ice-cream coated rear seat and a raving taxi driver and also an ice-cream covered niece and a not-too-happy sister-in-law. Luckily, my handbag always contains a surplus of tissues (it’s a female thing) and I spread them generously around, covering seat and lap. We reached home safely and my niece topped the ride with a triumphant, ‘told you so!’ – confirmation that her way was the best way to eat ice-cream in the cone!

On another occasion, when at a very enjoyable meal with a family at their home in Barcelona, ice cream was served as dessert. A tray with several medium sized plastic containers (a little larger than the single serving) was placed on the table and, as guest, I was asked to go first. I looked at the flavours on offer, chose one, opened the lid and tucked in. Conversation flowed, some in brisk Catalan and some in English, so it was only a little while later that I looked up and noticed that I was the only one eating while all the others were watching me with great interest. I asked for the reason but was told by my host to carry on. The ice cream was melting and I had only a little way to go, so I scooped the cup clean to resounding applause!! My host then explained that the custom was to serve a couple of spoons from each cup onto the place and pass it on. No one had ever finished a container all by themselves and they were wondering if I would make it!! They were astounded that I did. For the rest of my visit, I could not live the experience down. Every time we visited an ice cream outlet, the family would purchase their requirement and request a separate large tub for me telling the vendor, very firmly, “She really loves her ice cream!”

And this reminds me of a happy quote from my collection: Since God is watching us, the least we can do is be entertaining! (The author is Anon and quite a prolific author he – or she – is too!!)

Instant Inspiration

There is nothing like a walk in the locality or a shopping spree to inspire titles for a blog. Take for instance : ‘Wrong Way Down a One Way Street’, ‘Why is Everyone Wearing What I Can Never Find on the Rack?’ and ‘The Detail is in the Rear’.

Colaba is crisscrossed by quaint and sleepy by-lanes and every local worth his or her salt knows these familiar shortcuts. All of them are designated one-ways. And just as you are blithely sauntering across the road, a demented pizza delivery boy will come roaring down on his motorbike from the wrong direction. The fact that I have not yet been ‘delivered’ to heaven is testimony to my nimble footwork. Yes, here we look both ways before crossing a one way street!

Most of the retail outlets here are normally unaffordable except to the exceedingly rich. Come the monsoons and every glass frontage sports sales stickers offering from 50% to 70% off on merchandise. This is the time to wade in and pick up the labels you would love to flaunt and I succumb weakly. The shops are full to capacity with purposeful women rummaging the racks. I look at all the lovely outfits but the problem is that they are all on the shoppers’ backs! The stuff on the rack is not worth a second glance (no wonder it’s on sale). I look, drool and depart. I have never yet found the courage to walk up to another shopper and say, ‘Where did you get that outfit?’ though I did have the unnerving experience of someone swiping my blouse which I had slung over the cubicle door for want of a hook on the wall.

Walking on the Causeway is a very crowded experience. One has perforce to amble which provides opportunity to observe the rear view in front – all shapes, sizes and varieties of embellishment from slogans on T-shirts to detailed embroidery, fancy buttons and imaginatively bound tresses. But some rears raise ‘uh-oh’ moments – doesn’t anyone look at both sides in the mirror anymore?

Such distraction brings with it a heavy price. Disregarding my own oft and vehemently reiterated advice, I step forward without looking down. Next title? They forgot to remove the puddle!

Train of Thought

One of my favourite encounters in the Sherlock Holmes stories is when the famous detective follows accurately, as only he knows how, Dr. Watson’s train of thought.

Strange, isn’t it, how one thought can follow another till you end up at a wholly unexpected destination!

I love writing letters and I have penned quite a few in my middle-distance life. Not quite literary standard, they were still heartfelt communications. More than writing letters, I love receiving letters or reading letters written for others, which is why I pounced on the title Dear Girl, Dear Boy when it was offered by the library. It is a collection of letters written to children by their parents or siblings, most of them famous people. My favourite in the collection has to be the letter by James Thurber written in his trademark humour and the one by Virginia Woolf (yes!!) to a child from the child in the adult. The children of earlier times must have been extraordinarily precocious considering the expectations of their parents and the fact that some of the recipients ranged in age from 3 to 10!

The urge to communicate, for whatever reason, spreads across all species. Yes, even plants. Talk to them, ignore them and notice the difference. For us, humans, speech across the miles translated into letters (now sms and email!) which in turn gave rise to that mammoth enterprise, the postal system. Postage meant stamps which in turn gave birth to the world of Philately.

Little bits of colourful, sticky paper with serrated edges, stamps are magical things. They are the first step that sets in train the journey which sees your letters on their way. But more than that, they hold clues to history, natural history, geography, currency, culture, craft, music, the seasons and festivals (this list is very likely incomplete). Anyone who has collected stamps will know how to ‘read’ them. A friend, who is an enthusiast, has created a commentary around the sets in his collection, tracing the monuments in India , among other topics. Then there is also the story behind the creation of the stamp and the creator/artist. Sadly, a few generations down the line, stamps may soon go the way of dinosaurs.

My husband started collecting somewhat late in life. Christmas being his favourite time of year, it falls to his lot to open the cards and so he started noticing the stamps: each one with a different message on a theme, depending on the country of origin. He started preserving them. Word got round and friends and family helped to add to his collection. And what a pretty collection it is too: pictures of Christmas in tiny square or rectangle reminding us of good tidings and great joy. Of no particular value other than sentiment, we look at the stamps together and remember the cards to which they were attached and also their senders.

I wonder if Sherlock would have unraveled this train of thought!

Always in Fashion

The priest who celebrated our Mass was late today. He had his schedule mixed up and thought that he was meant to be the celebrant at the later Children’s Mass. His opening words were an apology for the late start and for the sermon to come – one that was prepared for children and not the sleepy adults who normally attend first Mass.

The words ‘old fashioned courtesy’ came immediately to mind. Here was someone who did not take us for granted, who respected our time, and who cared for us as people who mattered.

A little jingle that we learnt and, in turn, taught others still rings in my mind: They never grow old, they always seem new, those three little words, Please and Thank You. And yet how many of these three little words do we hear today? It seems that it is easier to demand than request, easier to shove than to say’ ‘excuse me’, easier to grab and run than to say ‘thank you’.

Sales people have been trained to say, ‘have a nice day’ – they do so routinely and automatically. When I cheerily respond, ‘thanks and you too!’ I receive a startled and sometimes hesitant ‘thank you’.

Is simple courtesy going out of fashion? I certainly hope not. Because it is one of those little things that make a difference: courtesy brings a smile to the lips and a lift to the spirit, to both the giver and the receiver.

Take my water vendor, for instance. Not quite an urchin, not yet a man, come rain or shine, he shoulders the 25 litre bottle from his transport to the dispenser in my kitchen. He was quite surly to start with, but now he greets me with a ‘good morning’ and a ‘thank you’ for the coupon and the tip (the latter probably helps!). A ‘thumbs up’ moment! I would like to think he spreads this courtesy to other clients too. A stone cast upon the waters? Who knows where the ripples will end.

Life without water?

Let’s start with hands. Hands need to be washed. But now we can dispense with soap and water as herbal purifiers have found their way to market – all it needs is a drop from a bottle for germ free hands.

The face? Wet wipes should suffice. The body? How about a common bath in the swimming pool or pond, or lake? Did I hear ‘ugh!’? It looks like it is coming to that and soon. We’ll also need disposable clothes and household linen. Pity the White Goods market, washing machines will be obsolete!! Chemical, waterless toilets already exist outside our homes but maybe that’s where we need to install them, too. Soon, we’ll be one large Starship Enterprise – an earthbound one. Imagine, everything at the touch of a computer screen and no water required! Or maybe we should just shift to Rajasthan. They’ve lived without water for years.

Which brings me to my happy Ixora: she needs her water (pink for a girl and therefore the ‘she’). The water we receive in our taps is a muddy slurry replete with worms, dead insects and leaves. Certainly unfit for human or animal consumption. So, I have now invested in a row of happy potted plants who receive their quota of incidental ‘fertiliser’. And they are thriving. There is some justice in the saying that poison for one is food for another!

And one last thought to speed you on your day: life without water means time to blog!