Napoleon and Hitler were short too

All good things in life, I believe, come in small packages. This theory is all right as far as stars and peanuts are concerned, but what about short people who are so ‘looked down’ upon by the tall stately ones?  I've always envied people who can stick their nose up in the air — my attempts to do so only results in some one asking me if I am suffering from spondilitis! How gracious those tall women look with their hair piled up-  so sophis­ticated-  to the envy of the poor short! I succeed in looking like I'm going for a shower in the community well. If my Angel were to grant me a boon I'd crave for a few inches more- that’s more use­ful than riches!

It is so demoralising to see all my cousins whom I had dangled on my knees grow­ing taller than me. They look indulgently at me when I stand on my toes to bestow maternal kisses. They ask me about the weather down there as if I were an obser­vatory at the foot of a hill. "Don't worry", they often console me, "when you lack in length, you will make up in breadth", as if that helps!

How many avenues are closed to shorties like me! We can only build castles in the air but can never become air hostesses, we end up only as an ‘also ran’ in beauty contests. Where does that leave us? School teachers and linen keepers. Those ‘wanted bride’ columns are also taboo for us, for, the basic qualification is ‘tall’! So we sit like patience on a monument wait­ing for a Prince Charming who needs a stool to get down from his horse to marry us!

'You are lucky to be short' says my friend Sheela talking from somewhere between the clouds. "You can buy any saree you like, whereas I have to wear only mill sarees." Like, it's true! Those, fashion Magazines say 'no big borders, no bold- prints, no geometrical designs - no bright colours', whereas for those tall ones — sky is the limit. They can wear anything and steal, the show. So there we go again in baby blue sarees with forget-me-nots.

Not for us too those 'groovy' elephant pants and flowing maxis unless we wear heels that feel like stilts. My sister writes that she shops for me in the 'Junior' sec­tion of the department stores in Germany.

My husband kept  his keys above the wardrobe. He said  it's to discourage me from reaching it and going through his pockets. Even my sons kept all their col­lection of moths and caterpillars on the top-most shelf of their cupboard.

But every cloud has a silver lining: When short people have some advantages. For one thing, we are believed to be younger than what we are. Then in buses, we need not stand for we can't reach the straps above, so someone takes pity and gives us a seat. In long queues we can look defenceless and jump the line. And best of all, in life we always ‘look up’ which is a more posi­tive thing to do than ‘look down’ like the unfortunate tall ones do!

Does marriage end all?

 The other day, I overheard a man cribbing to his companion in the movie Q ! “Kya kare yaar, ever since I got married two months ago, all my ‘azadi’ is gone. I can’t even go to a movie!”  Poor guy. Marriage will always be a cage for him, because his attitude is wrong.  He considers freedom as a release from physical and emo­tional restraints and excitement in life as the ability to see a movie or eat out in a restaurant.

That’s why marriage is not too popular these days. Girls think it will tie them down to the kitchen and guys  are convinced that they will be sentenced to a lifetime of bondage. Girls would like to work, dress and go out with friends while marriage would mean mundane chores like cooking, shopping and cleaning. Men would like to go to the club for a game of cards or tennis, have a drink with a colleague in the bar or see a late night show. All these would have to be sacrificed at the altar of duty as a husband.

What is called for is a change of attitude. Marriage is like putty in the couple’s hands. They can shape it to suit their needs.  What was good for grandma is not going to work now.  So new guidelines and parameters can be chalked out to suit the couple’s needs.To begin with, the man and wife should re­concile to a curbing of some of their movements. This need not be to an extent to cause frustration. Secondly, both should make up their minds to compromise and adapt to each other’s ways. If husband likes horror movies and wife prefers going to the temple, some solution must be found. Maybe she can de­velop a liking for such movies and accompany him and he could take her to the temple the following day. This way, both get to do what they want and together too!

When children join the scene, there is a greater strain on the marriage. Why should it be so? The father should understand that he’s equally responsible for their existence and of­fer to feed the little one while she can attend to other chores. By sharing the responsibility they can get more mileage out of their time together.Many men leave their wives to see to the children’s homework and dinner and go to the club. “She’s so busy and I get bored” is their argument. Why not stay and partake of the activities? “What will I do while she’s busy in the kitchen?” says hubby and goes to his neighbour’s home to play bridge.

Wife grumbles and curses the ‘evil habit’ of her husband. What else can you expect but dissension! How much more fun if he can help out with the shopping and cleaning and take her also to play bridge. She should take in­terest in his hobbies, cultivate them and participate.

Marriage is one of the best man made institu­tions which is not governed by corrupt politi­cians or extraneous circumstances. Why not go into it with the motto ‘There is nothing bad in it except one’s approach’.

The Contest Fever

Every morning, I shuddered  when the vendor slipped the newspaper under the door. ‘Now what’, I would sigh, as my sons rushed to pick it up. They eager­ly scanned the pages and with a whoop of joy, grabbed the

 scis­sors. ‘Not again’! I grumbled, as they got ready to enter one more contest.

Manufacturers seem to be in the grip of this virulent ‘contest epidemic’ and each day there is a new bait dangled before the hopeful entrants. They are irresistible with their promises of ‘free trip for two’ to God knows where, videos, colour TV’s, cars and if not all these, ‘lucky prizes for everyone’. They are so ‘simple and easy’. All you have to do is match something with something else, fill in your name and address and mail it. Can you imagine? There’s no entry fee and you can send as many as you like!  But... this is where the snag lies. Each entry must be ‘accompanied’ by an empty carton or inside seal or outside flap or what-you-have. And tarry... just to make things more exciting, how about writing a wee line of twelve words on ‘why I like...’ ! So off they go, collecting caps and things and thinking up catchy slogans. Those ‘fab’ prizes are just waiting to be won...

There was that tantalising in­vitation for ‘early birds’ to catch the dough every week. A larger than life cheque displayed what was in store for the creative ones who had to fill in just one word! I had to buy ten instant coffee tins to get the inner seals, for my sons to send five entries each. And we were never a coffee drinking household!!There was a lot of nail biting suspense till the results were announced-as usual, the prizes went to someone else and I was left with more coffee than was good for my budget.

Before I could recover from the ‘caffeine fiasco’, another tempting contest was floated. This time, you could jet away to dreamy places by just scribbling a few rhyming lines, about a soft drink. Four caps to a rhyme, it said. The rhyming mania griped the family. When they were not drinking the stuff, they would be scratching their heads. Even the conversation at home became poetic. Hubby would say, “Pass the pepper, or I’ll lose my tem­per”; “Have you polished my shoes and ironed my Blues?” “Look for my hanky and don’t be cranky”; and the sons would say “Serve me the curry, I’m in a hurry”; “Mom you’re a honey, how about some money?”... At the end of it all, I had to scream “Stop all this nonsense, you won’t win a tuppence”. And I was right!

I had to buy a pressure cooker I didn't need, cold cream I don’t use, a vanishing cream I had never heard of, a health drink nobody liked, bulbs I can do without and I wonder what else... Our grocer too had caught on to the game. He announced a free trip for four to Hawaii. All you had to do was write why you liked buying your groceries at his store, in a 150 word paragraph. The contest was simple. There were four pictures of different kinds of dals. Below them were pictures of dishes.  Match the dals to the dishes, send in as many entries, each with a cash memo for 10 kgs of any dal.  I had to buy a container to store 10kgs of dal.

No love for Uncle Sam

If my fairy godmother were to appear before me and offer me a return ticket to USA, I would politely thank her for her generosity and decline to accept it. Not be­cause I’m one of those travel weary globe trotters wanting a peaceful retired life-not at all.

In fact, I’m one of the very few who don’t like  going broad. My aversion to a US trip is born out of mine and others experi­ence. Let me tell you what hap­pened to my cousin Indu.Indu was fascinated by Amer­ica ever since our uncle brought us some Wrigley’s from there. A country which can make a chew­ing gum like that has to be great was Indu’s argument. Her sole ambition was to set foot on the Wrigley land. She was even pre­pared to marry a dhobhi from America to get there.  I did not have the heart to ask her id there were dhobhis in America and why would he come to India to seek a bride.

Anyway, Indu’s dream came true, except that she had to settle for an engineer instead. The en­gineer jetted back to USA and Indu started getting ready to join him. But she hadn’t bargained for the jostling crowds at the passport office and the gruelling questions at the consulate. It took six months for both countries to de­cide she was an innocuous person with a respectable earning man, prepared to call her his wife, before giving her the green signal. But there was more to come. Her husband’s ‘maasi’ wanted her to carry a kilo of dried green chillies stuffed with curd and masala, for her son in Louisiana; her husband’s jethani handed over a packet of ‘Bakharwadi’ for her brother in New Jersey; her mother-in-law’s ‘nanand’ dumped a two kilo gunny bag of Kashmiri Rajma to be passed on to her childhood friend in Denver; Mrs.Iyer, the next door neighbour for three decades, begged her to take some ‘sambhar’ powder, a packet of instant ‘idli’ mix and a few papads for her granddaughter in Buffalo; Mrs Shetty couldn’t be refused .After all , she had changed Indu’s nappies so often-she only wanted to send a small packet of ‘Shikkai’ powder for her daughter in Washington as she hated sham­poos.

By the time Indu got all these packed, her suitcase smelt like a looted department store. With a philosophical air, she accepted this. You can’t go to Heaven without doing a couple of good deeds, was her argument. Then came the time for her departure. At the Bangalore airport, the security check was particularly rigid and they opened up the carefully packed ‘bakharwadi’ and stuffed chilli packets. The poor girl stoically bore the inspec­tion.

At the International airport in Bombay, the handle of her suit­case snapped and she found a gaping hole in her bag from where some nimble fingered guy had filched the hundred bucks meant for airport tax. The flight being at such an unearthly hour, her friends and relatives .wished her bon voyage on the telephone before she left home. When she reached Kennedy airport, I be­lieve, she fell into her husband’s arms and wept, vowing never to travel to USA. It took him quite a time to convince her that she had arrived!

My aunt just called to ask me if I know anyone going to USA so that she can send some mango pickles to Indu. .Even if they are all available in Indian Stores, nothing like goodies from mera Bharat mahan!!

The variety in Bus- ing

I love traveling by bus.  It’s like a Michael Angelo painting-both an agony and ecstasy! There is something so genuine about bus commuters; no ego hang ups, no tearing hurry to set the horizon on fire, no over-exaggerated con­cern about the safety of one’s life and limb and above all, a philosophical attitude towards the bumps and jolts of life’s journey.

Shake hands with a bus com­muter if you want to meet a paragon of patience and tolerance. But if you think all you need to have is some change and lots of time, to be a successful busser, you are mistaken. You must have a flexible and adapt­able temperament, because, as the famous busser said it takes all sorts of buses to make the world.

For instance, it is sheer foolhar­diness to go by bus in Delhi, unless it is unavoidable. If you must, you better take some precautions. Before you set out from home, sew all your money carefully inside of your shirt and trousers, if you are a woman, wear a pinch- and- squeeze resistant garment and for heavens sake leave that gold tooth of yours on the kitchen shelf. There have been cases of jaws being cut off in the greed for gold! Anything re­sembling a purse or wallet should be buried in the backyard and before stepping on to the footboard, say ‘Jai Bajrang Bali’... there might then be a flimsy chance of your reaching safe and sound.

In comparison to the trauma of a Delhi busser, the Bangaloreans’ experience seems like a winter sport. In this garden city, every­one's motto is ‘hurry not for a bus for you live only once’. The con­ductors are large hearted and though the buses are not commensurately roomy, they let you get in with a more-the-merrier indulgence. There are separate entrance and seats for men and women. One would think this would be a disadvantage while buying tickets, but it isn’t. It’s like this-after every two km there is a TIP (ticket issuing point) and the groaning, overloaded bus takes a breather while the conductor issues tickets. Somu, sitting in the men’s enclosure, yells out for ‘Padakka’ who is up front in the ‘zanana’, to buy the ticket. The conductor picks up the refrain and shouts out for ‘Padakka’ to do the needful. The whole bus gets acquainted with ‘Padakka’ and Somu and what with one thing and another, by the time all the tickets are issued, there is general bonhomie and exchange of addresses and the discomfort of standing on one leg is soon forgotten. The only hitch in this system is that one has to leave home a day earlier if the intention is to reach the destination on time.

In Visakhapatnam, in the good old days before the State Govt took over, one felt like a Queen getting into a bus. The conductors cheerily vied with one another, inviting you to sit in their bus and some even offered discounts on the ticket! Every two kms, the bus would stop at a SSP (soda sipping point) where you could quench your thirst with soda for 25 paise. While passing the main market, some commuters would request the conductor to stop for them to shop for vegetables and fruits. Major comforts like these would compensate for minor irri­tants like springless seats, worn out shock absorbers and stink of stale fish and sweat.

The Madras bus commuter is a great fountainhead of wit and wisdom. Tamilians have a unique sense of humour which seems to be at its best in a bus. Looking at a family planning ad on the panel, someone will remark loudly, ‘it’s all very well for the govt to say have two children but we need at least four pall bearers to carry our dead body don’t we?’ The men guffaw and the women hide their blushing faces in their Kanjeevaram pallav.

Nothing can be as exciting as a bus ride in Bombay. It is a com­muter’s delight. The conductors are so deliciously rude that your skin thickens. You don’t have to go to gyms to develop those bi and tri ceps-just elbowing your way through a blissfully unruly crowd of queue breakers makes you feel like a trapeze artist. What I like best about BEST it is that it is like Delhi ka ladoo- the one who gets it, suffers discomfort and the one who doesn’t, also suffers’. There is cosmic

com­panionship in misery...