cacophony!!!

Economists tell you that the cost of something is not just what’s on the price tag, it’s the total money, time and resources used up to acquire it.

Yikes! This means my new music system has cost me much more than I imagined, and for much longer. Here’s what I’ve squandered, in different denominations.

Currency of time: I spent months looking for the right system, since prices and my bank balance told me I would have to spend a lifetime with the same one, Ok, more accurately, the price tags demanded a saat janam ka rishta, but warranties don’t extend that long.

Currency of enthusiasm: In the first couple of trips to hi fi shops, I coughed up my quota of gusto for colour and shape. A series of abbreviation spitting technophiles indicated with scornful expressions that only the uncouth get seduced by sleek silver or sporty red. The enlightened are supposed to look beyond elephant poo shaped stacks for refined attributes like fidelity.

Currency of vocabulary: The search for a music system has wiped out at least a hundred words I had previously used with confidence. The first time someone told me a set of speakers I liked had a bright sound, I smiled and nodded naively. Only later did I realise that bright is a backhanded slur, like wise guy and clever, for a sound that’s trying too hard. Likewise, whatever the Vedas might say, ohm is not a divine sound, it is resistance to divine sound. Hertz is not a music system made for women. And as for a certain radical freedom fighter, you must never say his name out loud, unless you want people to think you’re vulgar, populist and illiterate.

Currency of self-confidence: I paid with this in installments, maybe a hundred thousand during every visit to a store. I paid my largest chunk the time I said a CD didn’t sound right on a certain set of speakers, and was disdainfully informed about my inferior benchmarking (it means my ears were used to an inferior sound because of my current music system). I now carefully comb my hair over my defective ears, before I get near a mirror.

Currency of comfort and aesthetics: The techno-guys who came home to set up my system with tape measures, laptops and sound signals, tramped around to find the perfect spot for the music system. Two and half hours later, they were done. The speakers were set for perfect balance, sound and fidelity.

The sofa is now jammed up against the wall, and so am I every time the system is switched on. No slouching, cautioned the experts, and no you can’t move the coffee table closer than 6 feet. That lovely pile of cushions that I used to use as back rests or makeshift bed, they’ve had to go. They caused too much distortion. And as for the period hat stand that’s my pride and joy, the back is now covered with cardboard to reflect the right amount of sound. There are 8 large blue crosses on the white floor to mark where the speaker spikes should be. The technophiles made them in permanent ink in case I was tempted to stray a millimetre from perfect sound.

So now, I’m left with two things. Great music, and an overwhelming sense of relief that the task is done. ok, there's also a long pending apology to a cousin.

I had laughed at this cousin when her first reaction to getting married had been an expletive followed by sheer relief. I had refused to understand when she had explained that the act of finding arranged bliss was paved with stress.

Sorry sis, I do understand now. Better late than never na? Come home and let's make peace over a drink. No you can’t pick up the glass, it will destroy the amplification of the music…

show and tell

I believe a home is one of our few chances to break away from the spirals of genes that tie us firmly to our love handles, clumsiness, baldness, twitches or whatever else we may have inherited when we were too young to put our foot down. It's also our chance to liberate ourselves from the conventions of the past and a society we spent our teenage years pitying.

So. Call it ego, or compensation for not being a rebel when I legitimately could have carried it off, but I don’t want anything in my apartment to be conventional and off the shelf. As a result, most of the furniture in my apartment is in my head.

Last week, I decided to change status quo. I met a highly recommended carpenter and sketched him a cubist conch shell that was to be my music rack. He looked at my drawing with pity in his eyes and helpfully offered me his fevicol catalogue.

Rather than explaining the thing about mass market personalities, I suggested we start with a bookcase instead. Easy enough. Take out a window that gives me an uninterrupted view of the neighbour’s underwired collection, and put in glass shelves. I described the effect – it should look as though a square in the wall has been built with books instead of bricks.

He took measurements, offered to put in sliding doors for a nominal extra charge and promised to return in three days with the showcase.

Not showcase, bookcase, I laughed nervously, gulping to push back images of crystal curiosities and fabric flowers that rose up instantly. The carpenter didn’t notice, he was busy tucking my advance into a fevicol catalogue.

Three days later, I became the proud owner of what can only be described as the S word. The sliding doors I had eagerly agreed to complete the effect. Even with books in it, but it’s still a… I’m not strong enough to say the word yet.

When a friend suggested that I should just cover the borders to make it look less showcasish (she smirked as she pronounced the word), my mind raced to beaded macramé and DIY stencils.

And I knew I’d lost the battle.

Never again will I tell funny stories about a generation that spent most of their time abroad in bargain basements, to feed the big S at home. Or about dolls that spent their lives behind sliding doors, safely out of the reach of children they belonged to.

Never again will I look superior when people ask me if I have a ration card. Or turn the other way when I pass a Swarovski store or a velvet wall hanging featuring a pride of lions.

How can I? I’m one of THEM now.

lost and found

Spring cleaning day today. I start the operation by plunging into a dusty tangle of junk jewellery that had moved cities and apartments without once being taken out of a giant wooden chest. The plan is to give away at least half of it, to make space for more important things.

The first to come out of the tangle is not junk jewellery. It’s a pair of gold hoops my mother believes she has lost. I think of old photographs of my mum, wrapped in silk saris that her parents had bought for her as appropriate post-marriage wear. She smiles into camera, presumably at my father, who she had met thrice before her wedding. She fits her form demurely against backgrounds she had only seen previously in Hindi films and on wallpapers in photo studios. She could have been a stereotype of an Indian wife or mother of the 60s, if it hadn’t been for the rings. They wink in spite of the British gloom around her, wild, gypsy-like, a tiny spark of individuality rebelling against a life vowed to conformity.

I rediscover a silver pair my friends had given me as a farewell gift when I had left Mumbai. They were loopy, large and flamboyant and l had loved them instantly in the poor light of the restaurant. I remember wearing them for months afterwards, loving the way they swung against my neck when I shook my head. Come to think of it, I shook my head a lot those days. I hold them now against my ears and feel overpowered. When did my clothes fade so much I wonder. And when did I fade?

Buried under the tangle is a pair that I’ve always disliked. My sister had given it to me when she had started working, and they’re well… hideous. Of course I hadn’t told her so, or anyone else. On the contrary, when a friend had remarked tactfully that the earrings weren’t my type, I had lied shamelessly about how beautiful they were, and defended my sister’s gawky demonstration of affection.

I find a pair I had once hurriedly bought to wear at a traditional wedding. I hadn’t had the time to get the 22 carat stuff out of the locker, so I had paraded all evening in a pair of burnished brass imposters. I had beamed all evening at compliments without a twinge of conscience.

There’s a set of earrings given to me by someone who I had loved once. And another given by someone who had loved me. The earrings are the only symbols left of both relationships. For the first time since I got them, I look at both pairs objectively, unclouded by feelings of hope, mush or guilt.

The tangle reveals dozens more and before I know it the morning is gone. So is the afternoon.
I put aside the gold hoops to return to my mother. They are hers, even if she doesn’t need them anymore to express her individuality.

The rest are mine, even though they may stand for things and values I've lost. I want to believe they're still there, hidden deep in me, waiting to be untangled and dusted. I make a start by putting all the earrings back into the box, promising them and myself, that one day I will be worthy again of each pair.

Bangalored Times

Everyone thinks the term bangalored refers to Americans losing jobs to India.
All I can say is hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

Get real, jobs are just a front to conceal the real assault. Slowly but surely, we’re taking over every language of the world. We’ve already made serious inroads into English, and French and Chinese are also on their way to getting Bangalored!

Here are some of the words that the rest of the world has lost already to our city.

Jolly
Pronounced jarley, it is a compliment maids pay you when you give them a bonus. I thought my maid was accusing me of giving her counterfeit notes, till I realised she was speaking in English.
Systematic
This is not an adjective or adverb when used in the service stations of Bangalore, but an independent noun. Small objects have systems, large mechanisms have systematics. For example, car ka systematic kharaab ho gaya. Here's an acknowledgement from a male dominated industry that size does matter.
Meals
If you use the term to mean the plural of meal, you're sooo 90s. You go to thali restaurants and order one meals.
Manchuri
China has lost a part of their culture to Andhra restaurants in Bangalore. Akin to a collection of unmentionable parts of dogs, a plate gobi manchuri is a perfect accompaniment to Andhra meals.
Déjà vu
Rechristened Deja View in concrete and steel! A residential complex off Old Madras road now wears the term in shining letters. I guess it must mean that residents look out of their balconies at the end of a long day and enjoy a refreshing view of Deja.
Rights
Not what the oppressed fight for, it’s what parking attendants chant to you with the accompaniment of whistles when you’re backing into a parking spot. Rights, rights, pheee, rights. And when they do that, don’t, whatever else you do, wrestle with your steering wheel to turn. Rights means straight in Bangalore.

pleeeease, make the journey more rewarding

‘On my way’ has to be the most commonly used text message ever, remarked a colleague a couple of weeks ago, as he checked his mobile for news of a tardy team member.

We smirked and settled down for a long wait.

‘On my way’ should constitute a punishable offence, not for the sender’s lack of punctuality, but for his or her lack of imagination. Come on, if you’re going to be late, the least you can do is to be entertaining. Not only will you keep our blood pressure in control (laughter being the best medicine as Reader’s Digest told us even before the dot com revolution was a dot on the horizon), it will actually help you become more truthful as well. All of us in Bangalore know that nothing is as entertaining as the truth.

For example, try ‘On my way to running down miniature acrobat sliding through giant earring’. The city’s best gymnasts aren’t at Beijing, they’re at every traffic signal in the city, gyrating and bobbing to give your text fingers fodder.

Or after a drizzle, you could text – ‘on my way out of Ulsoor lake which has cloned itself at Sadashiv Nagar. Instead of cursing you, those of us cooling our heels would spend the next hour comparing impromptu lakes we have braved in the past.

If you’re new to Bangalore and mms enabled, messaging solutions await you at every road sign. Besides dozens of signs that say ‘Hump ahead’ (it takes a newbie a while to figure out if this is an announcement or a request), road signs will always tell you exactly how far you are from various destinations. Of course you won’t know what those destinations are, as names of places are usually written in Kannada. Try ‘On my way to a series of marathon humps’ or ‘On my way to getting lost in translation’.

If you were about to say that you can’t punch in long messages while driving, save yourself the effort. All of us know sms lingo well enough to decipher that when you say ‘on your way’ you’re probably on your way to the rest room at the office.

public service inventions we could all do with

Today, I stumbled on an amazing fact. A Mercedes (C, E or S-Class) can be fitted with a reverse parking sensor kit that warns you of obstacles behind your car when you back into a tight parking spot. And if you’re really fastidious, you can get the sensors spray painted to match your car perfectly.

If ever I meet the inventors who’ve gone through all this trouble to protect a rear bumper and a no claims bonus, I want to hand them my wish list of inventions.

Mouth sensors for feet: These sensors are embedded at the corners of your mouth and tinted with kiss proof paint to match your lipstick (nude shades would be a hit this season). These set off an extended fit of coughing to expel all thoughts of speech when your foot threatens to get into your mouth. These sensors are programmed to automatically get activated when you’re 3 bloody marys down.

Ex-file: This one forces you to take a u-turn when there’s an ex within a kilometre. This innovation has multi-functional sensors that work on all categories of exes, including ex-boyfriends, ex-husbands and ex-friends (the ones you made before you installed the mouth sensors for feet).

Itchy finger kit: This sophisticated device fits neatly into the magnetic strip of your credit card (the black strip at the back of a credit card – if yours looks balder than your car tyres, you definitely need this gadget). Every time you get close to maxing your card, this sensor sets off a strong optical illusion that makes the card invisible. The kit comes with an instruction booklet that has face saving lines such as: “Oh oh, I think I must have left my card at the Mercedes showroom when I bought my maid a car”.

Bum sensors: This one works on the principle of the sensors that save no claim bonuses. The portable device fits into your back pocket and detects habitual freeloaders who usually leave abruptly between the arrival of last drinks and the bill. It then uses consumed alcohol as fuel to propel you off your seat faster than the moochers and to steer you into the loo. With this one, you have nothing to lose, but your cheapo companions.

selling cars and keeping drivers off roads

For once, let’s assume that selling an expensive sacrifice is not a haloed task, but that it's similar to selling an expensive product.

This may seem to take away the magic of public service advertising, but we have nothing to lose but an award category. The fact is that plasma TVs and expensive cars do sell, while we haven’t really managed to sell safety to the drunk drivers zig zagging across streets.

So the first thing you would do is find an insight that reveals what consumers really want or don’t want.

Why do people drink and drive? Definitely not because they don’t know what could happen if they had an accident. Digging deeper, we might find that:
It’s macho: You think you can hold your alcohol and are totally in control.
Cabs are expensive: It’s much cheaper to drive back than to take a cab, especially if you own a two wheeler.
You don’t know what to do with your car/bike: Parking in a public place overnight is often dangerous. You never know if your car or bike will still be there when you come back the next morning.

Working from these insights, you would then make an offer that makes people get more than they’re giving up.

Here are some, working on the principles of selling expensive things…

Bundled offers: If you’re planning a wild night out, you’re prepared to shell out more than at the neighborhood booze shop. Bars or pubs build in the cost of a driver into the cover charge. Before you stagger towards your parking shpashe, the manager offers you the use of a complimentary driver who gets you home safely.
Another version of this could be shared cabs hired by the bars, which drop people off at closing time. Again, the cost is built into the cover charge.

EMIs: The idea of a designated driver has been executed before, but that doesn’t stop it from being brilliant. You break up the sacrifice into palatable portions, and throw in free snacks for the abstainer.

Special offers with expiry dates: Parking in a public place overnight is often dangerous, because you don’t know if your car or bike will still be there when you return the next morning. So, like the festival offers that clear stocks, a drinking establishment offers to guard your vehicle till 8 am the next morning. The cost to the bar? That of a couple of guards in a designated space.

Cross promos: Bars tie up with malls in this scenario. For an extra charge, you can leave your vehicle overnight in the otherwise empty mall parking space.

Not only will these ideas keep some tipsy drivers off the roads, a lot of people actually would have a lot to gain. Bars would get more customers more often, since even conscientious drivers wouldn’t mind dropping in unplanned. Cab companies would gain business from people who would otherwise have driven back on their own. Malls could generate money out of hibernating parking lots.

The only people who wouldn’t gain directly would be those pitching for the public service category of awards. But look at the brighter side, the services category is much bigger than social service ...